‘So,’ she starts nervously as though she can read minds. Or smiles. ‘Bride or groom?’ Her eyes return to the stage.
‘What? Oh, which side. Bride, I suppose. Not that I know her. I’m in business with her dad. What about you?’
‘The groom, I suppose.’ I follow the path of her gaze to the ginger singer. Despite singing about the glory that is love, he is scowling. In our direction.
‘You’d think he’d have made a bit more effort,’ I say cocking my head in his way. ‘Famous or no’, he looks a bit of a sight.’ I’m being kind because he looks like a fuckin’ hobo.
The corner of her mouth turns up, her deep blue eyes rising to mine. ‘Lots of women like that look,’ she answers. ‘Or so I’m told.’
‘It’ll be for the money.’ I tip the remains of my whisky down my throat, placing the empty glass on a waiter’s passing tray. ‘Money does all kinds of funny things to some people’s perceptions.’
‘And you’d know?’
‘Unfortunately, I would. The same as I know a scrote like him wouldn’t have a chance with most women outside of his fame.’
‘Scrote?’ she says on a tinkling laugh. ‘Another from the Scots dictionary?’
‘The man is about as attractive as a scrotum, you have to admit.’
‘Oh, my God.’ She covers her mouth with her fingers, her eyes sparkling above nude-coloured nails. I get a flash of something tugging in my gut—the image of me pushing my fingers between her raspberry-coloured lips. One hand between her legs as her nails bite into my shoulder, the fingers of my other hand feeding her tongue her own taste.
‘So you think wealth makes a man attractive?’
‘Wealth makes anyone attractive, to some.’ Reason number twenty-two on my list ofWhy I don’t Date.
‘No need to ask which side of the fence you’re seeing this from,’ she says, using her words as an excuse to blatantly check me out. ‘But what about you? Do you think your wealth makes you attractive?’
‘You think you can tell what I’m worth by my clothes?’ I glance down at my bespoke outfit. ‘This might be a rental.’ I tug on the front of my vest, having discarded the jacket to a chair once the ceremony was over; my shirt now rolled at the sleeves and open at the neck.
‘That outfit isn’t off the rack,’ she says, eyeing me again. Turning to face me, her fingertips brush the fabric covering my thigh. I swallow deeply, the tiniest of touches dialling my senses up to a nine.
Flirting. We’re definitely flirting—and she’s just upped the ante by touching my thigh. The sad truth is this is the most exciting sexual thing that’s happened to me in a long while.
Christ, I need to get out more, I think as the words of Will’s earlier texts come floating back to me.
Remember, weddings are excellent for hookups.
I hope you’ve remembered clean underwear.
And that you’ve taken your testicles out of the sock drawer.
And unwrapped them from the cellophane.
They need an airing. In some lovely, willing girl’s mouth.
So some of the texts weren’t exactly sane. But it’s easy for him to make me the butt of his jokes because he hasn’t suffered the turmoil of divorce. Or been forced to raise his child alone. And that’s why I shouldn’t be standing here, swaying closer to this gorgeous creature and effectively leading her on.
Because this is going nowhere beyond a little flirting.
When was the last time you got your dick wet?
Even in his texts, Will has no fucking boundaries.
‘What kind of fabric or material is this?’ she asks softly, examining the kilt at my thigh.
‘I can tell you what it’s not.’ My voice strains from her fingers being so close to my dick. It could be my words or my tone that causes her to raise her head to stare up at me from beneath her endlessly long blue-black lashes.
My heart beatsbah-dum, bah-dumbecause flirting or not, I can’t not be straight or honest. It’s just who I am.
