by Alam, Donna
‘What?’ Do I have a little on my face?
‘I’m still wondering about tonight.’ My heart jolts unexpectedly somewhere in the vicinity of my panties. Tonight-tonight? After this?
‘What about it?’ I enquire evenly.
‘Aren’t you intrigued as to why our paths have crossed again? Wondering what has brought us together again?’
‘So long as you haven’t been following me, not really,’ I admit.
‘If I’d followed you, I wouldn’t be asking what brought you here tonight. Not many people are aware this place exists.’
‘And if they do, they know they’re not welcome, right?’
‘I’ve made you welcome.’
I shrug, half in agreement. The other half I’m not really sure about. ‘I’m only here because I got a little lost and a lot hungry, and well, that’s pretty much the whole story. Truthfully,’ I add, my gaze anywhere but on his, ‘I’ve had a strange kind of day, and I just wasn’t ready to go home.’ Our conversation pauses as the waiter clears away the dishes, which is now little more than a few crumbs and a smear of horseradish cream.
‘Strange how?’ he questions once we’re alone again.
‘Have you ever had a day when you’re given something in one hand but robbed of something else?’
‘I don’t think we’re ever given anything. We work for it. Swindle sometimes. Beg, borrow, and steal, but in my experience, we’re rarely gifted good things.’
I shrug under the intensity of his gaze, not knowing the answer or even the question. What the hell were we talking about again?
This time, he reaches for the champagne bottle, pouring the last few drops into my glass. ‘It sounds like you found a penny but lost a pound today, as the saying goes. Or was it the other way around?’
‘The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it’s the penny that rolled out of my grasp.’ Maybe even less as far as values go.
‘So, on the whole, you’re having a good day.’
‘I suppose so,’ I conceded. ‘Even if I have drunk almost a whole bottle of champagne on my own. And on an empty stomach.’
‘You’re not drunk, are you?’ His brows furrow, his gaze sliding to the space behind me. ‘Dinner won’t be long.’ I realise he’s looking for the waiter and our food to appear, which makes me chuckle.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to end up face down in my soup.’ To begin with, I didn’t order any. I reach for my neglected water glass.
‘What did the pound represent? Was it business-related or personal?’
‘Business. And don’t ask me what. It’s not a done deal yet, and I don’t want to tempt fate.’
‘So you’re superstitious, too?’ He says this in the vein of so you’re ridiculous, too?
‘Let’s just say I’m willing to cover all bases right now.’
‘And the penny?’
‘The experience was worth about that amount.’ And that’s all I’ll say about that.
‘Pity.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘How about you tell me instead.’
I consider it for a moment. I don’t know him, and I’ll probably never see him again. And it’s not like Reggie will be around for a debrief as she’s off to spend time with her boyfriend’s family this weekend. But no, I can’t. It would be too weird.
‘No. Trust me, you don’t want to hear about it.’
‘I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t interested. I sense somehow this was more personal. A friendship? A romance?’ I nod because it was both of those things. ‘A problem shared is a problem halved, so they say.’
I laugh softly because oh, the irony. ‘This isn’t the kind of problem that can be halved. It’s the kind of problem that multiplies.’
‘Multiplies?’ Beckett looks at me, then the glass, and for the first time this evening, I can actually see what he’s thinking.
‘No, sir. Not me. I’m not, what do you call it? Up the duff? There’s no multiplication going on here. It’s the penny problem’s ex-girlfriend.’
‘It sounds soap-opera worthy.’
‘Try Korean soap-opera worthy.’ His expression is languid and a little seductive, and makes my little heart go pitter-pat. ‘And that’s a secret, by the way. You didn’t hear it from me.’
‘My lips are sealed. Whoever he is.’
‘I mean it,’ I add with a giggle. Maybe I should feel bad for telling him. Maybe I’ll feel bad tomorrow. Or maybe I won’t care then, either. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’ I find myself asking next.
‘More than I want my next breath,’ he answers with a humorous glint.
‘This guy I know, we met at UCL, and the attraction between us was pretty much one-way.’
‘Which way?’
‘What? Oh. I was friend-zoned by him and barely a blip on his potential girlfriend radar because this boy is, was, total boyfriend material. I think if I chopped off his head, the words serial monogamist would be ingrained through his body like words in a stick of rock.’
‘Don’t tell me. After today, you can see yourself doing just that.’
‘Chopping off his head?’ The idea is appealing. ‘No. Not even a little bit.’
‘Why don’t I believe you?’
‘You’re saying I look like a murderer?’
‘I’m saying that I think you’re a good actress. And for the record, so far in our short acquaintance, I’ve been on the receiving end of a number of your murderous looks.’
‘Glaring at you isn’t the same. I’m not evil.’ I find myself glowering across the table at him, which just seems to make him smile more.
‘Perhaps not, but you’re not as nice as you would have people believe.’
‘Wow.’ The word comes out as disbelieving chuckle.
‘It’s okay. I’m not very nice, either.’
‘Oh, that I already guessed.’
‘But you were telling me about your penny.’
‘I was. But now I’m also wondering what word would run right through you.’
‘If you chopped off my head, you mean?’
‘Why is the prospect suddenly tempting?’
‘Because I’m getting a glimpse of the real you, and most people don’t?’
‘You know nothing about me.’ My tone is even, uninterested, and completely the opposite to how I really feel.
‘I also know nothing about your university penny, but you were about to tell me.’
‘Oh, we’re back to him.’ He inclines his head. ‘Okay, fine.’ Moving on. ‘So a few years later, our paths cross again, and this time, he sees me.’
‘How can he not?’ Beckett adds with an appreciative glance that makes me feel all ruffled and feathery. But it doesn’t mean I like him. It’s just a physical reaction.
‘And for once, he’s not in a relationship,’ I add, my words almost running together. ‘But then he mentions who he works for, and I realise he could help me professionally.’
‘So you friend-zoned him this time?’
‘There was an . . . understanding between us. You see, we’ve been working together quite closely.’
‘So many euphemisms,’ he drawls.
‘No, that’s not what happened. We kept things strictly professional while he helped me pull my pitch deck together—’
‘That’s a sort of business plan, correct?’
‘Bigger than that. Sexier than that. And pretty alien to me.’
‘So he helped. And you were grateful . . .’
‘Not in that way, though I was certainly grateful. Relieved.’ So relieved. ‘He got me a meeting to help secure financing.’ Which, if I’m explaining this to him, I guess Beckett isn’t any kind of high-flying financier. Or maybe just not that kind of financier. What do I know? Not a lot, apparently. ‘And it was kind of implied that once it was over, we were free to date or whatever. There was no pressure or coercion. It’s not like I promised him my body or anything. The attraction between us was kind of put to one side for
a while.’ I wave my hands as though the details aren’t important, and as though I didn’t spend two hours of my day preparing for the night of my life that never came. You know who else never ca— . . . doesn’t matter.
‘I’m sensing a but,’ Beckett, my not-quite-friend, says. Like a shark senses blood.
‘I should’ve known when I arrived at the restaurant. The place didn’t exactly scream “romance”. It was nice and obviously expensive but kind of sterile,’ I say, back to moving the silverware around again.
‘Perhaps he was trying to impress you. Or perhaps he doesn’t really know you as well as you think.’
‘Or maybe he just has poor taste.’
‘Not in women.’
His words are delivered so softly, causing me to lift my head. Softly spoken words from such tender-looking lips. And then I’m wondering how those lips would move in a kiss. The shapes they’d make. How they’d taste. And now I definitely know I’ve had too much champagne.
Before I have a chance to agree or protest—and I’m still not entirely certain which would be appropriate—dinner is served. Our conversation returns to the inane. Not that Beckett is frivolous in any way, but his conversational skills are a mixture of astute observations and rapier sharp wit.
‘I’m sure you have no end of suitable admirers,’ he teases as the conversation returns to my love life somehow. Yeah, somehow.
‘I struggle.’ At the raise of a sardonic brow, I find myself protesting with a giggle now. ‘It’s true! I can’t remember the last time I had a decent date.’
‘And why do you think that is?’
‘We’re told, as a society, that men like the chase. They like women who are hard to get. At least, that’s what we’re told. But I don’t find that to be true. Not at all.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Like, mean. Or maybe more kind of calculating.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘That’s not very complimentary,’ I contest, still amused. At least, until I realise he’s not joking.
‘Quite the opposite. You’re no insipid miss, despite your sugar-coating.’
‘Sugar-coat? I’m not sugar-coated. I’m nice! A nice person.’
‘No, you only think you are. Or you want other people to think you are. Which is something that strikes me as odd. Nice is such a bland word. Nice people have no substance, I find. No spark. They make themselves available to others to be used as doormats. Clearly, you are no doormat. You’re a dynamic and vivid woman attempting to hide behind a persona as deep as a puddle of rainwater. Perhaps that’s where your problems lie.’
‘Wow. You’re kind of an asshole.’
‘We’re not talking about my shortcomings, though I will say nice girls don’t hold any interest for me.’ His eyes roam over me in a lazy sort of appraisal. ‘They’re so predictable. And such a letdown in bed. You, on the other hand. You’d be the opposite. I can tell.’ My cheeks heat, a dark pulse beginning to beat between my legs. Where the hell did that all come from? ‘Does that shock you? Knowing that I want to fuck you?’
I swallow thickly. ‘What you want doesn’t interest me.’
‘See? Cruel. You’re not nice. Not even one little bit.’
‘You deserve it. You’re, like, an incitement to violence.’
‘So I’ve been told.’ He picks up his glass. ‘Many times. Tell the truth, Olivia. How goes your real dating life.’
‘I think I frighten men off.’ The level of relief I feel at the admission is ridiculous. ‘Other than Luke. He’s the first man who’s shown any interest in . . .’ I blow out a breath. ‘A long while.’
‘The man who still sees you as the girl he met in university?’
‘I suppose.’ My gaze dips to my napkin as I shrug.
‘And why do you suppose he’s allowed to think of you that way? If you’re not that person anymore.’
‘I am that person. With him, at least.’
‘And with others?’
‘I’m nice to my friends.’ It sounds like an excuse or a protest. ‘And to people, in general.’ I always try to be nice. And I’m fiercely protective of the people I love.
‘But not to men.’
‘Men so don’t like the chase.’ I find my expression twisting. ‘Be it in a coffee shop, be it on a train or a plane, or even in a vibrant city bar, my prickly outer shell seems to put every man within fifty meters off.’ And there’s the heart of the problem. I don’t know if men like the chase because I rarely get to that point. ‘It’s not like I mean to be mean. When a handsome man asks me if I’d like a drink, I’m really not the bitch that seems to crawl out of my mouth. You’re doing that weird staring thing again.’
‘Am I?’
‘Like you’re trying to see into my head.’
‘Perhaps it’s because I find it hard to believe you don’t mean to be rude.’
I sigh heavily. ‘Sometimes, I don’t even have to speak to frighten them off. I seem to be able to do it from across a room. A friend only has to point out that a man is staring my way or trying to catch my attention, and the bitch appears. It might be a disdainful look or a narrowed stare that keeps them from approaching me. It’s no wonder I’ve barely dated since college.’
‘It’s because they’re not worthy of you.’
‘Oh, really?’ And yes, I sound amused.
The waiter chooses that moment to appear like a wraith, ready to clear the plates.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I murmur, pushing back my chair with a sudden haste.
Chapter 6
OLIVIA
Why would I tell him all that stuff? I made myself sound like a complete basket case, wrapped in bitch.
The bathrooms in this place? Urgh, so hard to find! But thankfully, my risotto seems to have soaked up the alcohol, so at least I’m not lurching around the place like a sailor on leave as I make my escape. My reflection, however, paints another story. I look like a woman who can’t drink a bottle of champagne without getting completely shitfaced. Mascara has gathered in the outer corner of my eyes, giving me a kind of sultry or slutty look. I can’t quite decide. My lip-gloss has entirely worn off, and my hair is back to its regular programming of frizz. Though, in all fairness, that’s less the fault of the champagne’s effervescent bubbles and more to do with my walk through the humid evening.
But this physical inspection is just a way to stop introspection because I’m not really going to go home with him, am I? Sure, he’s handsome and smart in that razor-sharp way, but razors have edges that often cause pain. I’ve found myself saying things to him that I haven’t thought through or examined properly. Or maybe they’re more like things I try not to think. What must I have sounded like complaining I couldn’t attract a man?
Desperate, I decide. I sounded desperate.
‘Oh, God,’ I say to my flushed reflection. ‘I’ve pretty much confirmed I need to get laid.’
The door bangs open, and an elderly woman dressed more for a rave than retirement bustles in.
‘Don’t mind me, darling,’ she purrs, pushing open one of the stall doors as she rubs her finger under her nose tellingly. ‘The white stuff always makes me talk to myself, too!’
I don’t bother discounting her assumption, and it’s clear that unless I want to get into a conversation with an elderly coke-head, I can’t stay in here any longer. But that doesn’t mean I’m going home with him.
I could leave now, I think as I stand at the threshold of the dining room. I already have my purse, and I don’t owe him anything. Except my share of dinner. But slinking away really isn’t my style. Maybe he’ll want to order dessert or coffee, and during that time, I could call a cab.
Yes! That sounds like a plan.
That looked like an expensive bottle of champagne. I hope I have the balance available on my credit card.
But as I make my way back to the table, Beckett is pulling one of those fancy black credit cards from his wallet.
‘Please let me know
what my half of the bill is.’ I don’t sit but, rather, hover by the side of the table, a little like the waiter. He’s obviously waiting for his tip. Meanwhile, I’m waiting to make my escape.
Beckett scowls at me before signing the tiny slip with a flourish, exchanging what looks like a fifty-pound note for his card with the waiter.
Note to self: if my business goes bust, I could get a job in here. If I could ever find the place again.
‘Well!’ I exclaim all jolly-hockey sticks. ‘Here we are.’
‘Yes,’ he replies, standing himself now.
‘It was lovely to meet you. Again. Actually, it was weird but kind of pleasant, maybe?’ I can feel myself frowning. ‘But much better than when we met the first time. Well!’
As I babble my extraction plan, backing away from him, Beckett reaches out to touch my arm briefly. I wonder if it’s some high-born signal for let’s not talk about such mundane things when I realise he’s trying to stop me from falling over the chair behind me.
He smiles tightly in response to my apologetic mumbling, finding me an ordeal rather than charming. As I turn to walk forwards this time, I find his fingers curled around my elbow again as he leads me from the dining room. Does he think I’m a delicate flower of a girl? That he’d crush me? Whatever the reason, I have the overwhelming desire for that hand to hold me elsewhere else. Curved around my hip, bringing us closer.
Why I honestly can’t fathom. It could be the size of him next to me, a kind of evolutionary stirring. The biggest and the baddest make the best mates.
Or it could be as simple as a response to the subtle spice of his cologne, or it could be the champagne. But I don’t think so.
It’s more likely because I’m horny and that I sense a night with Beckett would be like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Surely, a man can’t be as contained and controlled as Beckett without becoming a deviant when the lights are off.
And I so want to find out. Which makes me a deviant, too.
Want turns to need as we reach the door, his forearm brushing my hip as he reaches for the handle. The bare touch raises a shimmer of fiery awareness across my skin. I find myself leaning into him, and I know that doesn’t go unnoticed.
