‘Oh, we’re back to him.’ He inclines his head. ‘Okay, fine.’ Moving on. ‘So a few years later, our paths cross again, and this time, he sees me.’
‘How can he not?’ Beckett adds with an appreciative glance that makes me feel all ruffled and feathery. But it doesn’t mean I like him. It’s just a physical reaction.
‘And for once, he’s not in a relationship,’ I add, my words almost running together. ‘But then he mentions who he works for, and I realise he could help me professionally.’
‘So you friend-zonedhimthis time?’
‘There was an... understanding between us. You see, we’ve been working together quite closely.’
‘So many euphemisms,’ he drawls.
‘No, that’s not what happened. We kept things strictly professional while he helped me pull my pitch deck together—’
‘That’s a sort of business plan, correct?’
‘Bigger than that. Sexier than that. And pretty alien to me.’
‘So he helped. And you were grateful...’
‘Not in that way, though I was certainly grateful. Relieved.’So relieved. ‘He got me a meeting to help secure financing.’ Which, if I’m explaining this to him, I guess Beckett isn’t any kind of high-flying financier. Or maybe just not that kind of financier. What do I know? Not a lot, apparently. ‘And it was kind of implied that once it was over, we were free to date or whatever. There was no pressure or coercion. It’s not like I promised him my body or anything. The attraction between us was kind of put to one side for a while.’ I wave my hands as though the details aren’t important, and as though I didn’t spend two hours of my day preparing for the night of my life that never came. You know who else never ca— . . . doesn’t matter.
‘I’m sensing abut,’ Beckett, my not-quite-friend, says.Like a shark senses blood.
‘I should’ve known when I arrived at the restaurant. The place didn’t exactly scream “romance”. It was nice and obviously expensive but kind of sterile,’ I say, back to moving the silverware around again.
‘Perhaps he was trying to impress you. Or perhaps he doesn’t really know you as well as you think.’
‘Or maybe he just has poor taste.’
‘Not in women.’
His words are delivered so softly, causing me to lift my head. Softly spoken words from such tender-looking lips. And then I’m wondering how those lips would move in a kiss. The shapes they’d make. How they’d taste. And now I definitely know I’ve had too much champagne.
Before I have a chance to agree or protest—and I’m still not entirely certain which would be appropriate—dinner is served. Our conversation returns to the inane. Not that Beckett is frivolous in any way, but his conversational skills are a mixture of astute observations and rapier sharp wit.
‘I’m sure you have no end of suitable admirers,’ he teases as the conversation returns to my love life somehow.Yeah, somehow.
‘I struggle.’ At the raise of a sardonic brow, I find myself protesting with a giggle now. ‘It’s true! I can’t remember the last time I had a decent date.’
‘And why do you think that is?’
‘We’re told, as a society, that men like the chase. They like women who are hard to get. At least, that’s what we’re told. But I don’t find that to be true. Not at all.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Like, mean. Or maybe kind of calculating.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘That’s not very complimentary,’ I contest, still amused. At least, until I realise he’s not joking.
‘Quite the opposite. You’re no insipid miss, despite your sugar-coating.’
‘Sugar-coat? I’m not sugar-coated. I’mnice! A nice person.’
‘No, you only think you are. Or you want other people to think you are. Which is something that strikes me as odd. Nice is such a bland word. Nice people have no substance, I find. No spark. They make themselves available to others to be used as doormats. Clearly, you are no doormat. You’re a dynamic and vivid woman attempting to hide behind a persona as deep as a puddle of rainwater. Perhaps that’s where your problems lie.’
‘Wow. You’re kind of an asshole.’
