My stomach drops. Isabella can’t come back yet. The last time she was here had really screwed with Keats’ head. “Byron’s not going to stand by and let you steal back his fiancée.”
Keats shrugs his sexy shoulders. “He’s at Gatton, and Isabella will be working in the same building as me. If I can’t convince her to be with me instead of him, I don’t deserve her.”
***
I’m sitting in the dark with a million stars dotting the velvet winter night sky, in a luxury sports car with a gorgeous man I happen to find incredibly sexy in a freaking drive-in. And, nothing is happening. He offered to buy my popcorn if I ate it outside the vehicle—I guess he still remembers my massive fail at eating a taco neatly—so I declined. Besides, I’ve already broken my diet by having a tempting meat pie at Yatala. The comfort food is resting nicely in my finally satisfied stomach.
A soft, damp winter breeze blows in through the car’s windows, playing with a strand of my hair that has escaped my ponytail. From their stands, the ancient speakers work over time to broadcast the sound of the previews to us. Keats doesn’t want the chunky metal things scraping against the paint job of his vehicle or the tinting on his windows.
Meanwhile, the windows of the white Pajero beside us are half-closed and I notice my companion rubbernecking periodically to check what his mother and her date are up to. Heather’s over twenty years older than me and it seems she’s going to see more action than me tonight. What did I expect anyway, right?
“Why don’t you just sit between them?” I tell Keats.
“This is just wrong.” His eyes are still on the half-closed window of the high vehicle next to him. “Dammit, Hay-gen, what have you done to my mother?”
“You’re welcome.”
He looks over his shoulder at me with a frown.
I beam at him, rubbing my arms. Drive-ins in winter are a terrible idea. What were Heather and Pete thinking?
“This isn’t funny, Mr Barker was like an uncle to Byron and me growing up, and now he’s putting the moves on my mom. Do you know how weird that is for me?”
“You’re going to be one of those dads who greets his daughter’s date at the door with a cricket bat, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.” He grins at me while the reminders about the snack bar and turning off mobile phones light up his features. He glances out his window again.
I place a comforting hand on his arm. “She’s fine. She’s living her life.”
As if on cue, we hear Heather’s laughter trickle softly towards us.
Keats sighs but sits back against his car seat. He looks at me with a resigned, conflicted expression. “Thanks.”
I nod, pulling my cardigan closer around me and crossing my arms to conserve heat. My work here is done, and I can finally relax. I turn to the screen as the opening sequence to the franchise comes on. The usual generic song plays as buxom, skinny women in stages of undress flash across the giant outdoor screen.
Keats’ car door clicks a second later, and by the time I turn my head, he’s already halfway out of the luxury vehicle. He doesn’t go far though, knocking on his mother’s window.
“Keats. Leave them alone,” I call after him but he just ignores me.
I fumble with my seatbelt lock with cold, numb fingers but before I can open my car door, Keats dives back into the Audi.
“Fuck, it’s cold out there,” he says, throwing something over my lap.
I look down and find a flannel blanket there.
“Sorry, that’s the only spare one the oldies have.”
The blanket is the size of a baby’s cot sheet. With my height, I have to choose between saving my legs or my arms. Not expecting to be out in the elements tonight, I’d worn an above-the-knee dress this afternoon. I wrap the little blanket around my goose bump-covered lower limbs, folding my arms in front of me again for warmth afterwards.
“Here,” Keats says, shifting in his seat. He threads his arm behind my neck and over my shoulders, pulling me close. “Is that better?” he asks as he gently rubs my upper arms to warm me up.
“Slightly,” I grumble, suppressing a satisfied sigh.
I fit snugly against his firm side, my head resting comfortably on his muscled shoulder. I breathe in subtly. His scent is delicious—freshly showered with a hint of manly cologne.
Heather and Pete are geniuses. Drive-ins in winter are a fantastic idea.
Chapter 20
Late-August
Keats—the worst ever plotter of romantic destruction—has done it. I can’t believe he actually went through with his plan and accomplished his goal. But the proof is right in front of me. Through the glass walls of the fancy café across the street, I see him and Isabella chatting across the table from each other. Bastard. He was snuggling up to me at the drive-in less than three weeks ago. Granted that was a cosy, innocent cuddle that led to nights in bed of not-so-innocent fantasising—all by myself.
It seems now that Isabella’s back in town, I’ve been demoted back to friends with zero benefits.
I tighten my cardigan around me as a chilly late August gust flaps my skirt, and a car beeps at me while I jaywalk my way over to them.
Crap. Good one, Jess. Get yourself killed and leave poor Byron to pick up the pieces of his fiancée leaving him for his brother. Entering the restaurant, I make a beeline for Keats and Isabella’s table, my butt grazing handbags hanging off the backs of people’s chairs.
“Hey, Hay-um, Jess,” Keats says, beaming up at me with that gorgeous, wide grin of his. I haven’t seen him this happy since…the photo of him shirtless on Isabella’s mobile phone when they were still going out.
“Hi, Jess! Thanks for coming.” Isabella’s voice is pitchy and a little too eager, making me turn to study her while I take a seat on the side of the table between them. “Isn’t it great we’re all working in the city again? Easier to meet up and talk about the wedding.”
I nod, biting my lip to stop myself from grinning. Up close, it seems Isabella is still determined to keep her ex-boyfriend in place with unsubtle reminders that she’s engaged and still very much getting married.
“How’s the new job?” I ask her.
“Well, this is only my first week, so other than getting over jetlag, I’m still getting used to how everything works. Much easier so far than private practice though.” She risks a smile across the table at Keats. “I actually have pretty regular working hours. And today’s Byron’s last day of classes before the mid-semester break, so he’s coming home tonight.” She lifts her gaze to her captive audience across the table. “It’s just great to be back in Brisbane. Thanks again, Keats.”
He shrugs a sexy shoulder and nods, lips only at a half-smile now. “No worries, sweetheart.”
The smile freezes on Isabella’s face—that was what he used to call her when they were going out. A waitress comes to take our order, and Isabella excuses herself to go to the ladies afterwards. As soon as she’s out of sight, Keats releases a big breath, shaking his head.
“Fuck, this is harder than I thought,” he says, burying his face in his hands. “Every time I think I’m making progress with her, she brings up the damn wedding.”
“Maybe it’s because she’s in love with your brother. Plus, you’re not allowed to call her ‘sweetheart’ anymore, remember?”
Keats looks up at me and frowns. “You’re not helping.”
I shrug. “Why did you cancel our driving lesson this weekend?”
“Mom wants a family dinner to welcome back Byron and Isabella. Just my luck, the first full weekend she’s here is the start of his uni break. Believe me, I’d rather be sitting next to you and your lead foot revving my engine like a redneck. Or stick a fork in my eye—both would be less painful.”
His chest suddenly buzzes. Keats takes one look at the screen of his phone and swears under his breath. “I can’t get away for an hour,” he complains to me before picking up. “Davies, talk to me, buddy.” He nods a couple of times, putting a finge
r in his opposite ear to block out the noise of the restaurant. “Uh-huh. Look, there should be a shortcut icon on your desktop for new accounts. On your desktop. Yeah, for new accounts. Excuse me,” he says to me, getting up to take his sexy, suit-and-tie-clad self somewhere quieter.
Isabella returns to the table as Keats reaches the front door of the restaurant.
“Work call,” I say in answer to her raised brow.
“Of course. He’s kind of a big deal at the bank,” Isabella says, eyes following Keats’ retreating form with a bit too much admiration for my liking. She’s a real sucker for high achievers. “Never mentioned it when we were going out. Plus, he made a lot of time to see me, so I had no clue he was so busy and high up in the company.”
Ouch, and ouch.
The waitress comes and sets our orders in front of us which is probably good because it breaks the glare I can’t help but aim at the side of Isabella’s face. She seems totally unaware of my disdain as her eyes remain on her ex who is now talking on the footpath with one finger still in his opposite ear. The gesture lifts open his suit jacket, revealing the slim fit of his pin stripe shirt against his athletic side.
“Would that have made a difference?” I pour myself some tea before the leaves can steep too long. I’ve opted to only have the drink because I’ve already eaten my pre-packed lunch. Also, my companions don’t seem to appreciate that I’m not as high-earning as they are—in my regular, day job anyway.
“Hm?” Isabella asks, returning her attention to me.
I shake my head, letting it go. I don’t need the answer, I tell myself.
Isabella digs into her pile of leaves in balsamic vinegar, making a face as the salad hits her mouth. “I’m so sick of eating rabbit food and chicken breast but my mother’s trying her best to fatten me back up. I’d move in with Aunty Heather instead but she’s a fantastic cook, too.”
“And you’d be living under the same roof as Keats,” I point out, my jealousy like coiled rage just below the surface.
Why do I do this to myself? Why is Isabella still in my life? All that ever seems to happen is she makes my life suck by comparison. And even though I realise it’s not her fault, it still stings to be around her.
“Yes. That could get awkward. How’s he been? You think he’s moved on?” she asks in a hushed voice.
“You think he’d still be hung up on you?” I lay on the incredulity in my voice. I’m a petty, petty person but the best defence is offence. I sip my tea to hide the nasty smile I’m sure is there—sometimes I can be evil.
I’m not proud of it.
As expected, Isabella becomes flustered—the way she always gets when someone accuses her of being full of herself.
“You’re right. Probably not. We didn’t really go out for that long—less than a month. I guess this is why most people don’t date brothers. I’m totally stuck with my ex—and worse, we’ll be family. Gosh, I can’t believe the wedding is less than three months away.”
“Does the wedding dress fit you yet?” I wish I hadn’t seen that dress first. I just get riled all over again every time I remember how Isabella will be walking down the aisle in my dream dress. She looks trim, almost gaunt, and tight all over. In a grey, designer, woollen Cue dress with black piping and slimming panels, Isabella is the picture of chic. I’ve never seen her this size before. I’d always thought she was kind of big boned and stocky, but she looks lithe—a word I never would’ve thought could describe anyone in our group.
“Yes. Just. Finally. A bit loose on the boobs though—they’re always the first to go when I lose weight; my face the last.” She touches her now-flat cheeks. “You’re looking good, too, Jess. What have you been doing?”
“Clean living,” I say, embarrassed to admit that I have lost weight only after joining a food delivery programme—like admitting I have no self-control.
“Still not drinking?”
I nod.
“Wow. We’ll have to get your bridesmaid’s dress taken in.” She smiles, looking so happy for me that I instantly feel like a total bitch for hating her earlier.
“Apologies, ladies.”
I look to my right to find Keats slipping back into his spot at the table in front of his club sandwich. His swagger and air of confidence are back, the right corner of his mouth curled like he finds something amusing. Did he sense Isabella’s eyes on him?
“Did I miss anything?”
“Sorry, I started already,” Isabella apologises.
Were we supposed to wait?
“If it makes you feel better, I’m still hungry,” she adds.
“You want some of my sandwich?” He picks up his plate to offer some to her.
“Ugh, yeah, so you better keep that away from me,” she says with an embarrassed chuckle, hand out to wave off the tempting food.
“What?” His tone is playful as he grins back at his ex. “You’re too thin.”
She makes a rude sound, shaking her head. “I know. But, I made the mistake of buying a very expensive, tiny wedding dress.”
Oh, my God. It’s like I’m watching a tennis match, looking from side to side as I follow their volley of smiles flash back and forth across the table.
“I go to the QUT pool after work Thursday nights. You can come swimming with me, if you like, sweetheart.”
“Fat chance, Keats McAllister.” Colour seeps onto Isabella’s cheeks, probably because his epithet for her has so smoothly slipped out. She fidgets with her engagement ring, her eyes anywhere but on her ex-boyfriend.
“Offer stands, if you change your mind.” His eyes are no longer smiling as he studies her while she refuses to look at him. He lowers his eyes to his sandwich, and the whole table falls into silence until Keats says, “That guy’s looking at you.”
“Who?” Isabella looks up and follow’s his gaze over her shoulder.
“Not you. Jess.”
Now it’s my turn to check who he’s talking about. Oh, God. I barely suppress the urge to dive under the table and hide. Neil McReedy smiles back at me from across the room, raising an awkward hand in a small wave. He looks yummy in his suit and professional haircut—like he and Keats came off the same hot guy production line.
“Neil.” His name is out of my mouth before my brain can tell my lips to stay shut. How did I miss seeing him when I first entered this joint? Oh, that’s right. I was preoccupied with the seeming love-fest between my two companions.
“That’s Booty Call Neil?” A little frown mars the space between Keats’ brows.
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” Isabella is still looking over her shoulder at Neil, who now looks like he’s deciding whether he should come over to say hi to the group of people staring at him. “He’s hot. Way to go, Jess.”
“Looks like a douche bag poser,” Keats mutters.
Isabella’s head whips to him at his comment, then turns to me, then back again at her ex. On my periphery, I see Neil begin to stand up. Shit. I get off my chair so quickly, the legs scrape against the floor with a screech.
“I better say hi to him.” I quickly negotiate my way between the chairs, wanting to head him off at the pass. He sits back down when he sees me coming, his smile turning bemused. I stop right in front of him, so that I should be totally blocking his view of my table, and vice versa. “Hi, Neil.”
“Jess, right?” he says. The last time we actually talked was in the elevator in May. We’ve exchanged nods, waves, “good mornings” and “see ya’s” since then but he’s always been in a rush in and out of the building.
“Yes.” I look over my shoulder. Keats and Isabella are still watching me. When Keats shifts in his seat, I panic that he’s going to come over. “Look, Neil, see that guy I was sitting with over there? It’s a long story, but I kinda told him you’re my booty call guy.” Ouch. That Band Aid approach hurt more than usual, but I have to keep going or I’ll read too much into Neil’s raised brows and lose my nerve. “So, if you can pretend to like me for the next five minut
es, I’ll…” Shit, what do I offer him? Sex! My sex-starved mind suggests all too enthusiastically. “I’ll buy you coffee for a week. I’ll even deliver it to the thirty-fourth floor. And the good stuff, too. Starbucks, whatever—the biggest size they have.”
“O-kay.” The uncertainty in his voice has me fearing he’s ready to bolt from the crazy woman propositioning him. “Is he an ex-boyfriend or something?”
“Or something. So, is that a yes?” I’m still worried that my friends would come over before we can get our story straight.
“What exactly do you need me to do?” He says this with a small smile that reassures me he doesn’t think I’m barking mad.
“Just look like you and I are together.”
He surprises me by standing up, his eyes flicking over to our captive audience across the room. “He likes you,” Neil tells me before he leans in and brushes his lips to mine.
My knees wobble, brain freezing, unable to process his words and his actions at the same time. Luckily, he has a hand at my hip, reminding my body to stay still or risk losing contact.
“I wouldn’t mind more of this, Jess, but”—Neil checks his watch—“I’ve gotta get back to the office. But, hey, you haven’t asked me how I like my coffee.”
I nod, my ability to speak still AWOL while my lips continue to tingle at the remembered touch of his mouth. It takes me another second to get words out. “How…um, do you like your coffee?”
“In bed.”
My jaw drops, making Neil laugh—a nice, easy sound I can get used to.
“I’m kidding. I’ll see you at work when you get back. We can work out a time you can tell me that long story. Maybe over coffee?”
I nod again, glad that my back is to Keats and Isabella.
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