Wanting Mr Wrong

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, pretending to be exasperated when what I really wanted was to disappear into a corner and indulge in a hearty bout of strung-out tears. ‘Now, am I allowed to say to hell with Jack without the two of you attacking me?’

  ‘All right, subject officially done to death,’ Drew said, swapping his empty champagne flute for a full one as a waiter breezed past.

  ‘And just in time,’ Chloe breathed. ‘Because I can see someone coming this way. Someone I just met through Rowan. And I can’t believe I didn’t realise this immediately, but he is perfect for breaking Evie’s man drought. Drew – look!’

  Drew obligingly looked where Chloe was gesturing.

  He whipped his head back around with a sharp intake of breath and grabbed my arm.

  So I turned to look and saw the guy making his way towards us. ‘Oh my God,’ I said reverently.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ Chloe said. ‘And to think I was just about to suggest you go a round with Jack!’

  ‘Jack?’ I squeaked.

  ‘He was trying to ask you out!’ Chloe said.

  ‘No. He wasn’t.’

  ‘It’s a moot point now,’ Chloe said, and beckoned the Adonis forward. ‘Lachlan Davison,’ she said, beaming, as he reached them. ‘Let me introduce my friends, Andrew Stevens and Evie Parker.’

  ‘Delighted,’ Drew said, transfixed. ‘Lachlan, has anyone ever told you that you look like Guy McKinsey? You could almost be twins.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  I’d catalogued the differences between Guy McKinsey and Lachlan Davison before I was halfway through my coffee date with Lachlan the following week. The voice – no comparison, I’m sorry to say. And Lachlan was shorter, had a slighter build. His mouth wasn’t as perfect, eyes not as startlingly light, and he had a slightly different face shape. Still, there was enough of a resemblance to constitute very tasty eye candy.

  And – drum roll – Lachlan was a doctor with a seriously worthwhile job at World Venture Pharmaceutical, which was undertaking vital research into tuberculosis.

  Massive tick of a hugely important box.

  Lachlan would fit right in with the Parker family of doctors extraordinaire. Much better than I did, in my current guise negotiating my profile-hungry company’s logos onto the jerseys of sports teams and entertaining its corporate customers at cultural events.

  There was just one teensy issue raising its slap-worthy head: that despite having the living, breathing embodiment of everything I could possibly want in a man – looks, brains, and altruistic vocation – sitting right in front of me, I kept drifting off into daydreams, imagining Lachlan in various Guy McKinsey roles. I should have been getting misty-eyed at Lachlan’s passionate zeal over lowering tuberculosis infection rates; instead, he was roaming the Yorkshire moors in my head (because yes, I’d found a Guy McKinsey version of Wuthering Heights).

  ‘So, Evie, what do you think? Will you do it?’

  I snapped my attention back to the moment and realised I had no idea what I’d just been asked to do. ‘Oh, I think it’s very … um … doable,’ I said gamely, anyway.

  Lachlan beamed at me. ‘It would be such a feather in my cap to get Jackson J Stevens on board. And we could film it, make a documentary, sell it to a TV network.’

  What the …? ‘Er – of course, I don’t know what Jack will say. I mean, there’s the play, and there was some talk of a movie coming up.’

  ‘I appreciate you asking on my behalf anyway.’

  Oh. My. God. Asking what? Clearly an ambassadorial role. A visit to somewhere, to film something that could be turned into a documentary.

  I actually felt like vomiting. That’s how appalled I was. Drew would have a laughter-induced stroke when he heard.

  The irony! Me, asking Jackson J Stevens to use his celebrity as a favour to a man I was throwing myself at because of his movie-star looks.

  ‘… so if we catch up for dinner on Thursday, you might have some news for me?’

  Damn. I’d tuned out again! ‘Thursday, dinner, sure,’ I agreed numbly.

  Lachlan paid the bill and we left the café. As we prepared to head in separate directions, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

  I walked back to my car, absently running my fingertips across my cheek. Hmmm. I would have expected some kind of spark, a little frisson of desire.

  Lachlan looked so much like Guy, and I had a crush on Guy. He had the right job – the perfect job. They made movies about people like Lachlan and people who looked like Lachlan got to star in them.

  All the ingredients were there.

  Just no leap of the pulse – unless you counted the one caused by the hair-raising prospect of asking Jack for that favour.

  Clearly I needed some expert advice – which I was sure Drew and Chloe would be only too happy to provide at our weekly catch-up dinner, scheduled at Chloe’s very conveniently only two nights before my date with Lachlan.

  Drew was characteristically blunt when I relayed the kiss details on Tuesday night.

  ‘On the cheek? Pathetic. Let me guess the coffee – a skinny decaf.’

  Aaaand I just knew how this was going to go down. ‘Large decaf mocha latte, with cinnamon sprinkles.’

  Drew stared at me for a split second. ‘You’re shitting me.’

  I shook my head. ‘He seemed to enjoy it.’

  He hooted out a laugh. ‘Dump him. Now.’

  ‘I’m not dumping him over his taste in coffee, Drew!’ I said. ‘Besides, I’ve already agreed to have dinner with him on Thursday.’

  ‘Meh.’ Drew hunched an unimpressed shoulder. ‘You’re not exactly jumping out of your skin with excitement, though, are you?’ Then he frowned at me. ‘Actually, abysmal taste in coffee aside, why aren’t you? He gets the conscience vote, as a do-gooding doctor.’

  ‘And he looks like the dreamy Guy McKinsey,’ Chloe added.

  ‘I know,’ I said, and sighed. ‘So I should have had a little flutter in my belly when he kissed me, right? Even if it was only on the cheek.’

  ‘Wait for Thursday,’ Chloe said. ‘He’s bound to go the full-on pash then.’

  Drew brandished the wine bottle. ‘But if there isn’t a bit of tongue at that point, dump him. No-tongue equals purely platonic. Trust me on this.’ He took a hefty swallow of wine. ‘And seriously, maybe try focusing a little less on why you should be attracted to him and start thinking about pheromones instead.’

  ‘Pheromones?’

  ‘Yes – you know, scent of a man. Call of the wild. Animal attraction.’

  ‘But Lachlan is everything I want. The animal attraction should just be there.’

  Drew looked at me over the top of his glass. ‘Well you’ve been living like a nun for a year – maybe it will just take some time for that dormant spark of yours to reignite.’

  Infuriatingly, an image of Jack in his underwear popped into my head, and I felt an inconvenient throb between my legs. Uh-oh. ‘I’m not convinced my spark is dormant,’ I said weakly.

  Chloe did her gimlet eye thing. ‘Are you holding out on us, Evie? We want names. Details.’

  ‘Nah,’ Drew scoffed. ‘It’s a year and counting. Much longer and we’ll have to download some porn to give her a refresher on what goes where.’

  I threw a cushion at him. ‘Enough booze for you. Not only are you sounding like a complete dick – no pun intended – but you’re driving me home as well as yourself, and I’m kind of opposed to death by drunk driving.’

  ‘Rest easy. Jack is dropping in after the play and has volunteered for chauffeur duty. And he is so abstemious as to cause general mistrust in Sydney society as to the two of us actually being related.’

  Jack. Another throb. Oh my God! ‘He’s never come to one of these dinners before,’ I said, aiming for super casual.

  ‘So?’ Chloe asked, and I wondered if I hadn’t sounded quite as casual as I’d intended, because I got the gimlet eye again.

  Drew reached over and ruffled my hair. ‘He’s
popping in specifically to give you something, Evie. A moooovie.’

  Chloe held out her wine glass and Drew refilled it. ‘You know,’ she mused, ‘perhaps Jack could help you exorcise your crush. He can role-play some Guy McKinsey scenes with you – get them out of your system.’

  ‘I – I – No.’

  ‘Hey, that’s a great idea,’ Drew said. ‘I’ll do you a favour and ask him for you.’

  That word. Favour. I put my glass down with a thunk.

  ‘What’s up?’ Drew asked.

  ‘Favour,’ I said faintly. ‘I do have to ask Jack a favour. A big one.’

  Drew looked interested. ‘Worthy of suicide, apparently.’

  I rubbed at my forehead, because my head had started to hurt just thinking of it. ‘It’s for Lachlan. He wants Jack to be an ambassador or something. For tuberculosis, I think.’

  They stared at me.

  Drew found his voice first. ‘Crikey – that’s something to ask on a first date, is it?’

  I blew out a breath. ‘I don’t feel good about it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just say no?’ Chloe asked.

  ‘I’m not even sure exactly what he’s asking for. I just pieced it together. I was daydreaming when he was telling me. About Guy McKinsey.’

  Chloe choked on her wine.

  I sighed. ‘This crush is seriously screwing up my life.’

  Chloe gave me a sympathetic look. ‘Come on, Evie, just think of it as a bit of fun. We all have the occasional crush.’

  ‘There speaks experience,’ Drew threw in.

  Chloe laughed. ‘Yes, indeed. I used to have a crush on Neil Patrick Harris.’

  Drew goggled at her. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘He’s very charismatic. Especially when he’s hosting the Tony Awards.’

  ‘Let’s just get this straight,’ Drew said. ‘Oops, wrong word choice – No, Chloe, don’t throw that magazine. Oof – I said don’t throw it.’

  ‘Channing Tatum, anyone?’ Chloe asked, and then smirked. ‘Yes. Enough said.’

  By the time Jack arrived, the three of us had consumed enough wine to cause a global shortage, and the phrase rat-arsed would have come to any spectator’s mind.

  Chloe flung open the door so hard it ricocheted off the wall, but all she did was giggle and give Jack her usual smacking kiss on the cheek.

  Jack took in the scene in an instant, looking as cool and amused as always.

  We’d shoved the couch out of the way and were kneeling wonkily around a large ottoman playing sex-word Scrabble (don’t ask). We were all wearing jeans and sweatshirts of different levels of attractiveness (mine, as a Drew cast-off, big as a sack) and socks (why did I have to be wearing fluoro-yellow?) but no shoes.

  Jack was also in jeans and a sweatshirt but looked as GQ-worthy as ever. ‘Trust you three to discard a perfectly comfortable couch,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not that comfortable, it just looks good,’ I said, scrambling to my feet. Yes, I was arguing over whether or not a couch that wasn’t even mine was comfortable. Why, why, why?

  Drew walked unsteadily over to say goodbye to Chloe. ‘We’re out of here. See you on Sunday – Jack’s party. And don’t forget to bring your hunky footballer.’

  A general scrambling into boots and coats, a confusion of phone collecting, hugs, kisses and goodbyes, and then Drew threw his arm around my shoulders and guided me out of the apartment.

  ‘Right, geography,’ Jack said when we reached the kerb. ‘Drew, you first, Evangeline last. You two work out who’s in front and who’s in the back.’

  ‘In this car, I’m taking the front,’ Drew said.

  I looked unenthusiastically at the silver Audi TT. ‘If I were a few inches taller, I’d fight you for that seat, Drew,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not,’ Drew said, and shifted the front seat forward so I could oof my way into the back.

  I clicked my seatbelt, and frowned at Jack as he slid easily into the driver’s seat. ‘You should get a four-door car,’ I advised him, with the careful delineation of each word characteristic of someone who’s had too much to drink.

  ‘When you’re ready to get into my car more than once every three months, Evangeline, I’ll think about it,’ Jack said calmly.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jack pulled up outside Drew’s house – a stunning warehouse conversion that made me intensely envious. Drew got out of the car and, with a drunken salute, sauntered the short distance to his door.

  Jack looked at me via the rear-view mirror. ‘Evangeline, are you going to come sit up here with me or stay where you are and pretend I’m a limo driver?’

  ‘Oh I – I’m fine here.’

  ‘Scared, Evangeline?’

  I remembered that last look he’d speared me with at the theatre, like he wanted to murder me, and realised I was kind of scared … although not of being murdered. I wasn’t sure what I was frightened of, but there was … something. Not that Jack needed to know that.

  ‘Scared of what?’ I asked, all bravado.

  ‘You tell me.’

  For answer, I bent forward and tried to work the mechanism to push the front seat forward – because I was not going to start playing stupid question-and-answer games. But I had to admit defeat: I couldn’t make the seat move. Jack got out of the car, came around to the passenger door and managed the job in three seconds.

  I had an oops moment, hitting my head as I stumbled out. Glaring at him, I muttered something about four doors again.

  Jack took one look at my face and laughed. It was infuriating, the way he always found my grumpy frowns so amusing.

  ‘So,’ Jack said, settling back into the driver’s seat and starting the car. ‘Lachlan.’

  What the hell was that? A comment? A question? An observation? How did a person answer such a thing?

  I decided on a flat, true statement as he pulled away from the kerb. ‘We’re going out for dinner on Thursday.’ And then I remembered the favour and shot a look at Jack.

  Jack was mid-gear change, and he upped the speed. He looked … well, not at all like the kind of guy who would agree to be an ambassador for tuberculosis research, just then. But when would I get another chance to ask? I needed an answer before Thursday.

  I started intelligently. ‘Um, Jack.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I have to ask you something.’ Illuminating!

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘It’s not for me.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s for Lachlan.’ There. Got something meaningful out.

  Slight pause. ‘Yes?’

  ‘He wants you to do something.’

  Pause. Excruciating pause.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what it is?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I don’t know what it is, not exactly. I wasn’t really listening when he told me.’

  Jack gave me a quizzical sideways look.

  ‘I was having a Spy Time moment at the time. In my head, I mean.’

  ‘A Spy Time moment.’ His mouth looked kind of twisted – like he was trying not to laugh. ‘With Lachlan playing hero to your damsel in distress?’

  ‘Well … yes,’ I said, and covered my face with my hands as he laughed. ‘Arrrggh. This crush is soooo bad.’

  ‘Enjoy it while it lasts, Evangeline,’ Jack said.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said in a rush – deciding to take advantage of Jack’s sudden good humour, ‘he wants you to do one of those save-the-world things, like … you know … those celebrity ambassador gigs. Only it’s a documentary. I think. About … tuberculosis? Which is a really important health crisis, you know.’ And then I held my breath. I’d been so horrible to him at the theatre. Why would he want to help me?

  ‘Tell him I’ll think about it,’ Jack said, turning a corner smoothly.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  I stared at him. ‘But will you?’

  ‘I’m not completely beyond redemption,’ Jack said wryly. ‘I can do
an occasional good deed.’

  ‘Oh.’ Not exactly the most effusive response I could have made, but the wind had been taken out of my sails. Because that had been so easy. No crawling over hot coals. No grovelling. No being made to feel like a hypocrite. No additions like ‘despite you being a complete bitch on opening night’.

  Jack pulled up close to my house while I was still marvelling. ‘We’re here,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, unbuckling.

  ‘Wait – I’ll walk you to your door.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘I want to make sure you get inside in one piece. In your current state, that’s not a given.’

  ‘What do you mean, my current state?’

  ‘Current drunken state.’

  ‘I’m not any drunker than Drew and he didn’t get an escort,’ I pointed out. ‘And it’s only five steps from the street to the door!’

  ‘And we’re parked four car lengths away, so shut up. Put it down to a misplaced sense of chivalry, if you like, but I am walking you to your door.’

  ‘As long as you agree I’m not drunk.’ I giggled. ‘Well, at least no more than a little.’

  ‘All right, a little.’

  ‘On that basis, you may escort me the whole five steps.’

  ‘Five steps and four car lengths,’ Jack corrected as he got out of the car.

  He came around to the passenger side and opened my door. I looked up at him, but for some reason my limbs didn’t seem to want to move.

  ‘So, what – am I carrying you?’ Jack asked. ‘Because I’m up for it if you are.’

  ‘No, you are not carrying me,’ I said, with a touch of how-dare-you, and started to get out of the car.

  ‘Watch your head.’

  ‘Watch yours.’

  ‘Yeeeeaah. Just a little drunk,’ he said, his insurable teeth flashing in a grin.

  I dug in my handbag for my keys as I wove unsteadily to my door.

  There was a brief struggle as I tried to open the door with the wrong key.

  ‘Swap,’ Jack said, handing me a DVD and taking my keys out of my hand.

  ‘Oh yeah, Drew said you had a DVD for me,’ I said, and peered at the cover. ‘Walking the Abyss – let me guess, no happy ending with this one. I mean, you know, abyss.’