“Maybe you’re right. I saw it coming and now I’m pissed that even though we were seeing each other for two years I’m not that bothered we’re done.”
“You’re angry you wasted time when you could’ve been meeting someone else. Or several someone elses?” I said, eyeing the tequila and deciding it was a bad idea.
Eli’s eyes danced and he picked up a shot glass. “I’m not Callum. Sticking my dick in anything half way to being pretty has never been my thing.”
“You’ve summed Callum up well.” My brother was the definition of a manwhore, especially since he’d come back from saving animals in India or somewhere. “Honestly, you just have to move on. The more time you spend thinking about what you should’ve done; the more time you’re wasting.”
The rest of the champagne was drained into our glasses and I debated phoning reception to have another bottle sent up, them remembered the bottle I’d been storing for late night drinks. We Callaghans were nothing if not prepared if there was a possibility that the bar would close. Although, I was trying to maintain a degree of being drink-aware and keep an eye on my liver.
“Whisky?” I felt suddenly nervous. “Or we have another bottle of decent fizz.” I jumped up again, grateful to move.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” His eyes followed me as I moved across the room. I was off kilter; Eli appeared to have some strange device that threw me off my usual confident trajectory, like an invisible space force field. “If so, go ahead.”
I turned to look at him and took a step back with a smile. “How do you take your hangovers?”
“With a full breakfast, a shot of whisky and a long run. How do you take yours?”
“I’m immune,” I said. “I don’t get them.” I’d learned to drink water, lots of it and to ease off a couple of hours before I went to bed. I was also my mother’s daughter and could handle a few drinks.”
“Bring the champagne,” he said. “Let’s start there.”
We’d found decaffeinated coffee just before midnight, the champagne finished but the whisky left untouched. Conversation was easy. Eli listened to me rant about contractors and builders and idiot site managers who thought that because I was smaller than them and blonde and slim, I had no idea about first fixes and dry rot.
“How many houses are you managing at the moment?” he said, his hands cupping the coffee.
“Four, but one’s a big one. And I’m flipping where I’m living too, but I do a lot of that myself. I did the roof last weekend,” I said, smirking from behind my mug. I had a good idea of what his reaction would be.
He held my gaze and shook his head. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you do the job yourself?”
“Because I can. It’s cheaper and you know what? I really enjoy it. I’m not like Claire and Payton and the rest – I’d rather be doing. Being on a building site keeps me entertained.” It was true. I managed school but it had never set me alight like my siblings. I was fidgety and bored easily, spending too much time staring round the room and noticing peeling paintwork and leaking windows. My pen would constantly tap and I was always the first to offer to do jobs, handing out papers or taking a message, anything to get me out of my seat. “How are your handyman skills?”
His laugh was dirty this time and I couldn’t look away. My pulse found the beat of of the bass from the music outside and matched it. “Can you fix a roof?”
“I’ve helped my dad. I’d probably surprise you.” He stood up abruptly. “I should probably head downstairs. You must be tired after today.”
The top button of his shirt was undone and his tie was on the table. His hair was less groomed than it was earlier and his stubble darker and thicker than before. I wondered if he could feel my eyes fixed on him, assessing, and I debated pulling my look away.
I decided not to.
“Sure,” I said, standing too. “I’m going to take a shower and try to get the gazillion pins from my hair.”
He paused. “You want me to help?”
“Are you sober enough not to stab me in the head with a pin?”
That smile. “Just - sit down.” He gestured to the bed.
I sat on the end of the bed at an angle and he sat behind me, our hips touching, his hands starting to hunt through my hair for the pins that were holding every curl in place. I’d been blessed and cursed at the same time with long, curly blonde locks that I let hang to my waist. It was thick and probably my best asset, but it was high maintenance and there were days I yearned for Claire’s short brown bob instead of the hour or so I spent drying mine in winter.
“When’s the last time you had your hair cut?”
“Cut or trimmed?”
“Cut.” His fingers busied through the mass of curls that had been pinned up, each release a relief to my aching scalp. It was an intimate act; his hands were tender and careful as he tried not to pull strands of hair with the pins and grips.
