“You are part of the bridal party.”
He nods and concentrates on the road, my guess, a lot more than he needs to.
“Did she ask about me at all?” he inquires after a spell of silence.
I hesitate before I tell him something that would just encourage him. “She asked how you were doing. If you still seem mad at her for what happened with Byron.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said you’ve been helping me with the wedding. She seemed relieved.”
He releases a breath I didn’t realise he was holding. “Thanks, Jess.”
Goosebumps instantly cover my arm at the sound of my name on his lips. It takes me a second to restore my air of nonchalance. “What are partners in crime for?”
“Yeah.” He snickers, totally clueless of the shift in my thoughts. “Which do you think would get to Isabella more next time she sees me—me with a date like I’m totally over her, or single like I’m saving myself for her?”
Personally, I’d prefer single and totally over her. “If you want to be friends with her first, she needs to get the you’re-not-interested vibe.” Like you project so well with me. “Otherwise, she won’t let you near her.”
“Hm.” He nods thoughtfully like I’ve given him a great idea.
Why am I giving him advice gold?
“With a date it is, then. Might even make her jealous,” he says with a relaxed grin as he comes to a gradual stop at a red light. “So, good thing Neil’s not the jealous type, huh? He okay with you hanging out with me all day?”
“He’s fine.” My voice sounds disappointingly tight to my ears. I’ve always valued my ability to bullshit my way in and out of any situation. It took me years and plenty of heartache to master, after all.
“You didn’t tell him about today, did you?” He mistakes my silence while I’m coming up with an answer as a yes. “Tell me about him.”
“He, um, works in my building. Similar height to you. Short brown hair, brown eyes. He works in public relations.”
“Hm. So does Deano.” I can’t read Keats’ tone—is he surprised that I’ve got real details about my so-called booty call guy? “You remember Richard Dean?” He indicates left and enters a new housing estate in Cannon Hill.
I make a non-descript sound in the affirmative and leave it at that before I disparage one of his close friends. It’s probably one of the most diplomatic moments of my life.
“You been seeing this guy long?” Keats asks, indicating before he parks the car on the side of a street of huge houses with small yards.
“No.” The less I say, the fewer lies I’ll have to remember. “Where are we?”
“This place is pretty quiet on weekends. Good for practising getting the car to move.”
I look around. The curtain of the house we’re in front of flutters and its owner looks at us with a lot of curiosity.
“Won’t these people mind that we’re going round and round their streets? They might think we’re being dodgy and casing out the place.”
“In an Audi? I doubt it. Besides, these people are my neighbours. Or at least they were until my parents divorced and I moved back to Oklahoma with Dad. I’m renting out my house here at the moment.”
I check out the estate with renewed interest. This looks like an exclusive neighbourhood to buy a home in—big bucks to claim a spot, for sure. It’s totally out of my price range, so no chance of being neighbours with Keats even if that wasn’t a creepy concept.
“Actually, we’re in front of it right now. I’m probably freaking out my tenants, making them think this is an unscheduled inspection.”
We look at the two-storey home with the curtain that moved. Modern construction with a spacious veranda on the upper floor and a light-coloured rendered façade—it looks too huge to be a mere bachelor pad. One of the two-car garage doors is open revealing a late model BMW 4WD. Even his renters own a luxury car. I so don’t have a chance of residing here. I can’t believe Keats had this house before his parents divorced four years ago—he’s only twenty-eight now.
“They could keep the lawn neater,” Keats comments. “Maybe I’ll have a chat with the real estate agent.”
I suppress a cringe. My dad didn’t believe in mowing the grass unless the council threatened to evict or fine him. The house we were renting always cheapened the whole street.
“It’s a nice place,” I comment hopefully to distract Keats from busting his tenants.
“It’s not bad.” He smiles proudly but doesn’t elaborate as we unbuckle our seatbelts to swap seats again.
I bet he can see the lit up buildings of the city from his balcony at night, and the New Year’s Eve fireworks along the Brisbane River.
“Did you live here with Linda?” I pry as I belt myself in behind the cool, flat-bottomed steering wheel.
He raises a brow at me. “Hell, no. I was already living at Mom’s when we met. I never even took Linda here.”
“I thought you two were serious.”
“I’m sure if she’d seen this place, she would’ve insisted we move in together so she could decorate my house with her stuff—start figuring out where to put a nursery.”
Poor Linda—undone by her own hubris.
I want to ask Keats what he’d do if Isabella wanted the same thing, but I know better than to ask a question I don’t want to hear the answer to. Instead, I opt to shut up while I position the mirrors to suit me. Putting my foot on the brake, I start the car. But as soon as I press on the accelerator, the car jerks forward. Surprised, I take my foot completely off the gas—a bad move on a downward slope.
“Brake!” Keats yells.
I do as he asks and stomp on the middle pedal, making us both whip forward, then back with inertia. I brace myself before I look at Keats. He is so going to chuck me out of his pricey car for good. But he actually flashes me a reassuring smile past the grimace on his face.
“It’s all right. Try it again. Gently.”
I do as he suggests and the vehicle glides forward—no screeching, no jerking.
“I’m doing it! I’m driving!” I yell, going at 30kph.
I look at Keats and whatever he sees on my face makes him chuckle. His smile makes me forget to pay attention to the road until he quickly grabs the steering wheel and straightens out the vehicle before I could mount the footpath.
“Eyes on the road, Hay-gen,” he reminds me but he doesn’t look mad at my lapse.
I look through the windshield and try to concentrate on keeping the car on the correct side of the street. “What? No yelling and recriminations?” I ask with a weak laugh.
“Don’t worry. I’ve just thought of a way you can compensate me for rough handling my car.”
“I’m a poor receptionist,” I tell him. There’s no way he’s getting his rich hands on my home deposit money courtesy of my Miz Peggy website.
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about monetary payment, Hay-gen.”
I take my eyes off the road again to try to read him. This sounds very bad. Or very, very good.
Chapter 13
“Ms. Wilsborough, this is Jess Hay-gen, my…cousin.”
I put on my best smile, almost sure there’s no stray lipstick on my teeth or an unnoticed stain on my dress. I extend a hand out to Keats’ boss’ wife, in a fair impression of Isabella at a meeting, I’m guessing. The woman glances at my attempt at a grown up handshake before presenting me the tips of her fingers pointing downwards.
Am I supposed to kiss one of her diamond rings? I turn to Keats whose smile looks frozen, but whose eyes seem to be indicating to me to take the proffered appendage.
“Good evening,” I greet her as my huge hand envelops hers. I pump it a few times for good measure. Beside me, Keats sounds like something got stuck in his throat, and coughs. When I look at him, he’s turning his face away but his eyes are suspiciously smiling like he’d covered up a chuckle with a cough.
“How do you do?” Keats’ boss’ stuffy wife replies, looking
down the length of her nose at me—tricky, considering I’m way taller than her. That kind of snobbery must take years of practice. She turns to Keats. “No Isabella today?”
Isabella was the first and only girlfriend Keats has ever brought to one of these get-togethers. Talk about having tiny Christian Louboutin heels to fill. I feel like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters. And the queen is not impressed.
“She’s currently in London,” Keats hedges, conveniently leaving out the part where his then girlfriend is now engaged to his brother.
“What a shame. I love that girl. So much experience and wisdom for such a young woman.”
Keats nods and I get the usual zing of envy zip through my veins like an air bubble. It’s not Isabella’s fault she’s smarter and thinner than me, I remind myself. I stretch my closed mouth into a tight smile.
“You must bring her next time,” Ms Wilsborough says, a quick glance at me as if to tell Keats not to bring me in future.
I must not be rude to Wilsborough and walk out, I repeat in my head like a mantra. I did not buy an especially respectable Jackie O-style dress just to get fifteen minutes’ use out of it.
“And you, Jess, what do you do?”
I am very tempted to tell her I run a successful raunchy website that celebrates curvy to obese women. I doubt someone like her would ever have a need for such a service. Sour old woman looks like she’s too busy constantly sucking on lemons to ever get fat.
“I’m a receptionist.” I force a smile. In this room of high-powered executives, that doesn’t sound like much, especially considering I finished a Bachelor of Business degree and started there six years ago. Meanwhile, Jillie, who’s nineteen, and finished high school last year, is in the same job as me.
“Well…good for you,” Wilsborough says. “Excuse me, I see Enid.”
Ouch. I’m pretty sure I just got burnt. What an elitist cow.
I turn to Keats. “Your ‘cousin’?”
“If I’d said ‘friend’, they would have you and me married by tomorrow. That’d just be weird when I get back with Isabella.”
He said, “when”, not “if”. Cocky bastard. I shake my head. “So why am I here? Wouldn’t it just be easier to go alone?”
“Huh. Right. If you haven’t noticed, these things are fucking boring. And filled with married women who are either bugging me about bringing a date, or propositioning me in the bathrooms.”
“You and bloody bathrooms.” I’m reminded of the first time I saw him this year—with the orange girl. “You didn’t seem to mind that venue in April.”
“I’m talking about unwelcome attention here. That thing at Vantage Point with Chelsea was totally welcome.”
“Kelsey,” I correct him, contemplating giving him a wedgie just to get that too-amused smile off his face.
“Whatever. Look, let’s not forget there is that little thing of you devaluing my car on Saturday, so you owe me tonight.”
“I’ve had one driving lesson.”
“With nine more to come. Tell me you’re a fast learner, Hay-gen.”
“Depends on the teacher.”
He narrows his eyes at me, then downs the rest of his wine in one big swallow. His gaze flicks around the room before he lowers it to study his empty glass. I look around the room myself and catch so many female faces looking away. I never imagined being good looking really was a curse, but Keats definitely doesn’t look like he’s enjoying himself very much right now.
“That waitress keeps looking at you. Another ex-girlfriend?” The hum of voices, made louder with each glass of alcohol consumed, means our conversation stays between us.
He follows the direction I tip my juice towards.
“That’s Jada—the one Byron dumped for Isabella. I didn’t realise she was working here tonight.”
“She got the hots for you or something? She keeps looking this way.”
Keats shakes his head. “Probably just wants to talk to me about Byron. She took the break-up hard—keyed the side panel of his car, and been trying to get back with him ever since. I don’t know how that little shit does it, but women love him. Look who I’m talking to—his other stalker.”
I roll my eyes at Keats but don’t bother to correct his assumption. If he only knew who I’m really tempted to stalk. “I thought when you said I had to come with you to a work dinner that it’d be more fun and relaxing.”
He shrugs, obviously used to getting his way.
“Tell me I’m here more than to act as your human shield to boredom and unwanted women’s attention,” I say.
“Payback’s a bitch, Hay-gen.” He winks at me. “Anyhow, as it turns out, I’m really killing two birds with one stone here—I also want to talk to you about something.”
Oh, God.
“What else do you want to know about Isabella?” I sound resigned to my own ears.
“Not her. Mom. A man called our house last night.”
“Don rang?”
“No…”
I can almost see his brain ticking, as he realises there’s more than one man interested in his mother.
“No, it was Bob.”
“Oh, him? I wouldn’t worry about him.”
Keats’ eyes widen at my flippant response. “Where is my mother meeting all these men?”
My website.
When I don’t say anything, Keats continues, “I told you, she’s not ready.”
“She’s not or you’re not? Aren’t you glad Heather’s smiling again? Are you worried you can finally move back to your own house? Which bit about your mother getting a life is bad for you?”
“The part where one of those assholes breaks her heart again and she takes it worse than when Dad left.”
There’s real concern in his baby blue eyes, the emotion making something in my chest ache.
“Look, Hay-gen, the bank’s sending me to L.A. for the next two weeks. My flight’s tomorrow morning. Please don’t let Mom marry some guy while I’m gone.”
My heart instantly sinks at the news he’s leaving again, and I supress the urge to sigh heavily. I almost don’t hear what he says after it. How did I survive years not seeing him? I’m not used to needing someone like this. Have I missed my chance to bed him with no lingering attachments?
I pull myself together for a retort. “I don’t hold that much sway in Heather’s life at all. Plus, she’s a grown woman, Keats.”
“But she listens to you. Please just watch her while I’m away, all right?”
How can I say no when he’s looking at me with those sexy eyes? And now that I know Keats better, I realise he’s letting me see something he doesn’t often reveal—how concerned he is for his mother.
Before I can answer, a dinner bell rings. Keats gets halfway through an exasperated sigh before he seems to remember where he is.
“Let’s get to our seats.” My stomach is ready to growl at any moment.
There’s a seating chart in a gaudy frame on a matching easel by the entrance to the dining hall. Keats and I join the back of the line. Everyone looks eager to find their names on the list. There are only twenty of us. You’d think we could just plop ourselves down wherever.
By the time we reach the frame, everyone else is already sitting down or standing by their allocated seats like it’s musical chairs and the seats furthest from Ms Wilsborough are out of the game. Judging by the control Keats’ boss’ wife wields, those must be our allocated seats. And judging by Keats’ brief devastated expression before he gets a hold of himself, this is definitely not a good sign.
He untucks my chair for me and I look at it for a second. Oh, he’s being a gentleman.
“Um, thanks,” I say as I sit down.
He shrugs one shoulder with a smile and takes his own seat. I look around us. Isabella has told me about the dinner party that Keats took her to after they’d only been dating a week. Apparently, Wilsborough sits people close to her when she wants to talk to them. Of course, my high achieving friend got top marks, and s
he and Keats were awarded with the spot right next to the snooty old cow at the head of the table. Story of my life—the poor seats—I’ve taken Keats down with me and he looks kind of pissed off about it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” one of the servers announces while Ms Wilsborough smiles at her guests magnanimously.
God, I wish I hadn’t given up drinking. This is going to be a long night.
The first course takes forever to arrive. Or at least it feels like it listening to Keats’ boss’ wife regale us with stories that everyone at the table who isn’t a newbie like me has probably heard before. And it’s like no one talks unless spoken to. Who does she think she is? The Queen?
“Do me a favour, Keats,” I say, leaning in to whisper to him while Wilsborough is telling everyone about her garden, like the topic of grass growing could maintain an audience for more than a minute. “Don’t ever invite me to one of these again. I know how to fiddle around with cars to make it look like an accident.”
He chuckles, but his eyes flick over my face to check if I’m serious.
“Care to share it with us, Ms…erm…Keats’ cousin?”
Busted. I look up and find nineteen faces turned towards me, waiting for my reply. It’s like I got caught passing a note in class. I turn to Keats but he just bites his lower lip and shrugs.
Thanks a lot.
“There’s a certain etiquette here, miss.” Wilsborough surveys her minions and they nod at her in agreement. She steeples her fingers, her smile reminiscent of a smug spider’s and I’m the fly caught in her web. “This isn’t your usual pub crawl.”
I look at Keats again. He mouths, “Say something” to me but otherwise doesn’t help. Worse, there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. Bastard.
“Well?” Wilsborough prompts.
I square my shoulders and pin her with a shiteater’s grin.
“I was just saying, how sexy my cousin looks tonight.”
Encouraged by Wilsborough’s bemused expression, I grab Keats by the tie and shirt, pulling him half out of his chair. With his face an inch from mine, I lean in and plant a slightly parted, big, smacking kiss on his mouth that lasts long enough for me to feel his lips move against my own. When I let go of his shirt front, it takes Keats a beat to lower himself back down into his seat. Even then, the shell-shocked expression stays on his face as clearly as the lipstick marks I’ve left there.
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