I thought for a minute he was back to his old ways. The old Rory changed his women as often as his underwear, and his love life was the bane of my existence. Or at least bailing him out of the shit was—because he liked them female, pretty, and hot with few other boundaries. Not that I’m picking fault with casual sex, but rather his choice of partners. If I had to describe his type, I could do so in two words:crazyandbitch. Put them together and what have you got? Me bailing him out continually.
The number of times he literally fucked our business is alarming.
I should’ve known better than to employ a cute PA. I should’ve gone for a hairy-arsed bloke.
And that’s why Fin is a godsend. She’s good for him, so in turn, she’s good for business. She’s also just plain good. Sweet like apple pie or, if you want to go regional, like Scottish tablet. She isn’t Scottish, but as our auld granny would say,y’cannae ha’ everything.
Personally, I disagree, but that’s probably because I’m just plain greedy.
Since Fin came along, Rory’s been smitten. It’s been a pretty fucking harmonious time.
‘Aye, Bea,’ he repeats pointedly. ‘You haven’t met her ‘cause you’ve dropped out of dinner the past couple of times.’
He’s like a dog with a bone.
‘Have I?’Do I give a shit?
‘According to Fin.’ He lifts one shoulder, and I recognise this for what it is. Something he’s doing to please Fin.
‘Hmm.’ I scrub my jaw with my hand. ‘Right.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Just that you’re not usually that observant.’
‘Are you sayin’ I’m thick?’
I bite back theyessitting on the end of my tongue because that’d just be childish. Rory isn’t stupid, but he is intensely uninterested in other people’s lives unless said lives impact his own. But the woman he loves is different. At a guess, I’d say Fin’s probably worried about leaving her friend when she moves in with Rory. Ergo Rory, bless his Armani cotton socks, wants to fix it for Fin.
‘I mean, it’s not like I’m trying to set you up with her pal or anything.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Unintentionally, my words are a little sharp.
He shrugs again but in discomfort this time. ‘It’s just... I get that you’re not interested in women these days.’
Not again.
Bloody pigeonholed! Your brother walks in when you’ve your jeans around your ankles, and some guy has his mouth on your knob, and you’re forever gay in his eyes. Not that I’ll ever correct him. As I said, we don’t have these kinds of conversations.Ever.
Besides, in my experience, sexuality isn’t a check box kind of thing.
Gay?
Straight?
Something in between?
I’m convinced it’s more fluid than that. And I’m sure if more people strayed from theironce-a-week-missionaryboundaries to test out my theory, they’d agree.
But in the meantime, Rory and I have adopted a policy ofdon’t ask/don’t tellbecause, for one, he wouldn’t understand. And two, I’d be giving him ammunition for years.
And then I realise he’s still talking.
‘Fin feels bad that she’s moving out, and she just wants to reassure the lass—Bea, that is—that she’ll still.. . ’ He scrubs a hand down his face then growls, ‘Don’t fucking look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’ Can you actually hear a smirk?
‘All superior, bastard.’
