Kissing Frogs
Page 6
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t Mr Perfect (Mr Perfect could surely kiss better), but he was Mr Okay, or Mr Perfect For Now, and if it would get my mum and Mark and the threat of going viral off my back, I was willing to settle for the next couple or seven weeks or whatever it took. We’d have to work on the kissing, though.
“Do you honestly think I’d pick a picture of myself where I look like a dark-haired Charlize Theron in Monster if I’d chosen to advertise for a husband?”
Rob wheezed, a strangled, choking sound. “Sorry. Can you excuse me for a moment, Kate? I have to go to the bathroom.”
Chapter 4
Do you have any raisins? How about a date, then?
“What are you doing?” I said as Mark sank onto the sofa beside me, sitting close enough to trap the material of my dress under his leg, effectively pinning me in place when I tried to shift away. The heat of his body burned through the cloth, searing me from knee to shoulder. I pushed at him, trying unsuccessfully to move him off the sofa. “That seat’s taken.”
“I know.” He watched me steadily with his navy eyes. “By me.”
“No! Not by you. By Rob. He’s a businessman. He’s employed. He has a company that invests on behalf of other companies.” Okay, so I was bragging and skimming over the whole crap kisser part. “He saw the posters, but thought I’d have too many offers to listen to his call.”
Mark snorted. “Shows what he knows.”
I was in too good a mood to let him distract me. “Now hurry up and get lost before he comes back. And stop staring daggers at us, too. You’ll scare him off.”
He gently tugged a strand of my hair to get my attention. “I don’t know how to break this to you, KT.” His voice was soft, almost sympathetic. “He’s done a runner.”
I slowly blinked, struggling to understand the words. “What?”
“He’s already left.”
“To go to the toilet.”
“Nope.” His lips made a popping sound on the P. He shook his head. “He’s made like Elvis and left the building.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Where do you think he’s been for the last twenty minutes, honey?”
I ignored the endearment, instead trying to figure out where Mark was going with this. “He went to the bathroom.” He did. He said so. So, he’d been a while. That didn’t mean anything. Men often take ages in the bathroom. They play on their phones and text and read and… stuff.
“Actually, it’s been closer to thirty minutes. If he truly went to the bathroom, it was to climb out the window.”
No. No. A clammy feeling crawled up my neck and drained the blood from my head. “Maybe he’s got a dodgy stomach.” Mark’s look was doubtful. I continued, a little desperately, “He was looking a bit pale and sweaty when he left.”
“Ah.” He nodded, a light dawning over his face.
“Ah? What do you mean, ah?” What was happening here?
“What exactly happened before he left?”
I thought back. I was worried now, so it was getting increasingly difficult to organise my thoughts. “He asked me to excuse him and said he was going to the bathroom. I said okay.”
He tugged my hair again, the back of his fingers stroking down the back of my neck with the motion, causing a shiver to skate down my body. I slapped his hand away. “Before that. What did you say before that, when he went pale?”
What? Oh… that. “We were just talking about the dating advertisements. He wanted to know if I was a journalist and the dating thing was some sort of story. I explained how it wasn’t that exciting. That Mum was fed up of waiting and wanted grandchildr–”
“That would do it,” Mark cut in, snapping his fingers. “Take it from me: all men run when women start talking marriage or children within the first hour of the first date.”
Shit! Shit. “No.” He was just playing up my vulnerabilities. He’d know from our mothers that I struggled with abandonment issues after my dad bailed. I didn’t even like kissing Rob. In fact, I didn’t really like Rob – the whole corked wine thing was pretty cringe-making – but still, the idea he’d run out and abandoned me still hurt.
And why did Mark have to be around to see it? He already thought I was a dateless loser, whose mother had to advertise to get her a man.
“If you say so…” His tone made it clear he thought I was delusional. “There’s only one other conclusion, as far as I can see.”
I slumped back against the sofa cushion, and the sofa dipped, causing me to lean against him. I didn’t move. I had more important things to worry about. I kicked off my heels (if I was going to suffer through this, I might as well be comfortable). I wouldn’t admit it out loud, ever, but I had a sinking, sick feeling in my stomach that Mark was right. My date had bailed on me because I’d come across as a creepy baby-mamma wannabe.
“You had two dates tonight and they both ran out shortly after you kissed them.”
“What?” He gave me a pitying look and stayed silent. Was he implying…? “Are you saying you don’t think I’m a very good kisser?” A flutter of panic added to the sick feeling. “You said Rob left because of the baby comment.”
“I know, but…” He shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t just that. I mean, you didn’t say anything like that to John, did you?”
I frowned. “No, but I bailed out on John, not the other way around.”
“He didn’t fight hard to get you to stay after that goodnight kiss, though, did he?”
“You are.” This wasn’t possible. I couldn’t believe it. I pulled out my hairband and sank my hands into my hair, massaging the tension headache that was forming. “You’re saying there’s something wrong with the way I kiss.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Well… I mean, that’s not something a guy can comment on from just watching, you know?”
“I’m serious, Mark. I don’t need you to go all sleazy on me.”
“I’m being serious. I can’t tell from watching you kiss some other guy if you’re any good. I’d have to be involved to be able to say whether you’re sloppy and wet or firm and passionate. What’ve other men told you after you’ve kissed them?”
I sat in silence staring at him, struck dumb, as I tried to absorb what he was saying.
“Has anyone ever said you were a bad kisser? You know, sloppy or a teeth-cracking lip bruiser?”
“Ah, of course not.” People don’t critique each other’s kisses to their faces. It’s rude. You save it up and tell your friends over a couple of glasses of wine later. “I’m a good kisser. In fact, I’m a great kisser.” He did that eyebrow-raise thing that meant he didn’t believe me. “I’m, ah, firm and… and passionate.”
“Uh-huh.” He sounded doubtful, like he was humouring me because I obviously had a problem.
I wasn’t a bad kisser. I wasn’t. Was I? I mean, it wasn’t like I’d had any complaints – well, not since I got the braces removed when I was seventeen, and that time with Alistair was hardly my fault. Then again… This wasn’t something I should ignore. I couldn’t believe I was going to ask him this, expose my vulnerability. It would give him ammunition for future torment… but what if… I couldn’t take that risk.
“How do I know if I’m a good kisser?”
“Men tell you.” He shrugged like he couldn’t believe I didn’t know. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you you’re a good kisser?”
“Oh, God. I’m a crap kisser…” I covered my face with my hands.
“Hold on.” He pried my hands away from my face, holding my wrists against his chest. “Don’t panic. You might not be that bad.” The silence stretched. “We can do a little experiment.”
“Okaaay.”
“All you have to do is kiss me–”
For fuck’s sake! I yanked my hands away as his head lowered towards mine. He nearly had me there. “Get lost! You think I’m going to fall for that shit?”
“Fall for what?” He shrugged. “I was just trying to help, but I guess you don’t really want to know if
you’re any good at kissing or not… I can understand why you wouldn’t. I just know if I was a lousy kisser, I’d want someone to tell me. Perhaps give me a couple of pointers, so I didn’t slobber all over the next person I dated. Maybe help me get to second base.”
I shoved him again. “God. I can’t believe I actually thought you weren’t being a self-absorbed prick for once. I should’ve known you were just taking the piss. Well, I’d rather be a lousy kisser then swap spit with you.”
He shrugged again. “Fine, if that’s how you feel. I guess you can wait until the next time you go on a date and see if he turns away after one kiss as well. Then again, with the whole advertising campaign thing, one of the local TV stations is bound to run a story to see how you’re going, or someone will set up a blog to get feedback from your dates.” His tone said there would be a blog, even if he had to set it up himself. “I know if it was me and a couple of my dates started posting that I couldn’t kiss…”
I couldn’t take any more of this. Without another word, I got up and walked out of the bar. I was going home. To bed. To wallow in my misery.
* * * * *
“Hey, gorgeous! I haven’t seen you for months.”
Nearly a week after my dating disaster, I turned from the dull drudgery of carrying my share of the grocery shopping home, squealing, and launched myself into strong arms. My bag for life hit the pavement with a dull thud that didn’t bode well for the eggs, but who cared?
My best friend TJ was here! TJ is gorgeous inside and out. He modelled when we were at university – tall with thick, dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and chiselled features. He was perfection.
“Not that you’ve been hiding your lovely self. I saw your advert in Pimlico Underground Station. Darling, that picture.” He grimaced, showing perfect white teeth, waving a manicured hand towards my head in an all-encompassing gesture. “Your hair, the scarf–”
“Don’t, Teej.” I pulled back to arm’s length as he shuffled us along the pavement to let people move past us into Ottomans restaurant. My chin trembled. “I’ve turned into a wet.” I sniffed. Mark cleared his throat loudly behind me, making a funny growling sound. I ignored him. “I’ll just cry.”
“Shhh, baby.” TJ hauled me back into his warm embrace, patting my back affectionately before leaning back and looping my hair behind my ear, petting and stroking my cheek as he spoke. “That was for real?” He was clearly shocked. “Why would you do that to yourself? I thought it was, like, a thirtieth birthday joke or something.”
“I’m only twenty-nine, you cheeky git.” TJ’s eyes widened, as if he was surprised at my age. I slapped his arm with enough force to hurt. He knew exactly how old I was. “My mother did it to me.”
“Couldn’t she just have disinherited you, like a normal person?”
“She’s not that kind. You’ve seen the adverts. They’re all over Pimlico Station. It’s just me and The Phantom of the Opera.” I wasn’t going to draw his attention to the vaginal itch cream if he’d missed it. I was just going to be thankful for small mercies. “At least the Phantom gets to wear a half mask.”
He nodded sympathetically. “I’m pretty sure that people, unless they know you, wouldn’t be able to recognise you from that picture.” TJ was trying (though not very hard) to be kind.
“That’s not true. I’ve had to stop using the Underground because children are picking on m-meeee.” My pitch rose with distress, and I buried my face in his shoulder as a couple of tears squeezed out.
Mark’s muttering about me “snogging strangers and dry-humping guys in the street” and impatient foot tapping picked up a decibel. “Because you were banned from Pimlico Station, more like.”
“You’re banned from the Underground?” TJ’s tone was incredulous and maybe a little gleeful.
“Just Pimlico Station,” I said.
“This sounds like an interesting story. Come and tell Uncle TJ all about it.”
“It’s too long to tell you,” I replied, giving my token dismissal (just to be polite) before launching into the tale. TJ would know what to do. “It’s all Mum’s fault. You know what she’s like.”
He nodded in sympathetic understanding, which was why I loved him.
“She kept going on and on about how she wanted to be a grandmother and then she went and decided to invest my inheritance–”
“Her pension lump sum.” Again, Mark interrupted and was ignored.
“–in running those hideous digital advertising poster things for two whole weeks. She said she couldn’t wait forever and I obviously wasn’t going to attract a man in the natural way.”
“Baby, it’s not true.” Maybe I should ask TJ to date me? If I offered him enough money, he probably would. “That picture aside, you’re gorgeous. I’d date you. In fact, come on – we can go on a date right now. Lunch in Ottomans?”
Oh, I clapped my hands once, dismissing my tale of woe. Look at me getting another date. “My favourite.”
“In case you didn’t notice, buddy, she’s with someone.” Mark’s tone was surprisingly unfriendly. He was usually much better in social situations than me. Ooooh. He didn’t look too friendly right now. At some point he’d picked up my bag for life, which was slowly dripping yolk from the bottom corner.
TJ sized him up. “Are you one of her dates from the Underground?”
“No, I’m–”
“Sorry. Teej, this is just Mark. He’s…” How should I describe our relationship? “Ah… Well, I guess, he’s practically my stepbrother.”
Mark dropped my shopping with a horrid clatter – shit, not the wine; I could survive a week without eggs, but not, since I started dating, without alcohol – and grabbed my arm, swinging me around to face him, preventing me from trotting after TJ. “I’m not your brother, KT.”
“You’re kind o–”
“We’re not related in any way whatsoever.”
“I, ah…” What the hell? Could men get PMS? I blinked up at him in surprise. Maybe he’d had enough of being ignored and carrying most of the shopping. “My father and your mother–”
“Were. Not. Married,” he said through his teeth. “They had a very short-lived affair when I was fourteen. We are not related.”
“We practically grew up together and they were engaged–”
“Not married.”
“But–”
“Shut up, KT! We are not related. No matter how you look at it. There’s no law, nor rule of morality or propriety that would prevent me from kissing you, right here, right now.”
“But–”
“With tongue.” He said that last bit like a threat, sparking my temper. He was being ridiculous. As if he’d ever kiss me with tongue.
As if I’d ever want him to. The image of him standing half-naked in my kitchen nearly two weeks ago, that droplet of water winding down his chest and across his stomach, flittered across my mind. “Try it and it’ll be the last time your tongue is attached to your body,” I responded.
“Hi there, guys. Remember me?” TJ stepped between us, waving his hands to break our stare-off. “Take it from an impartial observer: you’re arguing just like brother and sister.”
“No. We’re. Not.”
TJ took a large step back from Mark’s vehement denial, leaving me to fend for myself.
Chicken.
Mark turned the look on me, and I broke, eyes rolling to show I was saying it under protest: “Fine, not brother and sister. First cousins.”
“What part of not related in any way do you not understand?”
“Ooookay! Have it your way. TJ, this is my… What the hell do you want me to call you?”
“Mark,” he stated through clenched teeth.
“Well, Mark, who’s with the lovely Kate, but not related to her in any way,” TJ said, and I snickered at his mocking tone, “I guess the invite will stretch to cover two totally unrelated people.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand towards the door behind us. “Why don’t you join us in Ottomans?”
I said over my shoulder, glaring at Mark as he maintained contact despite my contortions, “I don’t see why you have such a problem–”
“KT,” he said, his voice deadly. “Shut. Up.”
“You two should go on The Meri Scott Show,” TJ said mockingly. “She could do a DNA test for you both and solve this argument once and for all.”
Smartarse.
Mark gave TJ a warning look, saving me the bother. A waiter guided us across the small wood-panelled restaurant to a table in the window overlooking Wilton Road. Mark held out the seat next to TJ for me and then sat down opposite, his legs tangling then pressing against mine under the table whilst he stared at me.
I kicked him.
He winced. The feeling of victory lasted right up until he hooked his feet around the legs of my chair and dragged me in tight to the table, forestalling my complaint by raising an eyebrow.
“Don’t do it,” he warned me. I was so close to the table that I barely had enough room to breathe. He sighed, eyes smiling, and settled his legs more comfortably on either side of mine.
TJ’s cough sounded suspiciously like it covered a laugh. “Well, kids, shall we order off the shared meze menu? That way we can get lots of different small dishes and share them.”
“Sounds good to me, Teej.” I refused to look at Mark, focusing all my attention on TJ, breathing shallowly to stop myself from being cut in half by the edge of the table. “The usual?”
“Sure thing, baby. What about you, Mark, is there anything you don’t eat?”
“He practically invited himself. He can eat what he’s given,” I snarled, then took a sip of wine, before choking and nearly falling off my chair. What the…? I squinted under the table – Mark’s foot stroked up the back of my calf. He was playing footsie? I glared at him, shifting my leg.