Page 3 of Italy and Forever

‘Hmm?’

‘What do people drink for courage these days?’ she mused in the direction of his backside. He was wearing a belt, she was pleased to see. She wasn’t sure she could have mused in the direction of his butt crack.

‘What do you need courage for?’

‘Does that affect your answer? Like, you need to know if it’s vodka-courage or whisky-courage?’

‘Something like that.’

Ginny took a deep breath. ‘Well, there’s this guy⁠—’

‘I assumed.’

She narrowed her eyes at his back. ‘It’s not that. It’s a work thing.’

‘I’ve always thought it’s messy to date a co-worker.’

‘I meant, it’s not romance at all. I’m off all that. Not doing it right now.’ She winced at her choice of words. ‘I need to ask someone a professional favour, that’s all, except the guy in question either hates me or doesn’t know I exist – the jury’s out on that one – and he won’t want to help me.’

‘What makes you think he hates you?’

‘Oh, I’m pretty sure he does,’ she answered with a shudder. ‘He has this way of looking at me like there’s a smear of peanut butter on my face and I have a milk moustache.’ She should probably stop airing her gripes to the bartender, but talking casually to his back while he mopped up the floor was freeing.

‘That does sound like a disgusting combination, but what did you do to deserve this?’

‘Nothing! We were introduced and there it was – the look! Usually people respond quite well to me, you know.’

‘I can believe that.’

She paused, wondering if the dry tone meant the bartender was flirting with her. That would be a pleasant garnish on her night. He had a nice back, hints of muscled shoulders under his worn T-shirt. The lilt of a light accent tickled her ear. But he probably wasn’t the love of her life.

Whoops, she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about the love of her life – or flirting. Dating ban and all that. Did that include flirting? She might have to work on some more rules.

‘Does it matter whether he likes you or not?’ he asked.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she confirmed, staring at the leaded window in the distance and wishing she believed it. Movement in her peripheral vision suggested the barman had finally stood to serve her drinks. Giving a long sigh, she said, ‘I just need him to agree to be the photographer at this wedding – that’s all.’

‘That’s all?’ he spluttered.

Her gaze swung to the barman and her stomach flipped – then sank, then bubbled with a thick fizz. Those blue eyes, the weathered cheeks and a curl of light-brown hair on his forehead with a hint of copper. That look.

Oh no.

2

Rhys was staring at her mouth again. He always stared at her mouth. That was one of the many problems he had with Ginny Weller.

She had a piercing below her bottom lip, a subtle thing, usually with a small silver stud in it. Her ears protruded distinctively and he’d counted the studs in those: seven in total, three in each lobe and one at the top. The piercings made her impossible to miss – that and the fact she was usually talking non-stop about something he knew nothing about.

Like weddings – and wedding photography. He might feel most himself with his Nikon in his hand, but he captured images of the natural world, not the confusing jumble of faces and features that formed a wedding party.

‘What are you doing behind the bar?’ Ginny asked, her voice high.

He avoided her gaze. He could tell more about her feelings from her tone anyway.

‘Why didn’t you let on it was you?’ she continued without waiting for an answer.

‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean to⁠—’