One Night Standards. Cathy Yardley

She ought to get up and do something. Clean something. Maybe do some more work, even though she doubted it would be usable, what with her mind highballing as it was at a million miles an hour. She really ought to start that meditation that Lydia had raved about. She ought to do something.

      Flashback to Mark, pressing her into the bed at the hotel…his weight, his strength, the gentleness of him covering her. How there had only been thin layers of cotton between the two of them and one night of what she felt sure would be unforgettable bliss.

      She shivered uncontrollably.

      You are insane!

      She only barely realized she’d picked up her cell phone and dialed his number.

      “Mark McMann,” he said, sounding tired.

      She stared at her phone, aghast. What are you doing?

      “I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean…”

      “Sophie?”

      “Is it too late for me to call?” She winced. “Certainly, it’s too late for me to call. You’re on the East Coast. It’s, what, one o’clock in the morning? Listen, I’ll—”