So . . . About last night . . .

I genuinely don't know what I was thinking. I must have been temporarily possessed by some sort of succubus or something. Although I'm sure succubuses (succubi?) generally have a far higher success rate than I did last night.

After drinks with the girls, I remember exiting the taxi feeling like 50 shades of shit. Declan's final text message had hit me hard. The finality of the tone of it squeezed tightly at my already bruised heart. The idea of having to start over - again - had me briefly wheezing, and contemplating permanent celibacy.

I'd let myself into a deathly silent, dark flat. Ric was clearly out for the night. Or sleeping. But I was pretty sure it would be the former option - I had already got the impression he didn't get much in the way of kip. The dude had classic insomniac written all over him.

My stomach rumbled grumpily at me, which reminded me I hadn't eaten since lunchtime. We'd planned to get dinner while we were out but - as is often the way - been distracted by the lure of cheap cocktails.

I grabbed a pack of macaroni out of my cupboard and started rustling up some cheesy cajun pasta. It was one of my signature easy dishes - the secret is you cook the pasta in the stock, and then add a tub of cheese spread. Not terribly healthy, admittedly, but very delicious - ideal for a post-night-out meal. Try it - you'll thank me later!

I was actually, surprisingly, in the mood for music. Maybe it was because the flat was so damn quiet, and I was desperate to fill the silence, and drown out my Sad Gal Thoughts. I opted for the happy, empowered portion of my recently curated single girl playlist, and had a bit of a shimmy while I stirred my ingredients, singing along to Dua Lipa. I had made way too much pasta, I realised, biting my lip as I stared down at it. Oh well, it would probably do me for a couple of days worth of leftovers.

"If you're under him, you ain't getting over him," I warbled, as I danced over towards the draining board for a clean bowl. "I got new rules, I count . . . Oh!"

When I'd turned back round, Ric was there, peering into my pan of pasta. Was he some sort of ninja? I hadn't even heard him come in. Mind you, my off-tune singing may have drowned out any other noise.

"You gave me a fright," I said accusingly.

"Sorry." As always, he sounded anything but apologetic. He shrugged. "I didn't want to interrupt your concert. You seemed pretty into it." There was that smirk again. He nodded towards the pot. "Don't suppose you'd let me have some of this? I'm starving."

I sighed, exasperated as always by this guy, but I'd already established I had way too much, so I nodded. "Sure." I grabbed another bowl and slopped a massive amount of gooey pasta into it. "Here you go."

"Cheers, Abby." I expected him to head to his room with it, but much to my surprise he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and settled himself down at the kitchen table instead.

Oh, so he was feeling sociable tonight? Typical. It would have felt rude for me to then leave the kitchen, so after I'd loaded my bowl up I sat down opposite him.

"This is good," he said, swallowing a mouthful. "Maybe I should get you to cook for me more often."

I decided not to point out I hadn't cooked for him in the first place; but I still couldn't resist a dig. "You eat enough of my food as it is."

He laughed at that. "But I always replace it," he reminded me, dark eyes holding mine. He was still grinning, and I swear I felt
something spark between us in that moment. I mean, in retrospect, I must have imagined it, but at the time it seemed legit. It reminded me of my first meeting with Declan. Which was crazy, because I wasn't remotely attracted to Ric. Right?

At this point though, it also hit me how different he looked from the guy I normally encountered slobbing around the flat. Instead of one of his usual crumpled, faded t-shirts, he was wearing a crisp white shirt with pale silver lines running down it. His hair was neater than usual, as if he'd actually styled it, and he was almost clean-shaven. He also looked far more awake than I usually witnessed him.

I'd already realised he was good-looking, even in his default mode . . . But apparently a bit of grooming, and a proper smile propelled him to all new levels of handsome. I swallowed hard. "That's true, you do," I acknowledged, breaking eye contact. Suddenly I felt weird around him, for different reasons. "So, um . . . Did you have a night out tonight?"

He demolished another mouthful of pasta and nodded. "Yep, a work thing. We mostly all work from home, so we try to have a night out every couple of months to remind ourselves what everyone else looks like."

"What is it that you do?" I took the opportunity to ask. I'd been curious about this for a while, since he'd alluded to deadlines on several occasions now, and spent a lot of time holed up in his room.

"I'm in graphic design." He shrugged again. "Nothing exciting. You?"

"Social media." I couldn't be bothered getting into more detail either. Work chat was boring. Unless it was juicy gossip, of course.

Silence fell. Oddly, it wasn't actually an awkward one. It felt strangely comfortable.

Ric pushed his bowl to one side and, when I looked up from my own meal, I realised he was studying me with curiosity. "What actually happened last night?" He asked. "With Declan, I mean."

It was my turn to shrug. "It was like you said," I admit. "I thought we were getting back together. I was apparently being delusional, because he dumped me."

"And, let me guess . . . He decided to wait until after he'd shagged you to tell you that?" His voice was dry.

I winced at the accuracy of his statement. "Were you there?"

He chuckled. "Thankfully, no. Like I said before though, I know his type."

"But . . . How?" I asked, mystified. "You've never even met Declan. How can you have a better read on him than me?"

"You're blinded by the love-hearts in your eyes when it comes to him," Ric stated. He picked up both our empty bowls and took them to the sink to soak them. "And you're too involved in the situation to be able to take a step back and be objective," he threw back over his shoulder as he turned the taps on.

Yeah, that made sense.

But I had no time to dwell on that. You see, it had also been at least half an hour since I'd last cried, so another tear-storm was way overdue.

Which meant that when Ric turned back to face me, I was sobbing inconsolably into my hands.

"Fuck," I heard him mutter under his breath. A moment later he was crouching beside my chair, passing me some kitchen towel to wipe my eyes with. "Don't let him get to you," he told me, a hint of impatience in his voice. "He's not worth it. At all."

"It's not just that," I choked out, wiping away some snot. I was so sexy. "I just keep thinking I must be the world's worst girlfriend. I actually thought he loved me. So what did I do wrong?"

I wasn't really looking for answers, and I think Ric sensed this was more a thought-dump than anything else as he didn't say anything else immediately. It was actually a little bit therapeutic to offload on a virtual stranger, and I found myself calming down, my tears drying up quicker than usual.

Ric was still kneeling beside me when I raised my head. "Look Abby, I know nothing about the ins and out of your relationship," he said, finally. "And, to be fair, I don't know much about you either." His eyes crinkled as that guarded face awarded me another smile, and he patted my leg comfortingly. I hadn't even realised he was touching me until that moment; now all I could feel was his hand, burning a trail of . . . something through my body.

I strongly suspected it was lust.

"But, aside from your daily strops," he continued, and I growled (only half-seriously). "You seem like a great girl. You're pretty, you're funny, you can hold your own in an argument . . . You're not giving yourself enough credit. You're not the issue here, Abby," he added gently. "He's the problem."

I stared, a little transfixed, into the depths of those brown eyes. They really were mesmerising - I fancied I could see the tiniest flecks of gold glitter twinkling away in there. For the first time since I'd met him, he seemed approachable. Sincere. Sweet. Now there's a word that I never thought I'd be associating with Ricardo Parker.

Thoughts raced through my head.

Lou and Kim telling me the best way to get over a man is to get under another. Declan being a bit of a pratt. Ric being nice to me, and apparently he thought I was pretty.

Ric was right there in front of me, ripe for the picking, the finish line for all of these floating, racing notions in my brain. And, as far as I was aware, he was single. And possibly not all that choosy.

So I brought my hand up to his cheek, the tiny pinpricks of stubble brushing the pads of my fingers. And then I leaned forward and pressed my lips against his.

What the fuck was I doing? This was so unlike me.

There was the briefest of moments when I thought he actually was going to kiss me back. The sharp intake of breath as my mouth found his, the slightest yielding of his lips, the fact the hand on my leg squeezed with sudden intensity.

Then that same hand pushed against me as he jumped away from me. "What are you doing?" He wiped his mouth frantically, as if trying to erase every trace of the World's Shortest Kiss, irritation evident in his words.

I could feel the blush heating up my cheeks; actually, it was rapidly developing into a full body flush. "Sorry," I mumbled. "You were just being so nice to me and I thought maybe we could . . ." Have a bit of animal sex? Fuck Declan out of my system? God knows what the end of that sentence was meant to be. Whatever it was, it clearly wasn't happening.

Ric rubbed at his face, deliberately not looking at me. "Abby, like I said, you're a great girl." His voice was calmer now. "But I'm not into you like that."

"I'm sorry," I managed again, cringing at my stupidity. "I'm an idiot." Of course he wasn't interested. Why would he be?

"Can we pretend this didn't hap . . .?" I didn't even get to finish my sentence.

"Already forgotten." He backed away from me, grabbing his bottle of water en route. "I'm - um - gonna go to bed now. Thanks for the pasta and - er - everything." He was out of the room like a shot.

Dear God, he had actually ran away from me!!! This was a nightmare!

I emptied the leftover pasta into two tupperware containers for the fridge and washed the pot, hoping Ric might re-emerge so I could apologise profusely once again. But there was no sign of him.

And, to be perfectly honest, I couldn't really blame him.

Well, that was . . . awkward!

Have you ever found yourself in a similar situation to this one?