We raced to the bathroom but when we got there, a 'Do Not Enter' sign was blocking the entrance.

"Can we come in?" Jack asked the woman inside.

She looked up at us and shook her head. "Rather don't." She looked particularly frazzled. "Not until I've cleaned up the vomit. Party seems to be starting early today," she said sarcastically. God, I felt sorry for her.

"Where can we go?" Jack asked, tightening his grip on my hand and me not letting go of it, even though in the back of my mind, I knew I probably should. 

She pointed down the passage. "You can use the toilet at the end of the passage. No one goes there anymore."

"Thanks," he replied and started turning away again, but before we could leave, her voice stopped us.

"Hey, wait!" She had a high-pitched excited tone in her voice now, a far cry from the one she'd had a few moments ago. We turned. "Aren't you Jack Emory?" she asked, her cheeks going a bright shade of red.

Jack took a step closer to her and I rolled my eyes before I even knew I was doing it.

"I am." He said that in a smooth, velvety voice and my eyes did flick flacks.

"Oh my God! Oh My God!" She practically jumped at him now and I couldn't help the long, loud exasperated moan that came out of my mouth.

"I love you. I watch you every night on TV." She looked like she was going to melt into the floor now; a pathetic puddle of raging female hormones.

"Why, thank you," he said in very sotto tones. God, he was an asshole. Did he really need to flirt with every single woman on the planet? Could he not have one conversation that wasn't smeared with sexual innuendos? Was that so hard?

"Please can I have a selfie with you? My friends will never believe me," she gushed, and now I just groaned. I let go of his hand as he squished his face up close to hers and flashed that toothy, too-white smile of his that looked so perfect; as if it had been sculptured by Michelangelo himself.

She clicked the phone, swooned some more and then he gave her an autograph too for good measure. When he was done charming the pants off her, he took me by the hand again and marched me down the corridor. I sighed, loudly.

"What?" he asked innocently as we walked. "Have to keep the fans happy."

"Not too happy. I hope," I said with a strange tone in my voice I hardly recognized.

He laughed. "You know, without you in my life, there's no one around to criticize me."

"I bet," I replied, thinking about how everybody in his life probably pandered to him and told him exactly what he wanted to hear all day.

"It's rather refreshing," he said, as we passed the kitchen.

"Don't get used to it." I looked into the kitchen; busy-looking chefs and waiters were putting the final touches on the plates of food that were about to go out. The wedding coordinator looked stressed, talking into her earpiece frantically. I didn't blame her. My sister was a real bridezilla.

We finally reached the bathroom at the end of the passage and Jack pushed the door open and flicked the lights on. "Here, come inside." He held the door open for me and I reluctantly walked inside. Honestly, I didn't really want to be in a bathroom with Jack bloody selfie-taking, fan-flirting Emory. I looked around. I could see why no one used this toilet. The entire place looked like it was getting married. The actual toilet was covered–cistern to bowl–in a white crocheted doily. The vanity had a little white, tulle curtain underneath it hiding the pipes. This must be the unrenovated part of the venue. The forgotten bathroom that had never gotten a make-over.

Jack closed the door behind us and I jumped at the sound. I looked at the door, slightly panicked when I realised that we were now alone in such a small space. And then he turned his attention to me.

"So, let's see it," he asked, grabbing some toilet paper.

"Uh... okay." God, this was so weird. I was in a bathroom, with Jack Emory, with a bleeding shoulder.

I pulled my sleeve aside and exposed the wound. It was certainly bleeding a lot and I could see that a bruise was starting to form around it. He lowered the toilet paper to my shoulder and then started applying pressure to it. I looked down at his hand, not daring to look up at him. He was so close to me. Too close. But as the seconds passed, I finally lifted my face and allowed myself to steal a small glance. He was looking at me, and as I looked up, our eyes met.

Damn, that feeling! That poking feeling in my stomach. The feeling that someone had poured the Sahara desert into my mouth and throat and now I couldn't swallow anymore. That bloody feeling!

I tried to look away. Willed my eyes to look anywhere else in the room. But they didn't. Couldn't. We stared at each other. It felt like the walls of the bathroom were getting smaller, leaning in towards us, pushing us closer towards each other. Why was this happening? Whyyyy?

Finally, after what felt like hours of relentless staring, he smiled at me. I felt myself smile back, then he broke eye contact and looked down at my shoulder again.

"It was bleeding a lot, but I don't think it needs stitches." Jack removed the toilet paper from the wound.

"Is that your professional opinion, Doctor Drake Marcello?" I teased playfully.

He let out another chuckle. Low and gravelly, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. "It is, Detective Amantha Lowe."

"Hey, how do you know I'm a detective now?" I asked, looking down at the cut on my shoulder. It had stopped bleeding now, thanks to him I guess.

He shrugged casually, as if it was no big deal. "It was in the local paper. The town was very proud of one of the youngest detectives ever appointed in Johannesburg."

"Oh that. My mom cut the article out and stuck it in a frame. It's now hanging above the fireplace." I rolled my eyes. We'd all grown up in a very small town and the local paper, The Hillfield Sun, as it's called, always printed articles about its residents. Jack Emory took up a lot of space in that paper. Another way I'm unable to escape him, since my mother always phones to read me the articles about him. The latest one had been playing on my mind, and before I could stop myself and stop my mouth from opening...

"So... how's Brogan McKnight?" I heard the voice I'd said it in and immediately blushed. It sounded, sounded...

"I wouldn't know," he said. "We're not together anymore. Why?" he asked with a particularly wicked-looking smile, and leaned back against the vanity. Slowly. Oh so slowly.

I shrugged. Trying to be casual, trying to give off a distinct I-have-no-fucks-to-give vibe, since my tone had so horribly betrayed me. "Meh, no reason, really. Just trying to make convo," I muttered rather lamely.

"Really?" He smiled at me and crossed his arms. His shirt tugged against his hard chest and the muscles in his forearms rippled and writhed. Had Jack Emory always been this good looking? Or had he gotten better-looking since I'd last seen him, which had been when he was naked and on top of me and thrusting and sweating, me moaning and calling his name as I came not once, but twice, but—

I cut that thought off immediately, but not before I felt my cheeks go bright red. Remind me, why did I hate him again? He looked at me for a moment and then laughed.

"What?" I asked, trying to act like I wasn't blushing.

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just you."

"Me? What about me?"

"It's just cute when you try to hide your jealousy."

"My WHAT?!?!" I felt my jaw drop open in absolute shock at the sheer arrogance, the sheer ego. Now I remember why I hated him so much. "I am NOT. And I mean N.O.T jealous." I spelled that out in case he wasn't getting it, and in case I hadn't decided I could be more childish, which I blamed on him by the way. This man reduced me to a petulant child. "Nooo. So not jealous. Do you really think I would be jealous of 'what's her name'? I don't think so."

"Really?" He chuckled again and I wanted to reach into his mouth and pull out his windpipes, or something horrific like that. Oh my God, he was making me so damn mad!

"Really," he pressed, "because I'm sure I sensed a teeny-tiny bit of jealousy in your tone. I'm an actor, I know about tones."

"Are you kidding me? Are you actually saying that?"

"Well, you look jealous. In fact, your cheeks seem to be going a little pink there. "

"They are not! It's hot in here and I... I... am, it's, shit, no I am not, and...." I was flustered and I knew my flustered appearance wasn't doing much for my argument. In fact, it was probably doing more for his argument, than mine.

"Are you sure?" he asked, looking way too pleased with himself.

"YES! I am sure. What, do you think I don't know myself? That I'm unsure?"

"Honestly, tell me honestly, Amantha. Have you never thought about that night we spent together again? Because I—"

"STOP!" I held my hands in the air. "Do not even go there. Do not mention that night. You have no right after what you did to me."

"Sorry, what?" Suddenly his whole demeanour changed and he took a step towards me. "What I did to you? Are you serious? It's more like, what you did to me." He stood up straight and spat the words out with venom. I looked at him and blinked. I had no idea what he was talking about, and quite frankly, I didn't want to know.

"That's it. I'm going. This bathroom visit is officially over." I reached for the door handle and turned. It didn't budge.

"Huh?" I turned it again, but nothing was happening. What the hell? I put all my muscle into it and tried again. Still, it didn't budge. I tried again, and again, and again, and again with all the strength and muscle I could muster, and still, nothing.

"Oh. My. God. This cannot be happening." I tugged at the bathroom door frantically now.

"Well, don't break it," Jack said smugly from behind me.

I swung around. "It's not opening."

He rolled his eyes and then playfully started taking his suit jacket off.

"Oh please." I watched as he undid his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves up. I stared as his forearms appeared from under the white shirt. They were big and tanned and covered in just the right amount of manly hair to make them look, mmmmmm.... I shook my head in an attempt to dislodge that thought immediately. I didn't need to be thinking of his manly forearms at a time like this.

He smiled, as if he knew what I was thinking. Shit, did he? And then he cleared his throat with great pomp and ceremony, and pushed passed me. "Allow me," he said, reaching for the door handle.

"Fine." I stepped back and folded my arms. I lifted weights, for God sake! Serious weights. I was strong, so if I couldn't open this door, there was no way he was either.

"Probably just needs a knight in shining armour's touch," he chuckled under his breath as he tried to turn the knob.

"We'll see about that." I sat down on the closed toilet seat and watched him.

He tried to turn it and when it didn't budge, he looked at me over his shoulder rather sheepishly.

"Uh, hang on," he said, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his collar. I crossed my arms and legs. I was going to enjoy watching him fail. And I was definitely going to enjoy pointing that out to him. He tried to open the door. Still nothing. I watched him fiddle with it a few times, and then he slowly turned to me with a smile.

"I think you're right. We're totally stuck in here."

"HA! I'm right. I told you!" I declared triumphantly and jumped off the toilet seat in sheer childish glee.

He looked at me. Stared more like it; eyes zoning in on mine like a target.

"It's cool," he said casually. "It's actually cool."

"Cool?" I shook my head, confused.

"Yeah, it's cool to be stuck in a bathroom with you, Amantha."

"Stu—we're not stu—" Fuck! It dawned on me in one boot-to-the-ribcage moment. I was so busy proving how right I was, that the reality of our situation hadn't really sunk in yet.

"Noooo!" I threw myself at the door handle again and started jiggling it frantically. "We can't be. We can't be." I gave the door a few hard nudges with my shoulder and then banged a fist on it and called out. "HELLOOO! HELLLLO. Anyone there?" I waited, but there was no response.

"They said no one comes down here anymore," Jack said, sounding pleased with himself.

I banged on the door a little louder this time. "Helllloooooooo," I called out. But when I got no reply again, my heart seemed to fall into the pit of my stomach. I put my head against the door. "This cannot be happening," I whispered, almost inaudibly.

"Oh, but it is. Face it Amantha, you and I are spending the wedding together in the bathroom."

I turned around slowly and looked at him. The full, horrific picture had come into view. 

I was stuck in a bathroom that no one came to at my sister's wedding with Jack Emory