Fortunately, the maître d’ chose that moment to tap a glass and ask us all to sit. I send up a thanks to the universe that since I’m not in the bridal party—according to my mother, Emily feels I don’t have the right aesthetic, by which she means colouring—I’m at one of the furthest tables from both my grandmother and the blushing bride.
Emily and I aren’t close. It’s not just the age difference. Six years isn’t all that much. But we have nothing in common. She grew up with the sole ambition of marrying well and becoming a society wife and mother. I grew up wanting—much to my grandmother’s consternation—a career.
If I were a boy, my grandmother would be telling everyone she knows all about her grandson, the successful doctor. Sadly, since I’m a girl, the only acceptable career is motherhood, with a side of charitable work, or a little job in an art gallery or upmarket boutique, to protect my brain from total atrophy.
By the time brunch is over and Emily is halfway through opening the mountain of gifts—most of which seem to be virginal white lingerie, which must surely have been given with a sense of irony—I need some air.
Grabbing a fresh glass of mostly juice, I slip through the doors onto the balcony and lean against the railing. If I have to hear the words ‘nice boy’ or ‘good family’ one more time, I might scream. Emily is about to marry one. My other cousin Sarah has already married one. It’s past time I did too.
But I don’t want a nice boy. If I get married at all, I want a man. Preferably not too nice, if you know what I mean. I want someone who makes my blood fizz. Unlike my family, I honestly don’t care what his family are like, where he’s from or what school he went to.
Sure, I’m self-aware enough to know he also has to be intelligent, successful and driven. A man who’s happy in a dead-end job will bore me in a heartbeat. He needs to have his own stuff going on, his own passions, so he doesn’t need constant attention and validation from me. However, without the fizz, all the rest is nothing. So what I’m looking for is a unicorn. And given how little time I have to do the looking, I doubt it’ll happen any time soon.
Speaking of blood fizzing, Naked Guy—with actual clothes on at last—is across the road at a little café, wiping down tables and adjusting umbrellas.
He may have got under my skin earlier with his smirk and his unflappable-ness, but I’ve got eyes in my head. And he certainly gave me something to look at.
I’m pretty sure you’d find a picture of this guy under the entry for beach bum in the dictionary. He’s tall and broad without being bulky. And given how we met, I could see that the theory about big feet was, in his case at least, true. From the top of his sun-bleached, messy blond head to the tips of his tanned toes, all six foot something of him is hard to ignore. Add in the sky-blue eyes, the two-day scruff and the tattoos and I challenge any woman to remain unmoved.
What I doubt he’d be described as is a ‘nice boy’. He’s a man. And he looks like he knows his way around being very naughty indeed.
He turns suddenly, almost as if he senses me watching him. Our gazes connect before I have time to look away, and I feel itall the way to my toes. With a lingering detour at the top of my thighs.
Even from this distance, I can read the smug expression on his face at having caught me looking. God, he’s annoying. Hot. But annoying.
He’s the antithesis of everything my mother and grandmother are looking for. Exactly the kind of man they’d hate.
An idea starts to form. An idea that could simultaneously solve my problems and irritate Grandie. Win. Win. Bonus points, I’m unlikely to fall for the kind of guy who is apparently happy to make coffee for a living. As I said, I need someone with a bit of drive. Someone who’s as busy with their career as I am with mine. So, a beach bum barista—no matter how hot—is unlikely to hold my interest for long.
“What are you doing out here all on your own?” Mum asks, sliding the glass door closed behind her, cutting off the high-pitched chatter and squealing from inside.
“Just getting some air.”
Mum fusses with the bracelet on her wrist. “You know your grandmother means well. She wants you to be happy.”
That’s a charitable way to look at it. Alternatively, you could argue she wants to be able to brag to her friends at Bridge Club about the lovely family her granddaughter has married into. And soon enough, Emily’s wedding will be old news. She’s trawling for fresh kill.
“I know, but I am happy. Why can’t you all believe that?” I resist the urge to stamp my foot.
My mother looks conflicted. I know she’s frightened I’ll end up alone. Which, for her, seems like the worst outcome, but for me is less awful than marrying a chinless wonder. Or a controlling arsehole like my stepfather.
“We’d just like to see you settled—”
“With a nice boy. I know,” I interrupt before Mum can finish her thought. She pulls my head to her shoulder and strokes my hair in a way she never does when her husband is around. In a way that makes me yearn for the barely remembered time before he came along.
I wonder if naked guy is still watching from the other side of the road, and what he makes of the scene.
“And your grandmother is right. Emily’s brother-in-law would be a good match.”
I pull away and speak before I even have time to think it through.
“Well, that’s not going to work. I’m already seeing someone.”
“What? Who? Why didn’t you tell us?” There’s a strange expression I can’t quite interpret on my mother’s face, but excitement raises her voice an octave or two.
That’s an easy one to answer.
“Because whenever I tell you things like that, it turns into a whole big thing. And to be honest, I don’t need Grandie interfering.”
