by Smart, Kit
From his tone that did not appear to be a good thing. "Were you planning to meet up with her—?" I asked trying to figure out the expression he was giving me.
"No." He said with a shortness that left me with no doubts that their break up had been less than amicable.
"Uh—" I searched from something to say as he continued to look at me. "Would you like me to kick her ass?" As if you’ve ever kicked anyone’s ass Pippa.
To my surprise that earned me a shout of laughter. "Yeah. Kind of." He admitted with a rueful smile. "However since I don't want to see you up on assault charges I would settle for an escort into the house. I, uh—" He exhaled sharply. "I'd rather not talk to her tonight."
I was startled by the admission but had to laugh. "So you want me to play the hypothetical girlfriend?"
He snorted. "Consider it retaliation for the underwear."
"Done." I stared in some fascination at this teasing, lit-up version of the high horse bastard.
* * * * *
All the lightness in his expression was long gone by the time we had gotten out of the car. I opened the trunk and snagged bag of presents while grabbed his bag. He was in the process of slinging it across his body when long-legs wandered over. "It's been a long time Hadrian."
"Two years." He confirmed grabbing the crutch he had set against the car in order to pull the strap to his bag over his head. Fitting the crutch to his arm he looked directly at her. "What are you doing here Jessica?"
Uncertain what I should be doing I closed the trunk with a thud and moved into my approximation of 'supportive girlfriend position' which basically involved hovering just behind his right elbow. Turning to look at me she offered her hand. "Hi I'm Jessica. You must be—"
"None of your business." Hadrian cut her off. "What are you doing here Jessica?" He repeated.
She dropped her hand. "I wanted to say Happy Birthday and apologize for—"
"It was a long time ago Jessica." He cut her off again. "It's over." He turned to look at me. "Let's go inside Pippa." With that he started forward forcing her to move or be trampled.
"I just want to apologize—" She said as she backed away from us. "For what I said—" A note of pleading entered her voice. “I-I didn't mean it Hadrian."
"It doesn't matter." He bit out. He continued forward without looking at her.
"I'd like a second chance." She called after him and that stopped him in his tracks.
More than a little uncomfortable I stopped with him. "Would you like me to go?" I asked him quietly.
"No." He glanced at me briefly, pivoted to face her once more. “As you can see, I’m with someone."
She didn't so much as glance in my direction. "We were good together once Hadrian." She pleaded. "We were so good together."
I watched as a muscle began to twitch along his jaw. "We were." He conceded and it was apparently enough to send Jessica forward. Shifting his weight he held up a hand to stop her and she froze mid-step. "But it wasn't enough was it?" There was a hint of brutality in that that made we wonder about the circumstances of their break-up. Not that it's any of my business.
Crestfallen, she held a hand out toward him. "I've changed."
"I haven't." He told her.
* * * * *
As we continued our way along his path to his front door, only the rigid way he gripped his crutches betrayed that he was in any way affected by what had just happened. Once we had entered the foyer and he had shut the door that minuscule display of tension dissipated as he leaned his back against the locked door and regarded me from beneath lowered eye-lids.
"Does this happen a lot?" I asked half-jokingly for want of anything non-loaded to say.
He smiled—an unhappy smile—but a smile nonetheless. "Fortunately not." Still braced against the door he leaned forward to divest himself of his bag which he set next to the door. "Thank you Sinclair."
"What happened to Pippa?" I asked feigning confusion in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
"I'm not certain it suits you." He looked up at me then, raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Can I offer you a cup of tea?"
Suddenly I was dying for a cup. "That sounds heavenly." I told him with perhaps a little too much fervor because he suddenly looked skeptical.
"Come along to the kitchen then." He called over his shoulder as he moved past me down the hall.
With a shrug I kicked off my shoes and followed him.
The kitchen was a bit of a surprise. Instead of the kind of cold barren steel and black modern wasteland so often favored by bachelors, the kitchen was was a surprisingly bright affair composed of stainless steel appliances and white walls and cabinets warmed by the presence of a large wooden island in the center of the room. Though no rugs accessorized the space, the deep honey color of the wooden floors served to warm the space while the presence of a small multitude of plants humanized it. As I watched, Hadrian touched several buttons on a tablet that occupied the island and with a hum automatic blinds descended from the ceiling to cover the wall of windows on the far side of the room.
Nodding at one of the stools in front of the island my host set the tablet down and slid his suit jacket off. "Have a seat." He told me as he laid his jacket over the far end of the island beside his canes.
I did as I was told and watched from my perch as he turned and put the kettle on the stove behind the island. "Please try to resist the temptation to check out my ass Sinclair." He told he as he reached to open the cupboard to the left of the stove.
"I wasn't going to." I told him with a mock sigh. Best keep things light given what just happened.
“Wasn't?" Turning around he waggled his eyebrows suggestively as presented me with a wooden box. "Pick your poison."
Taking the box I shrugged. "Yeah I wasn't." Opening the box I saw that it was filled with tea. "Not until you drew attention to it." I contemplated the choices before me.
"Drew attention to it?" Looking up I saw that he was grinning at me.
"Making comments and," I waved a hand in his direction. I wasn't quite sure what was going on here but I liked this grinning and bantering ‘home’ version of him over the dour arrogant ‘office’ one and so I was more than willing to play along. "parading it in front of me." Selecting a sachet of peppermint, I turned the box in his direction. To my surprise he eyed what I had chosen and pulled out a second sachet of peppermint. "A parade eh?" He shut the box and put it aside. "Does that mean I get a score?" Raising his hands to his throat he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.
It was my turn to aim a raised eyebrow in his direction. "You want me to rate your ass?"
"Yes." He went to work on his sleeves next unbuttoning the cuffs and rolling them up. "Isn't that what happens in parades?" Sleeves finished with he began to pull his shirt out from his waistband.
"No. Not generally." What kind of parades have you been to? "Is this the preliminary to some sort of strip show?" I teased as I indicated his shirt with an index finger. I had intended it only as a joke but a heat flashed in his eyes that made me wonder if I had gone too far. As quickly as it had appeared, it dissipated however, leaving me to wonder if I had imagined it. "You have a superior ass Hastings as you well know." I joked in an attempt to maintain the levity of the moment. "Else you would not be displaying it with such enthusiasm. Now," I nodded in the direction of the kettle which had begun to whistle. "Make me my tea."
* * * * *
I had just taken a grateful sip of my first cup of steaming hot peppermint tea when he attacked. "Why are you here Pippa?"
My eyes which had automatically fallen shut as the warmth and comfort of the tea began to course through me snapped open in shock at the question. "You asked me." I told him confused.
He regarded me seriously across his own cup which he held in front of him in both hands. "You didn't have to come."
"You asked me." I repeated wondering if he was perhaps having some sort of stroke. "Your ex—" I reminded him hoping it would prompt his app
arently failing memory.
"You are under no obligation to do everything you're asked to do." He took a sip of tea.
"It seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I was in there and you asked..." I trailed off uncertain at what he was getting at.
He narrowed his eyes at me. "And you're always there aren't you? Whenever someone needs something done? There's Pippa Sinclair." He glanced down at his tea then back up at me. "You loathe me me and yet you not only agreed to attend my birthday party, you organized it."
"The original organizer couldn't—" I defended. "So I—and loathe is a strong word."
He cocked his head at me. "Admit it. You loathe me. You nicknamed me the High Horse Bastard. And yet—" He lifted his cup and gestured at the kitchen. "Here you are."
Firmly on the back foot at this point I struggled to form some sort of coherent reply and came up with nothing.
"Do you get some sort of satisfaction out of playing Girl Friday?" He asked flatly and that flatness made it even more difficult to formulate some sort of response because it made it impossible to determine the intent behind his questions.
Without conscious thought I found myself setting down my cup and sliding off my stool. Once I had achieved my feet, I re-buttoned my jacket with calm precise hands. "Thank you for the tea." I focused my gaze briefly on his as was polite and then turned and left the kitchen. I heard the sounds of him grabbing his crutches and getting to his feet as I stopped beside the front door and toed on my shoes but I didn't spare him a backward glance as I unlocked the front door and left the house.
4
“Maybe he likes you?”
I peered over my menu at my friends. “How is that useful?” I waved one arms in the air. “I mean, if he doesn’t like me it is in the manner of a second grade boy chases girls around and pelts them with rocks.”
“Is he cute?” My friend persisted.
I sighed. “Do we really have to get into this?”
“Yes.” Veronica waggled her eyebrows at me. “This is what we do.” She tilted her head to indicate tea shop. “We get together. Drink tea and dish.”
“Yeah, so dish already.” Mickey chimed in. “This is what we live for.”
“Don’t you guys have lives of your own?”
“He must be handsome.” Veronica indicated her choice of beverage to the waiter. “If you weren’t, you would be making such a fuss of trying to shut us up.”
I shrugged. “He’s not terrible.” I admitted.
“That’s code for fucking handsome.” Veronica told Mickey with authority.
“Or perhaps super sexy.” Mickey answered as she handed her menu to the waiter.
“I wouldn’t say that.” I rolled my eyes.
“You’re biased because you’ve had encounters with him.” Veronica nodded. “Negative encounters.”
“Yep.” Mickey chimed in. “It is a well known fact that negative encounters affect a woman’s ability to objectively judge a man’s appearance. The worse your perceptions of them, the uglier they get.” She tapped the table in front of her with one manicured finger. “Therefore, we need details. Objective details.”
“Details?” I wasn’t sure what they meant. Haven’t I already told them all they need to know about him?
“A detailed description.” Veronica clarified. “So we can determine his level of sexy.”
I rolled my eyes. “I am finding this vaguely disloyal.”
“Tough. We need details.” Veronica leaned forward and pointed a finger at me. “So spill. Height, eye-color and hair color for starters.”
I considered. “Well he has brown hair and brown eyes.”
“What shade of brown?” Mickey demanded.
“Shade?” I considered refusing to answer but Mickey’s raised eyebrow warned me that any sort of prevaricating would not be tolerated. I pictured the High Horse Bastard in my mind’s eye. “Uh… dark brown hair and lighter brown eyes.”
“Dark like chocolate?” This from Veronica.
“Seriously?” How has my life come to this?
“Yes. Seriously.”
I thought about it. “If you’re forcing me to doing chocolate analogies, his hair is darker; like bittersweet chocolate while his eyes are lighter; like milk chocolate.” I held up a hand to stay my overly interested friends. “And to answer your other questions, I have no idea how tall he is only that he is a fair bit taller than me.
“Everyone’s taller than you.” This from Mickey.
“Ha ha.”
“Enough side chat.” Veronica interrupted. “Continue.” She waved an imperious hand in my direction.
I sighed. “Isn’t that enough?”
“No.” They chorussed in unison.
I regret every time I’ve ever given anyone the gears over their date or anything else related to their personal life.
I lifted my hands in an exasperated gesture as the waiter returned with our pots of tea and cups. “I don’t know what you guys want.” I leaned forward ever so slightly. “He has a good body and what would be a good face if it weren’t perpetually stuck in a fuck you and the horse you rode on expression.” I ignored a startled look from the waiter. “I mean, if you like the whole smoking sardonically in a pub Cillian Murphy in Peaky Blinders type thing than he’s your man.”
Veronica sighed and dropped her chin into her hand. “Cillian Murphy.”
“No!” I leveled a finger at her sternly. “Not Cillian Murphy. Cillian Murphy’s facial expression—” I waved my hand. “Just the dark, grim and cynical expression.” I tapped my finger against the surface of the table for emphasis. “He is neither sexy nor handsome. He is a grumpy, arrogant bastard whose relative attractiveness is irrelevant therefore.” I used my table tapping finger to indicate both Veronica and Mickey. “Neither of you are to apply any words that connoting attractiveness to this man. This man is an arrogant, rude boar who runs women out of his house at random.”
“Just woman.” Veronica murmured and I gave her the evil eye.
“He just verbally attacked me.” I reminded her darkly. “For no particular reason.” I snapped my fingers. “Just changed from one moment to the next.”
“Bore or boar.” Mickey asked in what was a transparent attempt to shift the conversation.
“Boar.” I leaned back in my chair. “As in pig.” I paused momentarily; invited them with raised eyebrows to comment. “Of the obnoxious, destructive, psychotic wild type.”
After eyeing me thoughtfully for a long moment, Mickey reached forward and picked up her substantial teapot in preparation for pouring herself a cup of tea. “Tell us about this pirate tea bag thing?” She asked mostly unrepentant.
* * * * *
Six hours later, I kicked the door to my flat closed behind me and rested against it for a moment as I contemplated the merits of just dropping the shopping bags in my hands right there in the entryway so that I could remove my shoes vs. not bothering to take my shoes off and toting the bags to my bedroom door where I could deposit them on a cleaner floor than that of my entryway. Bloody rain.
In the end, I compromised by toeing off my little slip on half boots and unable to see past the mountain of bags to the floor in order to find my slippers; walking across the rain stained entry way floor in my stocking feet to deposit the bags in the doorway of my bedroom before continuing on to my laundry room where I pulled off my now wet stockings and exchanging them for a pair of slippers drying on the radiator.
On my way back to the bedroom, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and turned on my ‘Happy’ playlist. Then as the upbeat strains of George Ezra’s Paradise surrounded me, I grabbed the bags and crossing to my bed began to pull out the mountain of clothes and boots that Veronica, Mickey and I had accumulated that afternoon on our enthusiastic ‘dress like a pirate’ themed shopping spree. When in doubt, act until you become. I thought as dancing to the music, I pulled out a beautiful pair of black knee high boots and pulling them into my arms as I would a dance partner, gave their beauti
ful leather a kiss before dipping them with what I hoped was the flair of a swashbuckling, sword toting, no fucks to give pirate. “You and I are going to be very happy together.” I told them.
5
“Hadrian Hastings will be your editor.” Reever the asshole boss told me sanctimoniously.
I briefly contemplated kicking him in his smug old man face. My new pirate boots would do some damage I felt certain. A vision of him bleeding from his smashed in nose flitted through my mind and I smiled in satisfaction. Clearly the boots did in fact affect atmosphere, even if only my internal one.
“He will visit you daily to review each days’ pages.” His nasal tone and garrulous affect caused the skin on my face to tighten and pull back in annoyance—the beginnings of a snarl. Sucking in a steadying breath I cocked a hip and raised my eyebrows at him. Are you done?
“Ms. Sinclair,” He sneered clearly annoyed by my silence. “Surely you didn’t think you were just going to be trusted to do this unsupervised?”
Kicking him in the face would be wrong. I told myself as anger burned it’s way up my throat. Clenching my teeth and jaw, I said nothing. How can I be a pirate when violence is frowned upon? When assholes like this get away with their sly insults and cowardly covert abuse?
Unable and unwilling to say anything, I turned and left the asshole’s office letting my boots and anger carry me down the hall to my now cleaned out office where I collected the box of personal affects I had left on my desk along with my bag and coat. Arms full I headed toward the elevator and freedom.
* * * * *
By the time I got to my car, the sound of my boots as I walked—a combination of the authoritative thunk of the heel on the ground and the creak of leather that was, I imagined, reminiscent of the sound of a ship’s rigging shifting in the wind—had restored my spirit to such an extent that I knew only one thing: If I was going to complete this project on time and survive the high horse bastard as my editor I was going to need more props. Household props.
