More Than One Night. Sarah Mayberry

going to wake up and heave a huge sigh of relief that I saved him an awkward morning-after conversation.”

      “You don’t know that, Charlie.”

      Charlie smiled grimly. She knew that, absolutely. She’d seen herself in the bathroom mirror. She knew how the world worked. She’d known how the world worked ever since Billy Hendricks had refused to go into the closet with her during a game of Spin the Bottle when she was thirteen years old.

      “I was thinking that we could go car shopping today, if you’re up to it,” Charlie said. “Is there some area around here with lots of car yards?”

      “I take it that’s your way of saying you don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

      “Bingo.”

      “Okay. All right. If you want to drop it, we’ll drop it. But I’d like it on the record that I think it’s a damn shame. He seemed like a decent guy and he was really into you.”

      “Duly noted. So, tell me, who did you buy your car from? Should I go private or dealer? What do you think?”

      This time Gina followed her lead, and by the time the plate of toast had been cleared, they’d formulated a plan of attack. Gina took the tray to the kitchen, while Charlie dressed. She spotted her borrowed clothes scrunched in the corner as she was about to exit the room and took the time to rescue them, smoothing the cool mesh of the top with her hand before folding the satin trousers neatly.

      She felt an odd sense of… not quite regret, but something similar to it as she remembered those few heady hours when she’d felt amazing and invincible and glamorous.

      It may have ended with a whimper, not a bang, but seeing how the other half lived had been fun while it lasted. But as she’d said to Gina, last night was last night, and today was today.

      She set the clothes on the end of the bed, collected her handbag and headed for the door. She would get the outfit dry-cleaned on Monday, then she would hand back her borrowed plumage and get on with carving out a new life for herself. After all, she was a grown-up and a realist. She knew the score.

      RHYS WOKE with the mother and father of all hangovers beating down a door in his brain. Rolling over in bed, he pressed his hands against his aching skull for long minutes before making his way to the en suite to stick his mouth beneath the tap. He gulped enough water to fill a wading pool then sluiced a couple of big handfuls over his face. It was only when he lifted his head to inspect his bleary-eyed reflection that he remembered he hadn’t come home alone last night.

      “Charlie.”

      He stepped into the bedroom. The bed was empty. Frowning, he grabbed a towel and slung it around his waist.

      “Charlie?” he called, walking into the living area.

      It was empty. Which meant she really had gone without waking him up to say goodbye or leave her number or anything. Unless she’d left him a note…

      It only took him a few seconds to spot the piece of paper and the two fifties sitting on his coffee table. He crossed the room and collected the paper.

      I had a nice time. I hope this covers a new shirt.

      Thanks, Charlie

      He read the note three times, but each time he reached the same conclusion: she’d blown him off.

      After one of the hottest nights of his life, she’d sneaked away in the early hours and left him a hundred bucks to cover his shirt. As though he was some down-on-his-luck gigolo who needed a handout.

      Wow.

      He screwed the note into a tight little ball. He’d thought they’d had a good time last night. A great time. He’d thought they’d really connected.

      Sure, he’d been a little worse for wear, but not so drunk that he was making things up. He could remember it all.

      The interested, engaged light in her eyes.

      The way she’d stroked the stem of her glass unconsciously as she talked to him.

      The way she’d tasted.

      The smooth, warm satin of her skin.

      The needful, heated rush of making love to her.

      Yet she’d simply rolled out of bed and out of his life without so much as a backward glance. And no, the money for the shirt didn’t count.

       I had a nice time.

      That was what she’d said. Nice. Was there a more lukewarm, halfhearted word in the English language? She might as well have patted him on the head and given him an elephant stamp for effort.

      He strode into the kitchen and hit the button on his coffee machine. It would take at least forty minutes to warm up—the price he paid for his addiction to café-quality coffee—so he killed some time banging cupboards and drawers as he emptied the dishwasher. Then he stomped around a little more until his sense of humor reasserted itself.

       Can you see yourself? You’re acting like an outraged virgin. What’s the big deal, anyway? You had sex and she left without turning it into a big production. You should be thanking her, buddy.

      It was true. Except he didn’t feel grateful. He felt disappointed. As though he’d been promised something spectacular and special, and instead had been given a big fat raspberry. And it wasn’t just about the hot sex, either. Not entirely.

      He liked her.

      Yeah, well, get over it. You had a great time, she had a nice time. She’s gone, and life goes on.

      Another undeniable truth. He was on a roll, apparently.

      He stood in the middle of his living room, mulling it over. Then he shrugged. Charlie had made her decision when she’d left his apartment without leaving him some way of contacting her. Whether he liked it or not, messages didn’t come any clearer.

      He scrubbed his face with his hands. Then he went to check on the coffee.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      THE NEXT EIGHT weeks flew by. Charlie’s luggage arrived two days later than the airline had promised, but by that time she was so relieved to have her things that she could barely muster the energy to complain. After a week of deliberation and research, she bought a car, a small white SUV that was easy to park and maneuver. It took her longer to find somewhere to live, but she finally found a one-bedroom apartment two streets from Gina’s house. She planned to buy eventually, but she needed to build up her business before a bank would consider her for a loan, and the twelve-month lease she’d secured gave her plenty of time to get to know the city better.

      Her second-floor apartment was one of just six and featured high ceilings with decorative plasterwork, a mint-green-and-black bathroom that dated back to the thirties and a small but recently renovated kitchen. Most important, it boasted a neat study area off the bedroom that had become her new home office, a bonus that had sealed the deal for her even though the rent was slightly more than she’d hoped to pay.

      With transportation and accommodation settled, she committed herself to the handful of start-up clients she’d generated before leaving the service, while also trying to drum up future business. Thanks to her background, she had in-depth knowledge in certain highly specialized areas and, as she’d hoped, her credentials opened a lot of doors amongst suppliers either already dealing with the military or hoping to.

      By the time April rolled into May, she had work booked for the next two months, with prospects for more in the pipeline. She’d made friends with the woman across the hall and Gina’s circle of friends had embraced her. Her initial qualms about civilian life faded as she found her feet and her days took on a rhythm of their own.

      She was surviving. No, not simply surviving—she was thriving. She had a home all her own, she had a business