Rachel stays the entire day Sunday and I spend the day bumping into her and Scott and exchanging awkward pleasantries. I keep expecting her to leave, but she doesn’t.
By Monday morning, I’m desperate to get out of the house so head off to work at quarter past seven. I have my bag over my shoulder and my hand on the door handle when Rachel emerges from Scott’s room, wearing one of his new shirts – and a flush on her neck.
“Hi again.” All of a sudden she looks shy, which is odd from someone who had no compunction about her orgasmic groans reverberating through the walls for over twenty four hours.
“Hi Rachel,” I smile. “Good weekend?”
“You could say that,” she giggles.
I’m at my desk by ten to eight and spend the first hour sorting through the mountain of emails I didn’t manage to look
