‘So you’ve a little Scots in you?’
I nod and make to loop my hair behind my ear, remembering belatedly how short it now is.
‘Would you like a good few inches more?’
I laugh a little, against my better instincts. ‘Like I’ve never heard that line before.’ I have, but it never sounded so tempting.
‘Damn,’ he replies, smothering a chuckle. ‘So, half-Scottish Rose, can I get you a drink?’
‘You could, but I think I’ve changed my mind.’
Holy mother of fuck, why would I say that?
Rory’s eyebrows retract, his expression quickly schooling. ‘Whatever, darlin,’ he says in a cool tone. ‘That’s your call to make.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ I reply, nodding furiously like I’m attempting to convince myself.
God, but I want him—want to discover what he’s drinking by tasting it from his tongue. And I so want to believe this is the universe’s way of balancing my life’s deficits, dealing me this meeting as some kind of payback or gift. A sort of here, you’ve been having a rough time, have tonight on me. But that’s not the way my life works.
I slide my purse from the bar keeping my gaze lowered beneath my lashes, determined not to look up at him. More specifically, not to look at his mouth, because all I can think of is how it would feel this time. Would he kiss me softly? Is he still the kind of kisser that takes his time? Or would he be commanding? Demanding? Grip the back of my neck and take charge?
Curling my heel around the lowest rung of the stool, I move my butt to the edge of the seat.
‘Yes,’ I say quietly, tilting my head upwards just as he takes another drink from his glass. If it’s even possible, I think he’d deliver all of those kinds of kisses and more. ‘I—I think I should go.’ Smooth, Fin. As smooth as a Ken doll, and just as effective in the sexing department. How can I find his bland expression fuckable, too? ‘This was meant to be my birthday night out,’ I babble. ‘And I’m not expecting many gifts this year, but yes, I should definitely go... go home with you.’
To your bed.
Immediately.
Happy birthday to me.
Let’s get it on.
For old time’s sake you know nothing about.
I’m not sure which of us is more shocked at this sentence. It’s not so much succinct as it is straight to the point. And entirely slutty. As his bland expression becomes more smoulder, I begin to feel hot—and I pray for a change in weather, because I could so do with a snow storm right now.
My stomach dips as he lifts my hand from my lap, rubbing his fingers lightly over them. It takes me a moment to realise he’s rubbing his thumb over a particular slice of pale skin, a place that, up until this morning, was covered by my wedding band.
‘I—I used to be married.’ I take my hand back and stare down at where, up until a few hours ago, a row of diamonds sat. Observant. Principled? The marriage police? ‘Mostly, I still feel like I am, though I’m trying hard not to be.’ The only risk I’m taking now is looking like a fool.
‘Divorced?’ His gaze feels piercing as he stares up at me from under thick lashes. The best I answer I can manage is an evasive shrug. ‘Recently?’
‘Why is it important?’
‘Just curious,’ he responds.
Li-ar, li-ar, pants on fi-re. In my chest, my heart begins to beat to the rhythm of the chant in my head. I don’t want to get into this—explanations and judgements. I fear seeing sympathy as much as disgust in his eyes. In the place of those things is a fleeting frown.
‘It’s not really any of your business,’ I respond quietly.
‘That’s true.’
What if he already knows? Maybe I should leave? Maybe someone told him about my mom and he’s hoping to make me feel dirty for being a sure thing? I almost begin to slip from the stool when his hand grips my elbow.
‘And it’s not something that concerns me.’
‘Then why ask?’
