Page 75 of Finding London

Look at what? What’s her deal?

I lift my head that has been focused on my feet this entire time. On that journey, it took immense concentration to make sure I wouldn’t stub one of my toes against the concrete sidewalk and ruin my perfectly painted nails. The entire walk, I was one step away from a massacre of ripped skin and gushing blood.

The interior of our house is dark, but the exterior is faintly lit up from the streetlights. I see a figure standing on our front porch. The world is starting to spin, but I would recognize that body anywhere.

Why is he here?

When we get to our front yard, Paige lets go of my hand.

What is she doing?

“I’ll be right inside, London.”

Why is she leaving me alone with him? Traitor!

I want to yell at her, but my head is too clouded to form thoughts quickly enough. When I’m finally ready to yell at her, she’s already inside.

Instead, I’m left facing the man who broke my heart into a million pieces.

“You weren’t answering your phone. I missed you,” he says simply, as if he didn’t destroy my entire world two hours ago.

“I hate you.” I mean for it to come out as a loud, powerful declaration, but it leaves my lips on a broken whisper.

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have come over earlier when you asked. I feel horrible about it. But I had to see you.”

“I hate you.” This time, the words come out as a sob.

“London, I’m sorry. It was a dick move. I didn’t have a headache. I’m sure you figured that out.” He sounds sad, but I can’t make myself care.

“I need you to leave—right now.” These are the last words I say to him before a formidable explosion of vomit rips through me, causing me to bend at my waist and expel every last bit of vile liquid onto his feet.

Loïc

“I’ve fallen hard for London. Now that I’ve found her…I just hope I can keep her.”

—Loïc Berkeley

I spy with my little eye something fierce, stunning, beautiful, and mine.

At least, I hope she’s still mine.

She kept repeating, “I hate you,” over and over last night.

I didn’t think she was such an angry drunk, but then I’d never seen her that out of it either.

After I gave her a shower last night to get all of the vomit off of both of us, I put her in a pair of simple cotton panties that I found in her drawer. I’ve never seen her in a pair like this. If it isn’t silky, lacy, or a thong, she doesn’t wear it. I thought this pair looked the most comfortable to sleep in. I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge how incredibly sexy her ass looks in them right now.

I gave her some medicine and was able to get her to drink a full glass of water before she passed out, so I’m hoping she doesn’t feel like complete shit when she gets up. And I know I’m a selfish prick, but I want her. My entire body craves her, and none of that will happen if she’s still puking.

Part of me wanted to leave after she started throwing up. I know that’s horrible to admit, but for me, watching someone that drunk brings back all sorts of unwanted memories. I could never leave her in that state, no matter how hard it is to be around it. She isn’t them. I know that.

I’m propped up on my side on one elbow, watching London sleep beside me. Her chest moves quietly beneath the baggy T-shirt I put on her. She kicked off the blanket in her sleep multiple times last night, so I finally stopped covering her up, figuring she must be hot.

I shouldn’t be creeping on my girlfriend when she probably feels like crap and more than likely will puke on me the second she wakes. But I haven’t seen her in two weeks, and I’ve missed her like crazy—every single part of her, including her gorgeous ass.

Even if she feels fine, I’ll have some explaining to do. She’s never been so furious with me as she was last night. I knew she’d be mad, but I didn’t expect that. Shows what I know. I’m always going to suck at this dating shit.

It was a jerk move. I realize that, but I’m the first to disclose that I’m not always going to handle things the right way—probably ever.

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