September

Jemma Stortford opened her eyes and wondered where the hell she was. Blearily she gazed up at the painting of Aphrodite, romping across the ceiling with Adonis in glorious Technicolor. No one else had Greek Gods gambolling thorough their apartment. For once, she had fallen asleep in her own bed.

She sank back beneath the sheets and closed her eyes, pulling the duvet up around her ears. Bliss, perfect bliss. The panic only set in, ten seconds later, as she became aware of someone else’s deep, rhythmic breathing. Tentatively she lifted the bedsheet - and found a man asleep beside her.

He had flawless olive skin, an unremarkable straight nose, a square jaw and short, softly spiked, dark-brown hair. Totally relaxed in sleep, he looked untroubled, curiously vulnerable, but devastatingly handsome. And Jemma was pretty confident she had never seen him before in her life.

As she attempted to remember what she had got up to last night, Jemma began to feel a lot like Dr Jekyll, the morning after. At least she was still wearing her T-shirt, jeans and ankle boots (she had gone to bed in her boots?). She might be able to throw off her clothes in wild, drunken abandon, but she doubted very much that she would be able to throw them back on again.

The subject of her scrutiny suddenly yawned widely and opened eyes the colour of maple syrup. It took a while for him to focus on her and when he did, he abruptly pushed away the bedcovers, sat up and said:

“Who the hell are you!”

“More to the point,” grumbled Jemma, tugging the bedsheets protectively back up to her chin, “who the hell are you?”