Chapter Eleven
ELLA
Way to go, Ella. Way to make the nice man spill his guts,espèce d’idiot.
I don’t turn as I hear the squeak of his running shoes on the floorboards behind me, and he doesn’t say goodbye before I hear the front door click shut.
That man would rather literally pound the pavement than spend time with me. And who would blame him?
I’m not usually the person people spill their guts to. Not that I can’t be trusted, because I can. It’s just, people don’t ordinarily seek me out as some kind of unofficial confessional. The person they divulge secrets to. Point in fact—those four years I was dating someone who happened toforgetto tell me he was gay.
I sigh and throw back the paltry amount of whisky Mac had put in my glass, assuming I’m some delicate flower who can’t handle her booze.
‘Hells bells and buckets of blood!’ I wheeze, the harsh taste burning my tongue, then my oesophagus. On second thought, the burn isn’t too bad, I decide, sinking back against the sofa. It’s actually quite pleasurable, especially once my tastebuds have processed the sting. Mac might’ve dropped me like a hot potato, but now I sort of feel like one as the liquor permeates my bloodstream, giving my limbs that pleasantly heated and heavy sensation. I rub my lips together, relishing the almost butterscotch aftertaste. And whisky isn’t the only thing I contemplate. Mac is a complicated man, but his feelings aren’t unwarranted. I can’t imagine myself in his situation, probably because I can’t imagine myself as a man in the first place. And I’ve always loved being around kids. But I’m not sure how many men would respond in the way he has, turning his life on its head to make space for a child he knew nothing of.
This, in my book, makes him a good man. An honourable one. And one I shouldn’t get too attached toin any way, shape, or form.
I take our glasses to the kitchen with the intention of rinsing them and leaving them to drain but change my mind. One glass I do clean, but the other, I pour another measure of whisky in. Okay, two measures. Replacing the cork in the bottle with the pretty label, I open the pantry-style cupboard where I’d watched him pull it from. Along with the bottle of Russian vodka stashed in the freezer, this cupboard is teeming with bottles of booze. Bourbons, gins, fancy liqueurs—there’s just about a bottle of everything in here, all in varying states of consumption.I push the whisky into a space at the front, and in doing so, dislodge another bottle near the front, along with a packet of napkins. I catch the former just before it falls, and though my heart is in my mouth, I’m relieved it hadn’t hit my toes or, horror of horrors, smashed to smithereens and spilt everywhere. Bottles secured, I bend to pick up what aren’t actually napkins but a box of condoms.
A decidedly odd thing to keep in your kitchen.The box is open and not exactly full, so this box wasn’t delivered along with his groceries and stowed in a cupboard for later. Nope, I’d say these condoms have been stashed here for ease of use. I glance around the kitchen—the large island, high stools, coffee machine—and wonder what salacious tales they’d tell if they could talk.
Popping the box back as best as I can, I turn and run my fingers over the edge of the granite countertops. I bet one night with Mac would fix my virginity. In fact, I think after one night with him, I’d never be the same. What must it feel like to be the centre of his attentions? Would his power consume, or would it be thrilling to know I held some power over him, knowing he wanted me for my body? Knowing he craved me, too?
Silly.I almost laugh at the absurdity of my thoughts. I don’t crave him. Okay, maybe a little bit. And I know I won’t be alone in this. A man like him probably has a whole harem to flatter him with attention. And he owns a gym, so he’s bound to be used to the insta-babes. You know the type. They exist on goji berry smoothies and lettuce leaves. Girls whose bottoms aren’t so much apple shaped as tiny perfect peaches. The kind of girls who arrive and leave the gym looking like they’re ready for a night out. A man like him wouldn’t settle for someone like me. Someone whose figure isn’t exactlyde rigueur.Someone who hasn’t even had the courage to have sex yet at the grand old age of twenty-three.
But I wonder. How can I not? Can I see myself bent over the stool, my skirt pushed up around my waist, and my panties dangling from one leg? Not really. For starters, I think I’d need to hold something a little more substantial. I’m no delicate flower, but that man doesn’t look the type to hold back.
And who would want him to?
Still thinking of the condoms and sex on countertops, I make a mental note to give the kitchen a quick wipe down with an antibacterial spray tomorrow and decide to turn in. I might read or watch a movie on my iPad while I drink my sneaky whisky. Anything than be in the way when Mac returns home. Yep. A shower, pyjamas, and an early night seem like the best plan. And then my phone rings.
‘You didn’t call.’
‘Because I’ve been working,’ I answer inwell, duhsort of tone.
‘Yeah, well, I thought I’d check in on you. You know, just to make sure he hasn’t murdered you and stuffed your body in the freezer or something.’
‘Let me set your mind at rest, dear daft Jules. I’m neither dead nor small enough to shove in the freezer. Unless it’s an industrial sized,’ I say, eyeing the silver Smeg unit with a freezer big enough to store a couple of bottles of voddy and not much more.
‘What’s he like then?’ she asks, changing the subject.
‘Darling. Adorable... a total babe.’
‘Really?’ she answers a touch too squeal-y for my ears.
‘Yep. And we get along like a house on fire, and he hasn’t even peed on me or anything yet.’
‘Hang on a minute, he hasn’t what?’
‘Peed on me? Come on, I know you work in soulless finance, but I’m sure you’re not that sheltered.’
‘I might’ve been about a bit, babe, but no one’s asked to pee on me yet.’
‘He wouldn’t ask,’ I reply with just the smallest hint of laughter. Any minute now the penny will drop.
‘Because we’re... talking about the kid, right? Not the dad.’
‘Of course, we are. Can you imagine me letting any man pee on me?’
