It’s gorgeous. Fitted to every curve of the stunning redhead, the frock has delicate chiffon straps that barely graze her shoulders, and a mermaid skirt that flicks invitingly. It skims the floor with every step while dainty feet for such a tall woman peek out in strappy satin bridal shoes.
I take a photo with my phone. The outfit might suit Isabella if she can keep her weight down. There’s no way I could pull off the mermaid look—I’d end up looking like an albino goldfish.
The model reaches the end of the catwalk, smile radiant like a real bride. She stays in character, posing coyly with her posy of white roses while she angles her head to look through the white mesh attached to her pillbox hat.
“That’s a nice dress,” I say to Keats who is standing behind my right shoulder.
I lift my phone up again, wanting to take another photo. The model notices the gesture, starts to smile at me, but then the expression freezes on her face like she’s seen a ghost. Her eyes tear up immediately and she practically runs back up the catwalk.
“Um, our next dress…” the emcee continues, trying to cover up the unexpected turn of events.
“What was that abou—?” I stop when I see Keats run his palm over his face.
“Time to go, Hay-gen,” he says, turning on his heel without waiting for me to reply.
When we reach an open area beyond the fashion show section, Keats doesn’t stop.
“Hey, wait,” I call after him. “We’re not finished here yet. We still have a million things to check out.”
“I have to go, but you can. stay. You’re a big girl, you don’t need me,” he says over his shoulder without bothering to look my way.
I don’t know what annoys me more: the way he’s piking out on me so soon after we got here, or the fact he called me “a big girl”.
There’s a flurry of white followed by, “You bastard!” as the redhead bride runs past me, and hits Keats on the back with her bouquet.
He turns around, arms up at chest level, not doing much to stop her as she sends delicate petals flying with each pound on his chest. Thank God for the fashion show—or there would’ve been a bigger crowd to witness this attack. I take a step towards them, intent on pulling the crazy woman off Keats but she starts yelling at him, so I hang back. Obviously, they know each other, and he probably deserves it.
“You arsehole. You told me you were never getting married and you’re here at a wedding expo less than a year later?” She hits him again with her bouquet, sending the last petal flying down to my shoe. Noticing her flowers are down to their stems, she pegs the bunch at his head.
Keats just manages to duck out of harm’s way. “You ended it,” he points out, hands up with palms out like he’s trying to calm a raging beast. He surveys the crowd with a frown, probably wishing they would all mind their own business.
“You said you weren’t the ‘marrying kind’!” She breathes hard through her mouth, her perfectly made up eyes glowering at him and conveying more than words ever could. Pillbox hat now unfashionably askew, the wedding gown model turns her attention to me. She gives me a slow once over with a disgusted expression on her symmetrical face. “This is who you’ve chosen to marry?”
I take a menacing step towards her—pinning her with a glare that should tell her I wasn’t “raised right” and my uncouth side is just under the surface, ready to bust out. I could so snap her slender frame, or at least pull out some hair. She seems to realise she’s crossed a line with me and backs off with an unintelligible sound of frustration before she turns on her heels and storms off in a huff.
Keats releases a sharp exhale as soon as she’s gone. I slowly walk up to him, hoping he didn’t see me with my hackles up.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He nods, straightening out his light jacket and brushing pollen off his clothes. “Lucky she wasn’t carrying thorny roses.”
I study him. He looks tired and a little ashen, despite his attempt at a joke. My muscles tense from stopping myself from giving him a hug.
“I’m all right, Hay-gen. Honestly,” he reassures me. “This ain’t my first rodeo, you know.”
I nod, somewhat appeased by his Oklahoma accent and his sexy phrasing.
“So, you’re used to ex-girlfriends attacking you in public?” I ask as we briskly walk away to leave the stunned gawkers behind.
He shakes his head. “Not quite. But if you thought she was bad, you should meet some of the ones I dumped.” He pulls a yikes face, the colour returning to his cheeks.
I chuckle. “Is that how you dodged the bouquet today?”
“Yep, lots of practice.” He holds the exhibition hall side exit door for me and waits till I’m through before exiting himself—the way he so casually did it shows this gentlemanly gesture is well-practised. “That’s mainly why I don’t like breaking up with women in person any more—too dangerous. I’m one of those assholes who texts or emails his goodbyes.”
I turn my head to study him again. I don’t think he’s kidding.
“A mass email, I bet,” I say with a sideways glance.
He chuckles. “Hey, I might be an asshole, but I’m not a cheater. One woman at a time—single file.”
I roll my eyes, shaking my head, and his laugh tells me that’s exactly the reaction he was after.
“So, who was that nutter?” I venture as we enter the stairwell to the car park.
“Linda—my ex before Isabella.” He seems to read the curiosity on my face because he says, “Don’t ask.”
I nod, falling silent to my thoughts as we make our way to his car. I could think of this in two ways. One, he is used to dating gorgeous women—models for God’s sake!—and I have no chance with him. Or two, he used to go out with models and then he went out with an ex-chubby nerd like Isabella. I might have a chance here after all.
I’m smiling and optimistic by the time I’m seated in his sports car.
Chapter 8
Early-May
How could I have missed that sports bra?
It’s bright pink, with a cup size that could accommodate a small child’s head. It had obviously fallen out of my gym bag when I’d grabbed it to chuck it into my bedroom. I hadn’t noticed it in my mad dash to give Keats the impression that I’m a tidy person. Now that my neat freak roommate has moved out to live with her boyfriend, my little flat is deteriorating into the proverbial pig sty.
Hog-gen living in a pig sty—the arseholes in high school would’ve loved that.
Keats picks up my pink bra off the floor, and hangs it on my door knob, like some dormitory code that someone’s getting lucky on the other side. Without missing a beat, he strolls over to my bookshelf, and starts perusing my DVD and Blu Ray collection, and the few chick lit novels I have there.
Why couldn’t I have something edgier like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo or something classier like a novel by Paolo Coelho? Oh that’s right, I’m neither edgy nor classy.
Keats stops in front of a framed photograph of me with a skinny blond guy with a mullet. Behind us, the purple-blue spring sky of a clear Brisbane day provides a contrast to the mauve jacaranda tree to my right.
“That’s my brother, Kris. He lives in Sydney now.” I’m so glad I haven’t framed and displayed my photo booth shots with Keats. Nope, they’re tucked away where he’ll never go—my bedroom goodie drawer. My favourite one is of him smiling when he was telling me about plotting on the plane during his trip to New York City. If I don’t think about what he was saying at the time, I can pretend he’s in love with me—and I’m the object of that smile. And in my sad girl fantasies just before I fall asleep, I am.
Keats nods. In his expensive tailored suit, he looks so out of place in my condemned little flat. More like my landlord than my guest—especially with my ex-roommate’s indie band posters still on the walls, my collection of incense holders, and on the worn carpet, the beanbags—instead of a real sofa—for plopping on while staring at the TV.
“I’m buying real furnitu
re when I move into my own home.” I’m so weak for justifying my existence to him. But it’s important to me that I don’t come off as a big loser who still lives like a teenager. “I’ve been putting all my website earnings into a savings account I don’t touch. I—” I stop, realising too late that I’ve revealed too much.
“You have a website? What’s it for?” he asks, brows lifting in interest.
I shift in my seat, the Styrofoam beans crunching beneath my butt. “Just advice and stuff for women.” He seems appeased by my vague reply, but I hurry on before he can ask more questions. “I am so close to putting down a small deposit on my very own home and being able to furnish it. I just might make it before they tear this all down to build another underground busway.”
“When are they demolishing this place?” And just like that, I am out of the woods and safe from the slippery slope of answering questions about my raunchy webpage.
“January next year.” My stomach clenches at the reminder of my impending eviction. Rent here is dirt cheap, so moving to another rental place would greatly affect how much I can save per month. I’ve always lived in rentals—having my own house is the dream. Maybe it would finally make me feel settled and secure.
“Would you like something to drink?” I get up with as much grace as the beanbag would allow. “I’ve got water, juice, beer, wine, vodka, gin, whisky—”
“Beer’s fine,” he answers, interrupting my spiel as he shrugs off his suit jacket, and drapes it neatly on the back of a kitchen chair. Next, he lifts his chin and loosens his tie, undoing the top button on his light business shirt.
It takes me a beat to grab his drink, fixated on the mini-strip show he was in the process of performing. I hand the bottle to him, and he perches himself on one of my mismatched bar stools—both kerb-side rescues. For the first time since Isabella’s first visit to my then childhood home, I notice every scratch and dent on my beat-up furniture, and feel inadequate about my living conditions.
“Have you had dinner? If you want, we can order in,” I offer, trying to tidy the kitchen bench by piling my neglected mail into an uneven stack.
“Or we could cook something?” he suggests.
I almost snort, the sound thankfully remaining a scoff. “There’s nothing in the fridge.” My next food delivery is in the morning. I have a single serve container of skim milk to go with my salt-reduced bran—cardboard—cereal for breakfast.
“You practically live above a supermarket.”
There’s an IGA two doors down at street level.
That reminds me…“There’s fish and chips downstairs,” I suggest.
“I’ve been eating out the last few nights.”
“Dates?” I can’t help but ask.
“Yeah. With Linda.” He fixes me with his bedroom eyes as if watching for my reaction.
Ouch. I look away before I flinch. I’m almost sure I manage to keep my poker face in place while I pretend to rifle through the takeaway menus stuck to the fridge with magnets.
“Oh. So, you’re off Isabella?” I keep my face averted from him but I look over my shoulder when he starts laughing.
“I was kidding—I’ve been eating out a lot because of work. Like at my desk. Alone. God, weren’t you there at the bridal thingy? Talk about ‘saying it with flowers’. You think I’d go back to that?”
“Well, you do seem like a sucker for punishment,” I reply with an irrepressible smile.
“Not that kind of punishment.”
A mental picture of a dominatrix whip flashes in my mind’s eye, heating me all over like melted candlewax. I release a calming breath. Maybe I shouldn’t check out my website just before he comes over to visit. When my eyes return to Keats, he flashes me his wide grin. His eyes crinkle at the corners like his mind is on the same track as mine.
“Let’s grab some ingredients.” He jumps off the stool. “I’m starving.”
We’re almost out the door when I blurt out, “I don’t cook.”
He stops in his tracks. “Seriously?”
I hope this doesn’t put him off me, but I either tell him now or he finds out when he’s dying from carbon poisoning—I burn everything. My father was more the pre-cooked meals kind of parent, so I never learnt culinary skills beyond pressing buttons on a microwave.
“That’s fine. I’ll throw something together.” Keats resumes walking.
In the supermarket, I follow him to the produce section, not a place I often find myself in. Natural colours assail me, while the cool touch of the refrigerated section tickles my bare arms.
It’s fascinating how picky he is with every bit of produce he touches. He turns each around in his hand, feels their weight, and inspects their colour before deigning any fit for his basket. I’m sure it’s some kind of OCD. The few occasions I bought vegetables, I just got whatever was on special and grabbed the first ones I laid my hands on.
“You got oyster sauce?”
I shake my head.
He raises a brow at me.
“Don’t judge me,” I say with a smile.
Ten minutes later, I’m not smiling when the checkout guy tells us the total of our basket.
Damn. That added up quickly. I sigh as I take my wallet out.
“My treat,” Keats says, waving away my money.
Whew. “Thanks.” I don’t bother to argue. It’s his stupid idea to spend a fortune on food we have to cook ourselves. We could’ve spent less at the Chinese takeaway.
“Can we order just steamed rice from the Chinese place?” he asks me as he grabs the bags of groceries.
“Yes. I’m sure we can.”
We stop by and it takes two seconds to order and pay for plain rice. I don’t know why we don’t buy the rest of our meal while we’re there.
“Do you have a wok?” Keats asks as he takes the stairs to my apartment two at a time. I would’ve appreciated his athleticism more if I was only watching his cute butt, but with me trailing behind, I just wish he’d take a chill pill and stop hurrying. “Sorry, I forgot to ask.”
“Um,” I really have to think about this one. “Yes! Yes, I do. Bels got it for me as a housewarming gift.”
I let us back into my apartment and head straight for my cupboards. Near the back, I spot the long handle of an extra deep-looking, rounded frying pan.
“This is a wok, right?”
“Yes.”
I give it a quick rinse and hand it to him.
“Apron?” he asks for next.
God, he’s prissy. I walk over to a neglected drawer by the sink and dig under the folded tea towels. I spot a plain black apron, but then something else catches my eye. I pull that out instead and hand it to him.
Keats raises a brow at the white apron with the red gingham frills all around—very 1950s, especially with the little embroidered words on the top left chest area: Domestic Goddess. It was an ironic Christmas gift from Isabella. Keats puts it on without a word, tying the strings around his body. With his trim frame, he’s able to fasten the knot in front.
With business-like economy of motion, he turns one wrist over and unbuttons his cuffs to roll up his sleeve. When this is done, he does the same to the other sleeve, looking so deliciously male despite the apron he’s wearing.
“This is actually Aunty Lorenda’s recipe—Isabella’s mom,” he explains unnecessarily. “She used to get Byron, Isabella and me to do the chopping up—her ‘kitchen hands’, she called us. How are you at slicing and dicing?”
“I should be able to do it without killing myself.” I sound cocky, but really, I’m not sure.
“All right, you can peel the carrots, and top and end the round beans—that means take the ends off like this.” He shakes his head at my confused expression, but his smile seems amused. “I hope you know more about Isabella than you do cooking.”
“Yes, I do.” That’s why he’s here. He wants to ask me all about his ex-girlfriend like I’m some kind of expert. Of course I led him to believe that. Anyway, comparatively, I am a
n expert, I suppose. “What do you want to know?”
He hands me a carrot and a peeler that he finds in my cutlery drawer (it must have been my ex-roommate’s), and asks, “Did she really like me, or has it always been my brother?”
I hesitate. I’m sure there’s a friends’ rule book somewhere that has this very thing in bold under the “Thou shalt not” chapter. Thou shalt not tell your friend’s ex-boyfriend her feelings about him. Of course that’s right under, “Thou shall not help your friend’s ex-boyfriend break up your friend’s engagement”.
But it’s not like he has a chance of getting back with her. And he said he’d go through his stupid plan even without my help…
Oh stuff it. Isabella is deliriously happy and engaged to be married. I’m single and finally getting attention from the first guy I’ve ever had a crush on.
“No, she liked you,” I say in a rush before my guilt at betraying Isabella can shut me up. “She really did. She was uncomfortable about her feelings for Byron because he’s younger. I mean, you know about the nickname she got in high school, right?”
“‘The Cradle Snatcher’?”
“Yes. That bothered her.”
“Even after she got back from London?” He’s like a professional chef with that knife. It looks like he’s only half paying attention but the blade is slicing away very quickly and deftly. I’m more worried about his fingers than he is.
“Yep. Byron offered to take her to the reunion for free, but she wanted you.”
His eyes turn inwards for a beat and he smiles his broad grin. I almost peel the tip off my finger. I inspect the damage. Luckily, the peeler’s too blunt to break my skin.
“Are you okay? Maybe you should just sit there while I finish this off. There isn’t much more to cut.” Keats indicates the pile of vegetables. He’s obviously lying to be polite.
“Just hand me the damn mushrooms. How do you want these?” I ask.
“Without blood, preferably.”
“Don’t tease me when I’m holding a peeler.”
“Ooh.” He chuckles, but puts the paper bag of mushrooms in front of me. “Just cut them length-wise about four millimetres thick. And you know to use a knife, not a peeler, right?”
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