“Sorry, what was that?”
“I said,” repeats one of the younger looking gentlemen. He can’t be much older than me. “This might seem a bit strange, but you have an uncanny resemblance too—”
It’s happening.
“—that swimmer. Millen somebody or other. The one who almost made it to the Olympics but fell from a ski lift months before and tore all his ligaments? Do you remember? It was hot in the press because they were speculating he was on shit, coke I think, to make his reaction time slower and—”
If it wasn’t for the cool bar top beneath my forearms, I’m sure I would have toppled over by now.
I clench my hands into fists, feeling the cold glass of whisky and ice bite into my right palm, to stop myself from lashing out.
I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t, but it isn’t that easy when someone is talking so flippantly about something that isn’t true, something that almost destroyed my family, something that almost broke my little brother until he was never completely the same.
“Was he really on coke?” another asks, only fuelling my anger higher. “Because—”
“No. He wasn’t,” I grit out. “My brother would never have done anything to jeopardize his pro swimming career.”
“So, he is your brother?” confirms the idiot who spoke up in the first place. “I thought he must be some sort of relation because you look so similar. Can I have a photograph?”
I hold his weak brown eyed stare as I take a sip of my drink. “Strangely enough I don’t keep photographs of my brother on hand.”
Unperturbed, he continues, “Can I have one of you, then?”
I glare at him. “Me? What could you possibly—”
A camera clicks in my face, following by a bright flash that causes silver spots to dance behind my eyelids.
“Thanks, mate. I really—”
“Hey,” a hand slides up the length of my spine until it sits between my shoulder blades, “you okay?”
I glance along to find Calla peering back at me, lips twisted into a soft smile.
I swallow down the pang of panic that tells me she overheard, winding my arm around her waist instead and bending down to press my lips to hers.
Parting her lips, Calla kisses me back without hesitation, pressing her tight body into mine. I can’t get enough of her – touching her, tasting her, feeling her move against me just as high on desire as I am.
Pulling apart, I peer down noticing the mischievous glint in Calla’s pretty green eyes.
I grab her hand as she winks at me, causing my cock to thicken in my trousers, ignoring the “later, boys”, she throws over her shoulder and leading her back to our table.
But it doesn’t seem that the universe is done with testing me tonight.
“You’re in my seat,” I snarl, slowing to a halt, Calla tucked into the side of me, as I take in the scene before me.
Thomas fucking McAvoy lounges in my chair, appearing like a king holding court, that infamous smirk, the one I want to knock off his face, playing about his lips.
Turning his head, he grins shark-like. Somehow, he still manages to look down his crooked nose at me, even though I’m standing while he stays seated.
“It’s a free seat.”
I feel Calla tighten her grip on my fingers, a small hand wrapping around my upper bicep, but I can’t stop my anger from spiralling.
“No,” I spit between tightly gritted teeth. “It isn’t.”
“There’s no placeholder with your name on it.” McAvoy gestures to the empty space before him.
Heart racing, I reach into my pocket, ripping out my crumpled-up place holder and slam it back down. I can feel Calla’s confused stare burning into the side of my face, but I don’t turn to look at her. I can’t.
