Rory.
Almost as though my gaze nudges him, he tips his head, his eyes catching mine. I wish I could remember their exact colour. Back in the salon I’d remembered them as dark.One of the features from the past I can’t exactly recall.Damn his perfect jawline. If there was any justice in this world, he’d now be fat. Or bald. Or better still, both.
Sadly, he isn’t. And I know those thoughts are unfair but as he smirks up at me, my thoughts go from uncharitable to downright dirty. Holy shit. If that isn’t a sexiest thing I’ve seen since... well, since he walked into the salon, clothes stuck to his skin.
And that one look is like a simultaneous blast of cold and heat; cold as I realise I’ve been caught staring, and heat because the sexy smirk he sends my way feels hotter than sin. And I revel in that look this time—I don’t shy away. Not only that, I allow my mind to wander, to reminisce, because why the hell not? I’ve got nothing else that I need to be thinking of right now. I’m carrying guilt for no one this evening. I’ve no one’s memory to uphold.
He’s so big and bronzed. A crest flash of light from a chandelier highlights the copper strands of his chestnut hair. My cheeks heat; I’m definitely having a moment as I log his cocky quirked brow. Dressed less hipster than those around him, he also looks a lot different from Tuesday.Boots, wet jeans flannel shirt glued to his skin.Not that the memory is indelible or anything. Tonight, he’s dressed stylishly enough for a night out in London.Or Milan. Grey slim fitting pants, a matching vest, white button-down, and a matching jacket thrown over his forearm. Stylish, crisp and confident, but despite his refined appearance there’s definitely something a little bit brute about the man.And he wears it so well.
The years have been good to him. He’s still leading man material, but these days he’d be auditioning for a kick-ass role rather than a high school love interest. And he’d definitely be at home playing Nat’s fantasy lumberjack. Or maybe a Viking—no, amaraudingViking.
And suddenly I feel ready to have my barn burned down.
‘Are you listening?’
Nat’s not-so-dulcet tones pull me from my musing, the hum of the restaurant filling my ears as a sharp finger of guilt pokes me in the chest. It’s a small yet painful reminder of my widowed state, but in light of this morning, I push it the hell away.
‘Yeah. Yes,’ I reply, without turning my head. ‘Downstairs deforested, upstairs let the grass grow.’ As I lose sight of Rory on the stairs, I turn my gaze back to the pair.
‘We’ve moved on since then.’ Ivy’s brow is furrowed. On second examination, her face is set like stone.The stink-eye gargoyle kind of stone. ‘If every time you go to open the fridge, a jar of marmalade hits you on the head, at some point you’re going to stop opening the fridge, aren’t you?’
‘Eh?’ Natasha beats me to it, articulating her confusion about as eloquently as my current expression. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ But Ivy doesn’t acknowledge her words, her gaze intent on mine. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, oblivious to our silent standoff, ‘what kind of arse keeps the marmalade in the fridge? That’s a sure fire way of making your toast go cold a’fore it’s anywhere near your mouth.’
‘Finola?’ Ivy mutters caustically, the atrocity expelled from a cat’s bum mouth.
‘Ivy?’ I answer, mimicking her tone.
‘Ah, shit. I’m not havin’ it. If the pair of you are fixin’ to fight, you can do it somewhere else. I haven’t even eaten yet!’
‘We’re not fighting,’ Ivy replies in a superior tone. Her gaze avoids mine as she concentrates on the important task of rearranging the cutlery. ‘I’m just pointing out that the definition of lunacy is repeating the same mistake, while expecting different results.’
I feel the muscles in my face contort. ‘Same mistakes as what? I was looking, not feeling him up. What the hell is your issue?’
‘First you say you’re going to go travelling, and now you’re giving guys the glad eye.’
‘You sound like June,’ I fire back, almost admitting I know him. Only this wouldn’t be a defence, rather cause for a whole lot of other questions. ‘And since when has looking been a crime? I’m allowed to look! It’s not like I’m cheapening his memory,’—I can’t bring myself to say Marcus’ name—‘because at this stage in the widow games his memory is worth about as much as I have in my chequing account.’
‘You weren’t just looking. You were giving him the serious come fuck me look.’
I burst into laughter, the sudden eruption of noise surprising us all. ‘How does that even work? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. How about a demonstration? Come on, you show me that look.’
Ivy struggles against a smile, eventually giving in, and as an encore, she makes herself cross-eyed while poking out her tongue.
‘Oh, man. That milkshake’s bringing no boys to the yard!’
And just like that, our spat is over, though I make a mental note to find out what’s really going on inside that head of hers.
‘You two must be bio-polar or something,’ Nat grumbles, folding her arms. ‘Can we not have a peaceful night?’
An hour later we’ve been suitably fed—the food is a sort of fusion smokehouse. Definitely not the kind of place for vegetarians to hang out, as Ivy points out. We’ve also been appropriately watered by virtue of mason jars filled with iced and muddied cocktails. I’m currently on number three, though Ivy and Nat are already two ahead and are at the point of the evening where things could go very good or very bad. But at least Ivy has loosened up, probably something to do with ingesting copious amounts of fruity liquor and a dinner consisting of mostly grass.
‘What about him?’
‘Nah, too skinny,’ replies Nat, unapologetically examining the bearded guy Ivy pointed out ashottie number two. ‘I’d probably suffocate him. And not in the fun, kinky way.’
‘Is there a good way to asphyxiate?’ I’d meant it as a rhetorical question, though Natasha answers anyway.
‘I’ve been told a time or two they’d like to be suffocated by these.’
