Chapter Fifteen
BEA
I spend the next hour caught between the desire to pluck up the courage to hit on someone or scurry out of the bar with my tail between my legs. As someone who spent her late teens and most of her twenties dating the same man, I’m a little out of my element when it comes to the dating scene. God,I sound like my mother.Call it what it is; a hunt for someone who’d sleep with me. Well, preferably not sleep, but have sex with me then leave immediately.
A temporary fuck buddy.
One whose looks don’t turn my stomach, preferably.
Oh, and I want to be held, which might be too needy for a one-night stand, but I can hope.
By the end of my next drink, I’m mentally kicking myself for turning down Kit in the café last week. The man is sexy and obviously knows what he’s doing if he can get both sexes to sleep with him. But something is dangerous about him. Not in theit-puts-the-lotion-on-or-I’ll-skin-you-aliveway, but more aI’ll-fuck-you-so-hard-you’ll-forget-your-own-nametype.
And I want to hang onto my sanity.
That’s not to say I haven’t thought about it. A lot. Screwing Kit, that is. In all its glorious technicolour detail. But like that old adage you don’t poop where you eat; you also don’t screw the brother of your friend’s fiancé. And you definitely don’t screw his identical twin. For one, our paths will cross plenty in the future. There’s a christening coming up that I’m sure he’ll be at and an eventual wedding. Sooner, rather than later, if Rory has any say over that.
The strange thing is, though they’re identical, they’re so not alike beyond first glance. Kit has that delicious hint of darkness his brother lacks.
On the bar next to my glass, my clutch purse suddenly begins to buzz. Or rather, my phone tucked inside does. The number is unfamiliar, and I wonder if Fin gave Natasha my number. Maybe the punches really did start, and she thinks I carry a suture kit in my purse.
‘Hello.’ My answer is perfunctory and assertive because I’m not sewing up any crying Scottish girls tonight.
‘What are you wearing?’ It takes less than a split second to realise who this is—who this sexual purr belongs to.
‘Pyjamas,’ I answer a beat later. ‘Fluffy ones with little booties and a hood. What about you, Mr Tremaine?’
‘So formal, Dr Honey. And a liar to boot.’
‘When are you going to start addressing me properly?’ I ask through a smile.
‘When you tell me your name—your real name.’
‘The number of people who know that are few. You’ll never be among them.’
‘So a select few?’
‘If you like.’
‘I do,’ he answers as though we’re having parallel conversations. ‘I like the sound of that very much.’
‘Is this you saying you’d like me to add your name to my dance card?’
‘I’m no’ the cotillion type.’
‘Oh, that I believe. You’re more the horizontal dance type.’
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ he murmurs, the smile evident in his words.
‘What about you?’ I ask, trying for the upper hand. ‘What areyouwearing?’
‘Ladies first.’
‘No, I insist.’
‘Ladies should always come first.’
What’s the appropriate answer to that? Panting? A sultry giggle? As it is, my reaction is to jump as the sound of smashing glass sounds from behind the bar. It’s quickly followed by a round of catcalls, accompanied by cries of, “Go’an ya’ walloper!”as the barman yells, “Get tae fuck,”in response.But I don’t have time to decipher their meaning as I’m suddenly aware of these noises seeming to playback through the phone in my hand. Which means—but he can’t be here, can he? The phone must be picking up the noises.
Instinctively, I turn to face the room.
‘You’re... not... here?’ I inhale sharply at the possibility—the impossibility. ‘Are you?’ My heart begins to beat rapidly, my stomach twisting in anticipatory knots as I scan the tables and spaces, voices and suits.
‘Wouldn’t that be something if I were?’ His voice is low and teasing, making me think of bedrooms and teeth bared against my skin.
‘Itwould be... ’ Then, through the crowded bar, I see him. ‘Fucking amazing.’
