This I already know. When this dress comes off tonight, there’ll be nothing left between my eyes and her skin.
‘That’s not what I meant.’ I take her hand, pressing it to the crook of my bent elbow as we make our way out of the ballroom. ‘I meant we should kiss.’
‘That’s . . . that’s not happening.’
‘You’ll slip off your knickers, but you won’t kiss me to help our story?’
‘Our story?’ she repeats, her expression amused.
‘It’s as much a part of my E11even experience now as it is yours. From here on out, I’m the guy you’re either dating or you used to date.’
‘I didn’t think about it like that.’ Her gaze dips momentarily. ‘I could only see my problems, and how you could help me solve them. Sorry.’
‘C’mon. I like it better when you’re being mean to me.’ As she begins to pull her hand away, I press my fingers over hers. ‘What I mean to say is, you might’ve just invited me instead of demanding I come along. But now that I’m here, the how you got me here means a lot less than I thought it would.’
‘Really?’ Is that doubt or mistrust she’s looking at me with?
‘Though you should know I had all kinds of payback plans.’
Why does she look almost relieved?
I realise we’re heading in the direction of the bar I’d grabbed a drink at when I’d arrived earlier, the kind you often find in country house hotels; a mahogany top that’s seen lots of use, dark furniture, tweed wing back chairs and deep cushioned leather couches. A bookcase fills an alcove with heavy leather-bound tombs, and a grand looking fireplace dominating one wall, a dour portrait of someone long dead glowering down.
‘That sounds worrying. Do I need to worry?’ Her gaze slides to mine, her grey eyes so solemn.
‘No, not anymore. So, back to that kiss. It’d help our story.’
‘Good try,’ she says, laughter lightening her voice. ‘Besides, not all couples are demonstrative. Some, like us, are very much private.’
‘You’re not very observant, are you?’ We come to a stop, and I turn to face her. ‘All day, I’ve hung onto your every word. Unable to keep my hands to myself.’ The words are little more than a rasp, the line between truth and playacting blurring further as I slide my finger down her bare arm. ‘I’d say that makes us the demonstrative kind. The passionate kind. And you, my little sugar puff, are mad for me. Even if you wouldn’t let me under the table.’
‘Maybe I’m not that good of an actress.’
‘You wouldn’t have been faking it if I’d been between your knees.’
She inhales sharply, shocked by my dark tone and words. As I start to walk again, she’s a step behind me.
‘You know you want to kiss me,’ I add as she catches up with me. ‘And so you should. I’ve been a perfect date.’
‘That’s a little assuming.’
‘I guarantee a kiss would bring it closer to perfect.’
She gives her head a playful little shake.
‘Ah, well, you can’t blame a man for trying. You look gorgeous today. Did I tell you that already?’
‘No.’ She dips her head, the words vibrating with mirth. ‘Thank you. But I’m still not kissing you.’
The drone of conversation and clinking bottles and glasses spills from the bar as we near the double doors, left open in invitation. I slow my steps, bringing us to a stop at the threshold, her arm slipping from mine as I turn to her again.
‘Heather, are your eyelashes real?’
‘Pardon?’ Her head rears back a little, as though the change of conversational direction is a little like verbal whiplash.
‘Your eyelashes. Do you have those, erm . . .’ I wiggle a finger as though I can’t recall. ‘What do they call them? Extensions?’
‘No,’ she replies, affronted. Or maybe still confused.
