“Who made these rules?”
“Me.” Her stare is direct and unwavering. “It’s for both our protection.”
“Ah, like an emotional condom.”
In spite of herself, she snorts. “I like that.”
“Look, Blondie. I’m not trying to drag you into something you’re not comfortable with. But I didn’t want you passing out on my floor because there’s literally nothing to eat in this apartment, hence me buying breakfast. And I stopped by the concierge desk because I was walking past it and you were sleeping pretty heavy.”
Never in my life have I needed to justify a kind deed. She’s an enigma...a damaged one. I shouldn’t be intrigued, but I definitely am.
“You make it sound like I’m being irrational,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee. When I don’t respond, she huffs. “I’m not being irrational.”
“Whatever you say, Blondie.”
She looks at me for a long minute. I could drown in those strange, almost colourless eyes—they’re beautiful and different and a little unnerving. It’s like being picked apart, layer by layer.
“My name is Drew.”
“Is that your real name?” Call me cynical, but I feel like I can’t take her first answer as the truth.
“Sort of.” Her lips quirk up.
In other words, no. Maybe it’s a nickname or perhaps it’s a short form of her real name, but whatever the reason...she’s not letting me in. “Do you want to know my name?”
“No. I think Mr. Suit is a good fit. It keeps you very sexy and mysterious in my mind.”
I shake my head, but decide to drop it. She’s set her boundaries and that’s her prerogative. It’s not like I didn’t know she had walls up. But despite the clash in our desires to get to know one another—or not, in her case—I’m enjoying her company.
She eats her breakfast, quietly sipping her coffee and watching me as if waiting for my next move. No deep and meaningful conversations, no commitments and no follow-up calls.
Before I’ve figured out how to handle this morning-after situation, there’s noise outside. A knock. Must be the building manager coming to unlock Drew’s door. Before I have the chance to say anything, she stands and grabs her coffee.
“Thanks for breakfast.” She makes her way to the door as I watch, dumbstruck. Sure enough, she leaves my apartment still wearing my bedsheet and the second the door slams shut I burst out laughing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Drew
I HAVE BEEN thinking about Mr. Suit for days. Thinking about the incredible night we spent together, about how sweet and yet blunt he was the next morning. Who would have thought that was an appealing combination? Not me.
In the early days of dating my ex, he’d done similar things—coffee and pastries in bed. He’d even cooked for me one time. On reflection, I see those actions as a means to the “goal” he was trying to achieve. Wowing me enough so I’d keep fucking him, even though he undermined me in so many ways. I think he got off on that—making me fall for him while disrespecting me. I’m ashamed I didn’t see it sooner. It makes me feel...vulnerable. Dumb.
Used.
But there’s an honesty in Mr. Suit’s actions. It wasn’t for an outcome or for manipulation. It was something he did without thinking. And I know there was a level of trust there...because I told him my name is Drew. Not Melanie, my legal, for-official-purposes-only name. Drew. The name I’ve gone by with my closest friends and family. The real me.
“She’s gone off in fairy-land again,” Presley announces as she waves a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Drew. Now, what has gotten you so distracted?”
We’re sitting at the kitchen table in the house we grew up in. It’s cramped and well-loved, as I remember. The round table is tucked into a corner and we’ve got mugs of steaming Earl Grey in front of us. There’s Iced VoVos and Tim Tams, as well. All the things I love about being home.
“I’ve got a lot on my plate, you know. It’s not easy being ‘project managed’ by Sherilee all the time.” I take a Tim Tam and dip it into my tea until the chocolate starts to melt and then I take a glorious bite. “She’s like a pretty drill sergeant.”
Presley laughs. Today she’s dressed down—happy to officially be off from work until after her honeymoon—wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt that says “I like my puns intended.” I’m also dressed for comfort—no makeup and shredded jeans with a black hoodie. I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the glass door that leads out to the backyard. Without our usual “outside world” armour on, we’re mirror images of one another. Same pale blond hair and light silvery blue eyes, same fair skin. We’ve even got dimples in exactly the same spots on our left cheeks.
It’s been so long since we were home together.
“I’ve missed you,” I say suddenly. The words leap out without getting my brain’s permission, and Presley immediately tears up. She gets up and throws her arms around me.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
It’s like being squeezed to death by a Care Bear.
“You don’t have to go back to London, do you?” she asks as Mum comes to the table, a tray of mini meat pies steaming in her hands. “You quit your job. Why not stay here?”
I wait for my mother to chime in, but she doesn’t. She’s never once objected to my life of travel and being away from home—not like I imagine she would if Presley did the same thing. They’re close—always have been ever since Presley got sick when we were little. I was left to fend for myself a lot and that made me a little rebellious. A little difficult in my unmet demands for attention.
I became convinced at one point that my mother only had enough love for one child—and I drew the short straw.
“I’ve done this country,” I say flippantly. “I need something new.”
A new chance to find somewhere to belong. After all these years, I keep chasing it.
“You’ve practically been everywhere already,” Presley objects. “What’s wrong with staying here?”
“I don’t want the white picket fence and the two point three kids and the big backyard,” I lie. “That’s your dream, not mine.”
“You can stay here without settling down, you know. There’s plenty of airline work to keep you travelling, but you could have a home base here.” She frowns and reaches for a biscuit.
“Your sister is a free spirit,” Mum chimes in. “Always has been.”
I’m not, I want to scream. I just want to find the place where I’m supposed to be. For a moment I was sure that was with Vas—living by the water and eating fresh figs and learning his language. But I was wrong.
And here...here I’m shivering in the eternal shade of Presley’s perfection.
“I’m being selfish,” my sister says with a sigh. “I feel like part of me is missing when you’re away all the time. I know I’m not supposed to say that, but it’s true.”
I take a long gulp of tea, hoping it will ease the lump in my throat. It’s hard for people not to compare siblings, and it’s doubly worse for twins. I can’t blame anyone, because I do it, too.
It’s why I left in the first place.
“You know I’ll always visit,” I say.
“It’s not the same.”
My mother reaches for Presley’s arm and gives her a quick squeeze. Do I get any similar comfort from her? Nope.
You don’t need it. You’ve been looking after yourself for years. Why stop now?
“Anyway,” I say. “Enough about that. The Jack and Jill invites are going out tomorrow. I know it’s late, but thanks to the best man, we’ve had some trouble getting on the same page.”
“I’ll talk to Mike about him.”
“Don’t bother. It’s almost done now and it’s not like I’m going to be around much after the wedding to cause problems.” I’d decided not to tell Presley about the old switche
roo I pulled on the party theme because I figure the less she knows, the less chance of her fighting with her fiancé. Plausible deniability and all that. I can take the heat so Presley gets what she wants.
Story of my life.
“You don’t cause problems.” She rolls her eyes.
Maybe not. But sometimes I feel like the best thing for my relationship with my sister is for me to keep my distance—it’s a safeguard against my jealousy of her perfect life. Against my bitterness over how my mother has always preferred her. Against the fact that no matter what I do, she will always be ahead of me.
And I love my sister more than anything, so I’ll do what’s necessary to protect our relationship.
“So tell me about Greece,” Presley says. “Weren’t you with some guy?”
I’ve been dreading this ever since I came home. I’ve kept purposefully quiet about the breakup in the hopes Presley might have forgotten about that one excited email I wrote her right before it all fell apart.
“Yeah.” I stare into the depths of my tea, my reflection shifting in the milky surface. “It was a bit of fun.”
“It sounded like you really liked him.”
I steel myself. I can’t tell Perfect Presley that I got dumped because a guy couldn’t fathom committing to me—not when she got her first proposal at age four. She’d been engaged properly once in her early twenties, and though it didn’t work out, it was her decision to end things. Not his. People don’t have problems seeing Presley as a long-term option.
“He was great.” I paste on my best Fun Time Gal smile. “For a while.”
My mother snorts. “You change boyfriends more often than you change your knickers.”
“And like knickers, frequent changing keeps me feeling fresh.” I wink at Presley and she shakes her head, laughing. “Vas was fun, but it was a fling. Nothing more.”
I never should have assumed it was anything else.
“And what about now? Are you seeing anyone?” she asks.
My mind immediately drifts to Mr. Suit. The somehow uptight yet dirty, hot man of my fantasies. Ever since I walked out of his apartment wearing only a bedsheet, I’ve been on pins and needles waiting to see if he’ll call. Yesterday, I dropped the sheet by his door with nothing but a Post-it note marked with a red lipstick kiss.
Then this morning, I found a bag containing the hoodie and underwear that I’d left at his place, which he’d washed. Along with that, he’d left a note saying he was busy with work for the next few days but asked if I wanted to come over next weekend for a “repeat.”
It was a booty call...which is exactly where I’d drawn the line with him. For some reason, a handwritten note felt a little less sleazy than a text. Or maybe I’m justifying it to myself because I want to see him again. He’s compromising to meet my requirements, which I get the impression he doesn’t do often.
“I’d say that sly smile says you are seeing someone!” Presley leans forward. “Tell me everything.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, but I can barely wipe the grin off my lips. As soon as the Jack and Jill party is done with on Saturday night, I’ll be paying Mr. Suit a visit.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Flynn
I STARE BLANKLY into space with my hands behind my head as I swing on my office chair. Anyone observing me might assume I was in a meditative state of calm. Or perhaps contemplating a complex problem.
On the inside, however, I am a blazing inferno. Furious, indignant, desperate and sad. Two families have pulled out of our gene therapy study, including one group that I flew over from New Zealand, paying for their accommodation out of my personal bank account. They’ve left us short and now we’re scrambling trying to find new test subjects.
None of the research matters unless we can test it on real people with real diseases.
Of course I understand the parents’ fears—they know they might not have a long time with their kids, and they’re worried about “wasting it” in clinics and hotel rooms. Perhaps this is the reason there’s still no cure for Batten disease. Not enough time to test out theories and not enough willing test subjects.
I won’t lie down and admit defeat. Drawing in a long breath, I bring my hands to my thighs and swivel back to my desk. Francis is standing in my doorway, a big crease between her brows.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, holding up a hand. She knows every part of the business here, because she sees all my emails and fields my calls. And she loves Zoe, too. Dotes on her every time she comes to visit.
“Okay.” Francis nods and comes into my office, closing the door behind her. “Maybe I can distract you with some wedding drama then?”
“Again?” I groan. “Is it this fucking Jack and Jill party?”
“I’m afraid so.” Francis settles into one of the plush leather seats on the other side of the desk and smooths her hands over her tweed skirt. “I thought everything was sorted after I made the booking, but I have a friend who works at the venue and she caught a glimpse of the event plan. Apparently it’s now a costume party and the key contact is your favourite maid of honour.”
“She called them behind our backs and changed all the plans?” The balls on this chick.
“It appears so.” Francis purses her lips.
“Change it back.” I feel an ache in the back of my jaw and realise I’ve been grinding my teeth. This is not the best moment for party problems to surface. I’m in one of those “burn it all to the ground” moods. “Change it back to what we talked about and make sure you’re the key contact. Explain that we’re having some issues with a very enthusiastic maid of honour who wants to stick her nose into everything. Should they get any calls from her, the venue can advise that it’s all been handled, but they should not give her any further information.”
Francis looks at me for a second. “And the invitations?”
“Send them out today. We’re doing them by email anyway and my understanding is the bridesmaids sent a ‘schedule of events’ with all the dates several weeks back, anyway. So this is simply a formality.”
“What are you going to do when she sees the invite? She’ll know you’ve reverted to the other theme without informing her.”
I shrug. “Then it’s done, isn’t it? Too late for her to change it back.”
Francis gives me that stern mother look. “Are you stirring up trouble between your cousin and his fiancée?”
“No.” I shake my head. “From what Mike told me, his fiancée’s sister is never around anyway. She flits in and out as she pleases and she’s kind of the black sheep of the family. Mike doesn’t seem to like her too much, so I doubt it’s going to cause any more of a rift than there already is.”
“Okay.” Francis nods and pushes up from her chair. “I’ll make sure we’re locked in for the black, white and gold theme.”
As my office door clicks shut and I’m alone again, I tilt my face toward the ceiling. In all this chaos and stress, the only happy part of my day is when I think about Blondie. Drew. I’m still chuckling days later after she walked out of my apartment wearing my bedsheet. The note she left me, sealed with a red-lipped kiss, is stuck on my monitor. Even now, with all this other crap going on, seeing it makes me smile.
There’s something unique about that woman that drives me totally and insatiably wild. It’s been torture not to go home early and knock on her door. Not to call her in the middle of the night.
You’re not getting attached to a woman who’s that emotionally unavailable.
True. But it doesn’t stop me wanting her like crazy. I’m counting down to this weekend—Sunday. The day after the Jack and Jill party, when I’m going to need to relax and unwind. I’ll let myself see her then.
In the back of my mind, warning bells are ringing. She’s not right for me. I don’t do casual sex.
And if I’m being totally honest, ther
e’s something very un-casual about this. I like the woman, even though I know nothing about her. But she’s like an antidote to the hardest parts of me. To the uptight, unable-to-slow-down, unwilling-to-compromise parts of me.
And right now, I’m craving her more than anything.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Drew
IT’S THE DAY of the Jack and Jill party. Thank the freaking lord! I can’t wait for this to be over so I don’t have to exchange any more angry emails with Flynn Lewis. Ugh. Flynn. What kind of name is that anyway?
I’d thought about looking up his company and doing some snooping, but why give him the internet traffic? Frankly, I don’t want to do a damn thing that might benefit him.
Fun little piece of Richardson family history: Presley and I are super competitive with costumes.
It was our favourite thing as kids—we’d cobble together costumes out of almost anything for birthday parties, special days at school and fake Halloween. I say fake, because we don’t formally celebrate Halloween in Australia, but my sister and I were determined to bring it to our neighbourhood after watching too many re-runs of Hocus Pocus. We’d round up support from the other kids and convince Mum to let us host a spooky party. One time I turned myself into a stegosaurus entirely using hand-painted egg cartons.
So this is a big deal—my sister’s pre-wedding party. Well, one of. We’ve got the Hen’s party and a kitchen tea which includes the mothers and all the aunts and older relatives. But tonight is only for the bridal party and friends of Presley and Mike. The theme is “dress as your hero” so I’m going as Gene Simmons from KISS. Obviously. He’s an icon. Plus, I thought it would be fun to wear a faux-leather catsuit with studded bat wings.
As one does.
I called the venue today to confirm the time, because I never got my email invite. When I checked over the list I’d provided the best man and his assistant, I realised I’d forgotten to put my own name on the list. Rookie mistake. It’s no big deal, however, and I can’t wait to see what Presley has pulled together for her costume.
The Fling--A Scorching Hot Romance Page 8
