Bad Bridesmaid. Portia MacIntosh
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They say there is no such thing as bad sex. They lie.
After a couple of weeks of seriously steamy flirting with Zack Carson I just knew that there would be fireworks when we finally got around to getting it on – but it’s an uncomfortably hot Los Angeles night and, despite Zack’s best efforts, the fireworks just aren’t going off. Not even a sparkler. Not even a birthday cake candle. I’m too warm, I’m bored and my neck is starting to ache thanks to the overly ambitious position of Zack’s choosing.
Did it occur to me that it might not be such a good idea to sleep with my boss’s assistant? Of course it did, but one look into his sexy brown eyes combined with his jet-black crew cut and his chiselled, model-like good looks and I was never going to be able to resist – and that’s before I realised he has a motorbike. Bikers are hot – especially tall, dark and handsome ones who are covered in tattoos like Zack is. Still, I’ve got nothing going on down there. I’m not sure how long we’ve been at it but I’m ready for it to end – even if I don’t get a happy one.
I scoop together my long, honey blonde coloured curls and twist them into a bun on top of my head. This does little to cool me down but I know that as soon as I break out my GCSE drama skills (I just about scraped a C grade) I can pull a Meg Ryan and put an end to this.
‘That was awesome,’ Zack says afterwards, in his strong Californian accent – one that never fails to fascinate me, no matter how many years I’ve been here.
I moved here when I was twenty-five, and in the four years I’ve been living and working here I haven’t lost my Kentish accent, not even a little. Everyone teases me for it; you wouldn’t believe how many Mary Poppins jokes I have to endure on a daily basis. Despite being born and raised in Canterbury,