Just Come Over

by James, Rosalind

  Rhys was standing by the couch, one casual hand in his pocket, talking to Casey. When she walked in, he looked up.

  “Holy . . .” she breathed.

  Black suit. Black shirt. Dark hair falling to chin length, and he hadn’t shaved this time. He looked like . . . he looked . . . she couldn’t even say. Like somebody who’d never been tamed. His eyes were even more gold than usual and fixed on her, and her legs didn’t want to hold her up. That could have been the black suede stilettos. It could also have been too much dragon.

  “Hi,” he said, with no smile at all, like he’d forgotten to do it, or like his barely-there veneer of civilization was gone. “Ready to go?”

  “Yes,” she said. “One second.” She bent down and gave Isaiah a kiss, then offered Casey a lengthier cuddle.

  Casey said, “You smell very fancy, and you look very fancy, too. And you’re wearing high heels, so that means it’s a hot date.”

  “It is,” Rhys said. He was jumping straight in there, then. “Men generally think it’s a hot date when the woman’s looking very beautiful, like Auntie Zora is tonight.”

  “A hot date is with kissing,” Isaiah said. “Like you kissed Uncle Rhys before, Mum, in the bathroom at his house.”

  A moment of frozen silence, and Adele said, on a flustered little laugh, “You look lovely, Zora. What a gorgeous dress,” while her eyes went from Zora to Rhys and back again.

  Zora quailed for a moment, then thought, That’s the point. She was tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. She wanted it to drop. “Did you meet Rhys?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Adele said. “He introduced himself, though I would have recognized him, of course. You do look like your brother, don’t you?” she asked Rhys.

  “Not as good-looking,” he said, and Zora could see the moment when Adele realized, Whoops. That’s an awkward comparison for Zora, and also when she thought but didn’t say, Oh, no. I think you’re even better looking. Tougher. Harder.

  Not what you wanted when you were twenty, maybe. Intimidating. Overwhelming. What you oh-hell-yeah wanted when you were thirty, though. She said, “We’ll be home by midnight.”

  “It’s a very busy day tomorrow,” Isaiah said. “You have to get up really early to do two weddings, plus it was a busy day today. You always say you need to go to sleep early on Fridays.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Except that tonight, I have someplace special to go. Lucky I have you and Casey to get up early with me and help.”

  “Dinnertime doesn’t take five hours,” Isaiah said. “And dinner isn’t until midnight. Dinnertime takes about a half an hour.”

  “Uncle Rhys and I need time to talk, too,” Zora said. “That’s why you go out. It’s not just about eating dinner. It’s a chance to spend time together.”

  “You could spend time here,” Isaiah said. “Then we could have dinner all together.”

  “Except that I want to take your mum out somewhere nice,” Rhys said, “and let her dress up and be pretty. I want to spend some money on her. That’s one way you show a woman you care about her.”

  Well, that was blunt. Maybe the floor could open up now. Rhys took the pale-pink sweater from her hand and helped her on with it. “Time to go,” he told her. Still no smile. He dropped to his haunches, put an arm around Casey, kissed the top of her head, and said, “Good night, monkey. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Did you feed the bunnies?” she asked.

  “Yeh. I did. Didn’t give them treats, though. You can do that tomorrow.” He ruffled Isaiah’s hair, did the one-armed cuddle that was the maximum Isaiah permitted from anybody but his mum, and said, “Kicking practice tomorrow morning, eh.”

  “OK,” Isaiah said, “but I’m concentrating on my robot now, please.”

  Rhys said, “Good point.”

  He stood up, and Zora said, “Well—good night,” and headed out feeling like she had a scarlet letter on her chest.

  At least Adele hadn’t mentioned the necklace.

  Rhys had got a driver again, which was good, because he could have a glass of wine with Zora, and bad, because he couldn’t kiss her, or tell her how smoking hot she looked.

  The dress was black with a print of pink roses that made it look like lace. It was form-fitting enough to show you the party she had going on under there, it had those spaghetti straps and dipped into a vee in front and a deeper one in back, and it hit a few fortunate centimeters above her knees. Her heels were high and whisper-thin, they were black suede, and they were killing him.

  He wondered if she was, just possibly, wearing a black lace thong. Then he wondered how she’d look wearing only that, those heels, and that necklace down her back, and got a rush so hard, it nearly hurt.

  He couldn’t kiss her, but he could pick up her hand, and he did. He set it on his thigh, stroked his thumb over her knuckles and down to her wrist, then did it again, and she turned toward him.

  He was already half-drunk on the smell of her. Three beers didn’t make an impression, but Zora in the dark—she did him in. She tucked one high-heeled foot under her seat and stretched out the other leg so her foot was nearly brushing his, and he didn’t put his hand on her thigh, under her dress.

  He said, “I like your scent.”

  “It’s Black Opium. Black coffee, white orchids, and vanilla.” She leaned a tiny bit closer and mouthed something. It may have been, You bought it, but he was distracted. Mainly, he was looking at her mouth.

  He realized, finally, that he should say something. “Sounds like something you’d do in flowers.” There, that was neutral.

  “Mm. You could. Vanilla’s a kind of orchid, actually. That would be gorgeous, if you could get hold of it. White berries, though, not coffee. Good for a wedding bouquet.”

  “A bit like pearls.” He reached a hand behind her, edged his fingers under the hem of her cropped sweater, and touched the necklace that lay against her spine. When he drew his hand down, he felt her shift under his touch.

  “Yeh,” she said, on a breath. “You said that about pearls. That they could look like your grandmother, or not.”

  His thumb was rubbing up and down her spine, his knuckles brushing against her skin. Not enough that the driver would be able to tell, but enough that Zora would. “In your case,” he said, “not.”

  After that, she didn’t say anything, and he couldn’t think of what to say, either. Why had he picked a place all the way in Herne Bay? Twenty-five minutes was about twenty-four too long. And at the end of it, he’d have to sit in a restaurant with her for at least an hour. Probably two.

  Never mind. It was what he’d told Isaiah: A chance for Zora to dress up and be pretty, to remind herself that she was desirable, and that she was beautiful. A chance, too, to let that bombshell drop. He hadn’t heard any rumblings after their earlier outing, but the restaurant had seated them discreetly, which he’d been grateful for at the time. At Jervois Steak House, though, on Friday night before a Blues game? Bound to be somebody there from the rugby world. Somebody who’d talk, he hoped.

  The journey ended at last, as journeys always did, and he got to hold the door, take Zora’s hand, and watch her slide out of the car. Black suede heel, slim ankle, pretty calf made even more shapely by the height of that heel, and a knee that you could hold while you kissed your way higher. Her dress rode up a little, and she laughed in a flustered way, tugged it down, and let him help balance her once she stood. He smelled that flowers-and-vanilla scent again, looked down at the most gorgeous cloud of bedhead you could ever hope to see, told the driver, “Thanks,” and held the restaurant door. Her shoulder brushed against his chest as she walked past, and she turned, a step inside, and gave him a look over her shoulder.

  Mussed hair, pink lips, secret smile, black heels.

  It was going to be a long night.

  All they’d done was ride in the car. She’d barely even talked to him, he’d barely even touched her, and even so, her new black lace thong was already not up to
its work. She considered telling him so. Delicately. Once she’d had a glass of wine, maybe. She’d lean across the table and whisper it, and watch him try to keep his composure.

  He was a black-lace man all the way. Nothing subtle about Rhys. He was pure fire.

  He still hadn’t said anything, and he still hadn’t smiled, either. He stopped at the host stand, his hand barely touching the small of her back, practically burning through the fabric, and said, “Evening. It’s Fletcher.”

  “Evening,” the young fella said. “We have a table for you upstairs. More private.”

  Zora thought, I should want to be down here. Get it over with. Pity that all she wanted was some more slow, sweet flirtation at a dimly lit corner table, while she wondered what was coming next and exactly how good it might be. And to touch his trouser leg with her toe, maybe. Almost accidentally.

  She hadn’t even kissed him since Sunday night, and it was Friday. They’d made dinner together all week at her place, and then Rhys and Casey had headed home. Better, they’d thought, not to spring too much physical intimacy on the kids. She hadn’t imagined how hard that would be. A brush of hands, a long look, the touch of his hand on her waist as he stepped around her in the tiny kitchen, and that was all.

  If he was feeling anything close to what she was, they wouldn’t even make it out of his foyer, except that they would. He’d have planned for it. There were benefits, she thought hazily, following the server up the stairs and knowing that Rhys was watching her hips sway in high heels and enjoying the view, of being with a prepared man.

  Unfortunately, when she got to the top of the central staircase around which the tables were placed for maximum viewing potential, she didn’t just see exposed brickwork, low lighting, and one unoccupied table set with white linen. She also saw her parents.

  The host led them to a spot along the wall and held the chair facing the windows for Zora, and she thought, for one wild minute, Maybe they won’t see us. Despite the fact that her mother was diagonally across from her, at a table for four. Zora didn’t know who the other couple was. She wasn’t looking.

  Rhys said, “What?”

  “Nothing. Well, something. My parents are here. They live about ten minutes’ walk away. It’s their local.”

  “Oh.” He appeared to consider that while he put his serviette in his lap, then returned his hand to the table, and she looked at the diagonal scar on his forehead, the thickness of his broken nose, the black scruff on his jaw, and the dimple in his chin, and wondered how absolutely masculine it was possible for a man to be. He made the blood leave her head.

  “You’re worrying,” he said, and took her hand across the table. His hand was big, hard, and scarred, too, and she had a discombobulating double thought. First, that just the sight of her hand in his was making her go a little more liquid inside, and second, that when she’d thought tonight could be a showdown, she hadn’t planned for it to be this much of one. “Maybe you could remember that whatever happens, I’m here with you for it.”

  “I hope so, because my dad’s coming over.”

  Rhys turned, and there was nothing in his expression as he rose but calm. He put out a hand. “Dr. Allen.”

  “Oh, please,” her dad said, shaking it, “call me Craig. We’ve known each other too long for anything else. What’s it been, ten years since we met you at Zora and Dylan’s engagement dinner? This is a surprise. Come join us.”

  “No room,” Zora said. “And you’ve already started on your dinner, surely. Always awkward.” She laughed, wishing it sounded less tentative. More adult, you could say. You’re a grown woman with her own house, her own business, and her own child, she reminded herself. You’re a widow, and your parents have nothing to say about anybody you date. Anybody you date. This was the very good thing, she realized, about them not paying for her roof, her mortgage, or anything else. They didn’t get a say.

  “Oh,” her dad said, “I’m sure the waiter will switch you out with the couple next to us. They’ve only just arrived, and your table’s better than theirs.” He raised a hand for the server, then beckoned him over in a way Rhys would never have done in a hundred years. All Blacks were required to be unassuming blokes, even if they actually weren’t. Part of the job. Surgeons, not so much.

  Rhys said, “Pleasure,” but when they eventually got over to the other table, he asked Zora, “Can I help you off with your sweater?” Which is how she ended up surrendering it to him, then turning to sit and feeling the cool touch of the pearls on her back like they were tattooed there.

  “Mum,” she said, calling on every bit of poise she possessed, which had never been all that much, “you remember Rhys Fletcher. My mum, Tania. And this is Nils Larsen and his wife, Candy, Rhys. Dr. Larsen does neurosurgery. Rhys is coaching at the Blues now.” She’d had a moment of blankness when she hadn’t remembered their names. Good thing they’d come to her, or she’d be even more off-balance right now.

  Candy pressed her cheek to Zora’s in an air kiss, then sat back and said, her blue eyes widening, “Oh, my goodness. I just got the oddest feeling, a goose walking over my grave. I had the idea in my head that your husband had passed away. A rugby player was right, surely, but where did I get the rest of it? It must have been somebody else’s husband. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. A goose walking over your grave, now.”

  “No,” Zora said, feeling like her smile was pasted on, “you were right. My husband was Dylan Fletcher, and he did pass away a couple years ago. This is his brother, Rhys.”

  “Oh.” Zora would call that “stunned silence.”

  The server came back, and Rhys asked Zora, not a flicker of his expression suggesting embarrassment, “Would you like a drink? They do pretty good cocktails.” He looked around. “Anybody else? Cognac?”

  “Sounds like you’re familiar,” her dad said.

  “I’ve heard,” Rhys said evenly. “Been here for the steak before, but I’m not much of a drinker, at least not before the game.”

  “A Mai Tai, please,” Zora said, absolutely recklessly. She was wearing a black dress, as well as the highest, thinnest heels she’d ever owned. She wanted the whole fantasy, and never mind that she’d be having it in front of her parents. “I’ll pretend we’re on a tropical holiday. Rhys and I both have our busiest days tomorrow, but we’re indulging tonight. How have you been, Candy? Are you still . . .” She struggled to remember anything about the other woman. “Doing your volunteer work?” she hazarded.

  “With St. John,” Candy said, and Zora passed a mental hand over her forehead in relief. “What a gorgeous necklace. I’ve never seen it worn that way. How unusual. It’s almost . . . savage, isn’t it?”

  All right. The not-your-dead-husband had been one thing. Zora was remembering something about Candy after all. That she was Nils’s second wife, for one, and that she’d been his nurse. “Yes,” she said. “That’s what’s so appealing about it.” Candy was between her and her mother, so she couldn’t actually see her mum go rigid. She could imagine it, though.

  “They look absolutely real,” Candy said. “So much luster. And so does the clasp, although diamonds are easier that way. Where did you get them, can I ask?”

  Zora’s mother said, “I was thinking I didn’t want a sweet, but I’m changing my mind. Passionfruit sorbet. Doesn’t that sound good? Or Earl Grey crème caramel, maybe, though it’s naughty.”

  Zora was thinking, Not as naughty as chocolate torte. What is it with all the unsatisfying desserts? And also, Could Candy possibly have thought of anything more insulting to say? Then Rhys said, “She got them from me. The pearls, that is. I brought them home for her from Tokyo last week.”

  Candy said, “Oh. Beautiful.”

  “M something,” Zora said. “The jeweler.”

  “Mikimoto, possibly?” her mother asked.

  “That was the one,” Rhys said. “Busy place. In the Ginza.” The waiter arrived with drinks, and Zora took a sip, and then another one. The tartness of li
me and the sweet sting of rum, with the orange lingering behind. That was nice. In alcohol, fruit suited her fine.

  Rhys reached across and took the glass from her, tried a sip of his own, and said, “That’s good. I could make you share.” A not-quite smile, and Zora thought, Don’t do that, even as she thought, Oh, yeh, boy. Do that. It was turning out to be such a confusing dinner, and they hadn’t even started yet.

  Her mother may have been down, but she wasn’t out. “The pearls are lovely,” she said, and set her serviette on the table. “I’ll be right back. Come with me, darling. Keep me company.”

  “Better to order first, probably.” That was Rhys. Who else? He said it without emphasis, but with absolute assurance. She wasn’t sure how he did that, but it was so bloody sexy.

  Her mother sat down. “You’re right, of course. What are you going to have, Zora? I did the fish. A grilled lemon sole that was so light, it was barely there. Lovely.”

  Rhys said, “Surely, the point of going to a steakhouse is to eat some good steak.” He looked across the top of his menu and told Zora, “If that’s what you want.”

  “I do,” she said. “I’d like an eye fillet, in fact, or something else boneless and tender and easy. And Yorkshire pudding, and maybe some kind of veg.”

  “Salad?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I don’t want a salad. Call that a declaration.” She could practically hear her mother moan.

  “Oysters to start?” Rhys asked. “I know you love oysters. And whitebait fritters as well, maybe. My own favorite. We can share some more. What kind of wine would you like?”

  Her mother would be pressing her fingertips to her forehead now, doing a desperate calorie count in her head. Whitebait fritter: four hundred fifty calories. Eye fillet: four hundred. Mai Tai: inconceivable.

  “I’d like,” Zora said, “to let you choose. I love not deciding. That’s either the ultimate luxury, or the ultimate danger, don’t you think, Mum? And there are too many choices of steak on there. Japan. Australia. New Zealand. Mind-boggling. Could you order that for me as well, Rhys? I’m sure you know them all.”