“What are you doing?” a very laidback, satiated male voice whispers in my ear, before the owner of said voice rolls off me with a satisfied sigh, fingertips just touching the centre of his own chest as if to check if his heart rate has returned to normal yet.
My breasts instantly miss my man-blanket. “Just checking the wall. Maybe I shouldn’t have braced my feet against it.”
Neil chuckles, the sound low and intimate. He leans in and kisses my shoulder, his five o’clock shadow pleasantly grazing my skin. He was cleanly shaven last night. It’s amazing how fast his face fuzz has reappeared. “Next time we’ll face the other way.”
“Next time?” We’ve barely slept since we started tearing up my bedroom last night. He drove me home from the vegetarian restaurant—our third date—and well, we didn’t say goodbye at the door.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” he says.
The mention of time has me checking my bedside clock. I sit upright in surprise when I see it’s already seven-thirty.
“I have something on at eight.”
“In the morning?”
“Uh-huh,” I say distractedly as I rush to my chest of drawers for some underwear.
“It’s Saturday.”
I nod on my way to the shower, relatively fine streaking across my bedroom absolutely naked. Surprising, considering Neil is on his stomach, watching me with a raised brow and interest in his eyes. I suck in my stomach for good measure and don’t relax my muscles—what muscles?—till I’m in the shower stall. Last night was the first time we did it—I’m not that comfortable around him yet.
Neil opens the cubicle’s sliding glass door a minute later just as I get the water temperature right. His gaze falls on my cold nipples, and the droplets there. My own eyes travel down his toned body. I can’t help but grin and get stuck on the evidence of his interest in me.
“I thought you said fifteen minutes?”
He answers me by stepping into the shower and closing the door behind him to keep the water in.
***
The door bell’s buzz cuts through the buzz still making every inch of me tingle as Neil finally turns off the water in the shower.
“Your eight o’clock?”
Shit. “I should’ve cancelled.”
“What is it?” he asks, grabbing me a towel so he can pat dry my breasts with an amused smile on his face.
“Driving lesson.” I take the towel off him and wrap it around my body. I pad down the cold hallway floor to press the button. “Hi, give me ten minutes.”
“Can you buzz me up?” Keats’ voice sounds tight.
“I’ll be down soon.”
“It’s hot down here, Hay-gen.”
“It’s only October—that’s spring.”
“Hay-gen, I could be up there now if you’d stop arguing.”
“Let the guy up,” Neil says behind me.
“Who’s that?” Keats quickly asks.
In response, I press the button to let him into the building. I take Neil by the arm and lead him down the hall to my bedroom where our clothes are.
“We need to get dressed.” I quickly throw on underwear, a denim skirt and a yellow top, stuffing my feet into sandals. I usually take more time to put together the attire I parade in front of Keats but I’m in a hurry and it’s better than him seeing me naked. Besides, after my night with Neil, my care factor for what Keats thinks of me is at an all-time low.
As for that little niggling feeling like I’ve cheated on him? Well, that’s totally misplaced.
I reach my front door on his third set of knocks.
“I heard you the first time,” I say, as I put my long, wet hair in a ponytail, though my irritation is softened as soon as he’s right in front of me again. Bastard. It’s so frustrating how my body and that barely used organ in my chest reacts when he’s around. Am I really this shallow? Weak at the knees because he wears jeans, and a white T-shirt better than any man I’ve ever met?
Keats hardly meets my gaze, instead looking over my shoulder and scanning my living room as he steps into my home like he’s expecting to find an axe murderer hiding behind my curtains.
Seeing no one, he asks, “You ready for your lesson?”
“Almost.”
Neil comes strutting down the hall then in last night’s jeans and trendy T-shirt, leather ankle boots in hand. He appears too dishevelled for his clothes to look like they’re fresh this morning. I may have fallen asleep a couple of times on his outfit.
“Sorry. You guys waiting for me?” Neil walks up to Keats with his right hand extended. In similar outfits again and finally next to each other, I ignore the niggle in my mind that I have a type. “Hi, I’m Neil. You must be Keats.”
Keats looks preoccupied as he shakes the hand of my, well, I don’t know what Neil is. I can almost hear Keats’ brain ticking as his gaze clocks Neil’s wet hair and mine. His silence is disconcerting and makes me wonder what exactly he’s thinking.
“The Booty Call guy,” Keats finally says though now I wish he’d just remained flummoxed by the fact my made-up man is actually half-dressed in my home.
“And you’re the Home Wrecker,” Neil says with an easy smile that is difficult to take offence with. He sits himself down on a dining chair and quickly pulls on his shoes. Keats and I watch Neil who seems the most relaxed of the three of us.
“Ready,” he announces, getting to his feet.
“I’m ready, too.” I usher both of them out of my flat which suddenly feels even smaller and dingier with two big, classy men in it.
We walk down the flight of steps to the tenant car park in silence, me in front, Neil behind me and Keats trailing at the back. Keats’ Audi is waiting for us next to Neil’s Porsche SUV, and I wonder again—like I did last night—how I am rubbing elbows with guys with too much money to burn on fancy cars. Lucky for me, I know now that it’s not a Freudian replacement for Neil. And after perving at Keats in his Speedos, I know his shiny toy isn’t making up for anything either.
“Nice car, man.” Neil indicates the slick coupe as the three of us stop by the luxury vehicles. “I was thinking of getting that, but not enough room for my snowboard.”
Keats just flicks up his expressive brows, determined to be a terse arsehole.
Neil turns to me, placing his hands on the swell of my hips. “Thanks for last night.”
Over his shoulders, I notice Keats rubbing at imagined smudges on his precious car while he avoids looking at us. Neil leans in, blocking my view of my driving instructor, and touches his lips to mine with gentle pressure, then angles his head to deepen the kiss while he grabs a handful of my butt. He’s smiling when he pulls away, probably at the goofy expression on my face after that breathtaking kiss.
“I’ll ‘booty call’ you later,” he tells me, voice loud like he wants Keats to hear him. Neil winks at me, the gesture invisible to the guy behind him, before getting into his Porsche and driving away.
“You coming?” Keats asks me before he slips into the passenger seat of his low sports car.
I bite my tongue as a dozen puns zip around my head. Grinning to myself, I get behind the wheel, and strap myself in. I turn in my seat when Keats doesn’t tell me to drive. He’s reclined in the bucket seat, arms crossed in front of him, jaw flexing.
“What?”
“If you’re not going to be ready, Hay-gen, you should call,” he says.
My hackles instantly rise. Talk about ruining my post-coital glow. “This from Mr Late-all-the-bloody-time?” I check my watch. “We made plans for eight. It’s ten past eight.”
He opens his mouth to retort, but shuts it again, his jaw working like he’s grinding his teeth.
“Just drive,” he says through a tight mouth.
Starting up the car, I adjust the seat and mirrors, now a well-practised routine. I shift the car into reverse and look out the back window, foot easy on the accelerator.
Keats remains gruff and brusque for the rest of the drive. “Change lanes.�
� “Turn there.” “Indicate.” “Head check.”
And thirty minutes later, we’re back in my car park.
“Stop here.” His tone remains flat, hand out for his car keys.
“That’s it?” We’ve been going for an hour recently. I turn the engine off but hang on to the slimline key. “You said last week I get to drive on the highway today.”
“You’re not ready.”
I cross my arms in front of me and glare at him. “Bullshit, I’m not.”
“It’s my call. Maybe next week. Give me the keys.”
“Why don’t you stop being a bitch, and just say why you’ve really got your knickers in a knot?”
“Just give me the damn keys.”
I study his face and the stiff set of his jaw. Gorgeous bastard looks good whatever his expression. It’s very frustrating.
I huff, shaking my head. “Don’t take it out on me just because I’m getting some and you’re not. Why don’t you treat yourself to an orgasm? I highly recommend it.” I exit the vehicle, trying to pull myself out of the bucket seat with as much grace as I can, considering how low and tight it is in there. It takes all my self-control not to slam his precious door. I hear Keats exit the vehicle behind me, his door shuts and his footsteps near.
“Hay-gen.”
“Come back when you’re normal,” I call over my shoulder.
A firm but gentle hand wraps around my wrist.
“What?”
“You still have my keys.” His tone is soft and when I look into his blue eyes, there’s a crinkle at the corners.
My lips twitch in response and a grin slowly cracks his features. We share a tentative laugh that breaks the tension.
“This is crazy,” he says, patting his own cheek twice like he’s trying to wake himself up. “You have anything for breakfast?”
“Bran.”
He makes a face. “I don’t do bran. The health benefits don’t outweigh the high TLS factor.”
“TLS?”
“Tastes like shit.”
I chuckle.
“Got anything else?”
“Nope.”
He grabs my wrist again before I can unlock the front door to the building.
“Let’s go. Grab breakfast.”
“Are you going to let me drive on the highway today?”
“No—you’re still not doing your head checks and changing lanes smoothly. But you can have another half hour of driving after breakfast.”
I falter, unsure whether I should protest him reneging on his promise about driving on faster roads.
“It’ll be the best breakfast you’ve ever had,” he adds, seeing my hesitation.
He takes the keys off me and leads us back down to his car. I guess he’s driving. But with the promise of “the best breakfast” ever, I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Where are we going?” I ask when we’re on Wynnum Road heading east.
“You’ll see.”
The ride falls into a comfortable silence while the car’s Bose sound system plays a Train album. After a while, the opening strains of Drive by comes on and I find myself really understanding its lyrics for the first time. My thoughts wander to my most recent sexual encounter—my only sexual encounter since I hooked up at last year’s New Year’s Eve party. I’m so glad my ten-month drought has finally been broken by the very fine Neil McReedy whose name makes me smile just thinking about it. He’s cute, he’s fun, the sex was good but…there was something missing.
Do I wish it was Keats ringing my bell repeatedly overnight? Hell, yes. Do I want to pass up on the chance to have multiple orgasms with a nice man? No. And maybe Neil will grow on me—especially since he’s got just enough naughty in him in bed.
The click of the indicator brings my attention back to my surroundings as Keats steers the car into a McDonald’s drive-thru at Capalaba.
“This is the best breakfast ever?”
“I’m not done. What are you having?” He indicates the menu board.
Oh, God. I haven’t eaten Maccas since I started my food programme. My stomach tightens in excitement, my mouth watering. It’s Mother’s Milk—the food of my childhood—a treat before Mum left, a staple after she did. My stomach grumbles before I can say, “No thanks.”
“Hit me with the sausage and egg McMuffin meal and some pancakes. With water.” I sound resigned, even to myself.
Keats grins like a devil who’s managed to snag another soul. “I’ll have the same, but with coffee.”
When our order’s in a huge brown paper bag and a cardboard cup holder on my lap, he gets back on the road. We pass by the sleepy suburb of Birkdale as the black car glides over the asphalt. Reaching a small roundabout T-intersection, Keats turns left and I begin to see glimpses of Moreton Bay beyond the houses that line both sides of the narrow, tree-lined street. Down the hill, the spit ends in a giant roundabout with a park in the middle. Today, there’s only a smattering of cars already there. Keats follows the road and stops by a wooden jetty sticking out into the sparkling water of the bay.
“Here we are. Wellington Point.” He looks out at the magnificent view beyond and smiles before letting himself out of his vehicle. I open my car door and a second later, he’s there to take the food off me, hand extended to help me climb out of the Audi. “Come on.”
I ignore his hand, not wanting him to realise how heavy I am, and push off my seat with my usual lack of grace. I follow Keats to the jetty as the fresh bay breeze greets me. The soft rays of the sun promise a beautiful day ahead while the cloudless cerulean sky meets the watery horizon like they’re the best of friends.
“Good morning,” an old man fishing off the jetty says with a friendly nod as we walk past him and his bucket that has two slimline fish swimming inside it. “Whiting,” he tells me with a smile.
I nod, mumbling a thanks while I quicken my pace to catch up to Keats who is almost at the end of the otherwise deserted jetty. When he gets to the very end, he sets down our paper bags of food on the wooden slats, laying out a blanket I didn’t realise he was carrying. I recognise it as the covering I used at the drive-in a few weeks ago. Once the makeshift picnic blanket is laid out, Keats places our food in the middle, then folds himself cross-legged on one edge of the cloth. He looks up at me with an easy smile afterwards, proud of himself.
“This is the best breakfast ever?” I ask as I sit myself across from him. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, self-conscious of my spare tyre because the waist of my skirt is surely punctuating my belly fat.
“Yeah. Great view, comfort food and great company. What more can you ask for?”
A side of making out would be good, I think, but I’m tickled that he likes having me around.
A seagull squawks, surprising me and we watch it land on the water and float on the gentle ripples on the surface. A couple of windsurfers provide a splash of colour against the glassy blue bay as they race across the water. Beyond them in the distance is a long dark green island with a great white patch on one end—perhaps the sand dune of Moreton Island?
Keats is right about the view.
“I guess it’s pretty good,” I concede, and it seems my reluctant answer is enough for him because he smiles and takes our food out of the paper bag.
Halfway through my hash brown, Keats breaks our comfortable silence with, “I’m sorry about this morning. You’re right—it’s been six months since…Going without sex till I get Isabella back seems like the right thing to do, but my penis is starting to hate me.”
When I look at him, he motions around his mouth and I realise I have hash brown crumbs on my face. As usual, these flecks fall on my chest as soon as I dislodge them. I pat those off too but one particularly pointy crumb falls into my top and I end up dipping into my shirt between my cleavage to take it out.
Oh, God. It’s the failed Taco Test all over again. But when I return my gaze to my companion, he looks amused, his lower lip lightly between his teeth.
“Sorry
. That happens a lot.”
He nods, face unreadable as he looks out to the water, sipping his coffee.
“You were saying? About your, um, penis?”
He chuckles. “Just that. You were right. I don’t know why I got all uptight about the whole thing with Neil. He seems like a nice guy…with a douche-y car.” He grins when I stiffen at his dig. “Is he like your boyfriend now?”
“No.” I might not know what Neil is yet, but it doesn’t feel like we’re exclusive. Especially not when my heart refuses to let go of the hope of being with the guy across the picnic blanket from me.
“How exactly does a guy get on your booty call list?” Keats asks, giving me a sideways glance as he rests his arms on his knees. A kite surfer leaps off the water’s surface in an amazing display.
“Why? Are you applying?” I banter, before taking a drink from my bottle of water.
“Maybe,” he replies with an impish curve to his lips.
Water half-sprays, half-dribbles out of my mouth but some make it down the wrong hole. Keats thumps me in the back a couple of times while my eyes water and my throat burns.
“I was kidding, Hay-gen,” he says with a little laugh.
Drats.
Chapter 23
Isabella picks me up from my apartment to make sure I’m not late. She texts me when she reaches the car park downstairs. I slip into the passenger seat, bag on my lap and check out her vehicle. Now that I’m close to being ready to take the practical driving test, I’ve started looking for potential cars for myself, and Isabella’s Mini Cooper is cute. Though I wouldn’t want to get the same ride as her like an obsessed stalker.
“Thanks for coming again, Jess. Though, next time Keats asks, could you please help me get out of it? I don’t think I should go swimming with him anymore.”
I consider telling her to fake a back injury. That stuff is easy to feign and hard to diagnose. But I don’t—I’ve enjoyed seeing Keats one to two more extra days a week for the last three weeks, and with me around, I can make sure his attempts to get her back are foiled. “If I’m around, you’re pretty safe.”
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