Page 55 of Pucking One Night Stand
“Today,” I whisper into the silence. “Definitely. Today I’ll tell him.”
But first… Coffee. Breakfast. Home. Shower. And not necessarily in that order.
I pull Blake’s jacket tighter around me as I gather the mess that is my clothes and shimmy back into something resembling decency.
My blouse is still half buttoned, my bra’s twisted like it survived a bar fight, one shoe is missing a heel, and I’m not even going to start on my hair. The walk of shame isn’t supposed to involve your own office. Or security cameras. By the time I make it home, I’m equal parts euphoric and mentally spiraling.
Last night? Fireworks. Off-the-charts, illegal-in-some-states, full-body meltdown levels of hot. Blake was…everything. And more.
And—okay, no, focus.
This morning? A giant neon sign inside my head blinks: YOU DIDN’T TELL HIM.
I twist my key in the lock and shove the front door open, my laptop bag dangling from one hand, my bra stuffed in it like some kind of secret shame.
“CASSY! Get in here NOW!”
There it is. The familiar, father-shaped migraine.
I close my eyes, mutter, “Welcome home,” and step inside.
I’m immediately hit with the warm, comforting scent of brewing coffee and toast, which would be good if it weren’t paired with the homely soundtrack of my father shouting like I’d just crashed a car into the dining table.
As I’m toeing off my heels, or heel, Martha appears from the hallway like some kind of middle-class apparition in a matching sweater set and apron, holding a dishcloth.
She pauses mid-step when she sees me. Her eyes go wide.
Massive wide.
The kind of wide that says, “Oh, girl, you’re in it now.”
And yeah, I know. I look like trouble. My blouse is barely buttoned, there's a suspicious bite mark on my collarbone, and my lipstick is… not on my lips anymore.
“Morning,” I offer.
Martha just raises her eyebrows, does a dramatic full-body sigh, and heads off like she wants no part of this.
“Coward,” I mutter under my breath, letting my bag drop with a satisfying thud beside the ornamental table my father insists is antique but definitely came cheap in some closing-down sale years ago.
Dragging myself down the hall, I hear the scrape of cutlery, the unmistakable slam of a newspaper, and the sharp exhale of someone who’s probably been pacing since first light, just waiting to ambush me.
Jesus Christ. Does he never let up?
I push open the dining room door, plaster a big fat smile across my face that hurts more than it should, and step inside.
“Alright, alright, I’m here. What’s up?”
He’s standing by the head of the table, arms braced, the veins on his neck doing their usual stress-pop.
And suddenly I’m not just Cassy, a woman on the brink of telling her lover she’s pregnant. I’m Cassy, the daughter, the one who came home wearing last night’s clothes, and apparently, thenext contestant in the “Who Wants to Disappoint Dad?” reality show.
I take a deep breath.
God help me. This is not a conversation I want to have before coffee.
Dad looks up, his arms tense, his mouth tight, and then, just to really send the drama into orbit, he glances at his wrist like he’s wearing a watch, which he isn’t. Never has. Never will. But he still commits to the act. “And what sort of time do you call this?”
I glance at the actual clock on the wall. “Seven-thirty a.m. Why, what would you call it?”
