Her head bobbed. ‘Uh huh, you’re also a fan of the hit it and quit it club.’
The sip of beer I had just taken nearly sprayed all over the table. Rosie was never one to mince her words; it’s what I liked most about her. You were never left wondering where you stood with her. If she didn’t like you, she told you. If she loved you, there was no chance of you ever getting rid of her. But the latter was a privilege only a few people were offered.
Choosing my words carefully, I lifted my shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘I used to be.’
She brought the glass of tequila she had been toying with to her lips, downing the lot in one go. Not even wincing at the taste. Following suit, I threw mine back. Significantly less cool than her, my lips turned up at the bitter taste, and I grabbed my beer, taking a long sip.
‘Amateur.’ She smiled, the grin only lasting a few seconds before it slid off her red lips. ‘So, you don’t do flings anymore?’
‘I’ve not had a one-night stand in a while.’ In the early days of my brother’s success in football, it was a novelty I indulged in. I was Oliver Blakes’s brother; men and women alike chanced their fifteen minutes of fame with me, and as a young guy in his twenties, I had fun.
Rosie leaned her shoulders back against the booth, surveying me curiously. ‘Why not?’
‘I’m thirty-five. I’ve done that kind of life, but I’ve also been in relationships, and I know which one I prefer.’
Her nose wrinkled like what I’d just said left a bad taste in her mouth.
‘It’s okay not to prefer relationships,’ I added, needing her to know that I’d never judge her. There were many different types of people in the world, and monogamy wasn’t for everyone.
‘I’m just not a relationship type of girl.’ Her lips thinned.
I knew there was more to that casual comment than she let on.
‘Why not?’ My tone was light, but she read the intensity of my eyes.
The laugh that echoed out of her was high-pitched and wholly unnatural. Her elbow jutted out. In her haste to pick up her old-fashioned, she knocked her bag off the table. My hands darted out to grab it before it hit the floor.
‘Shit,'she said, hands outstretched to grab it.
I held it just out of her reach. ‘Rosie Grange.’ My tone was gentle, teasing.
Her eyes widened at my use of her full name. ‘What?’
The bag was heavy in my grip. Heavier than it should have been. Not that I was a connoisseur of women’s bags. The heft of this one wasn’t your typical phone, keys, and makeup.
I dropped it in my lap and opened the flap, peeking inside. I saw enough before she reached over and grabbed it with a squeak of protest.
‘You brought a book on a date?’ I wasn’t sure how offended I should feel that she thought it necessary to bring another form of entertainment.
She dropped the bag next to her, squared her shoulders and gave me a look that dared me to comment.
‘I bring one everywhere. It’s a force of habit, not an indictment of your ability to plan a date.’
‘What are you reading?’ I sipped my drink, enjoying how her brow furrowed at the question.
‘You don’t want to know,' she said.
‘Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.’
Her bottom lip drew into her mouth, teeth sinking into the flesh. one of the few signs of anxiousness Rosie ever showed. I had a feeling she had no idea she did it. If she realised that she’d somehow exhibited a show of weakness, she’d eradicate it in an instant.
‘It’s a dark romance.’ Her eyes darted to her bag on the seat next to her.
I had no clue what that was or what it meant. My experience of romance books was non-existent. At the obvious confusion on my face, she exhaled. ‘He’s a serial killer, and she’s the girl next door.’
My reading tastes didn’t venture further out than a biography here and there. I’d never found a fiction book that could hold my interest longer than ten pages. But I was pretty sure the first thing she’d said was not supposed to be a good thing.Serial killer?
‘So it’s a thriller?’
