by Juliet Lyons
“How so?” I say, pressing a button on the door to open the window. In true British style, the weather has turned on a pin. It is heavy and humid, yet the sun is nowhere to be seen. The sky is a deep lilac as clouds gather ominously on the horizon.
“We moved in together, then we slept together, and now I’m meeting your mother.”
I smile, reaching across to smooth his mussed hair. “The first one won’t be forever.”
Though, God, I wish it were.
“Maybe when this is over, we can do things how people normally would,” he continues.
“What, sleep with me and then ignore my text messages?”
He glances over, eyes dark against the backdrop of the lilac sky. “No. I simply meant go on a date. Maybe the opera. I have a box, you know.”
“A box?”
“At the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Really? So that’s what you did for entertainment before me and the Netflix premium package arrived.”
He chuckles. “Yes, as it happens. Would it be your sort of thing?”
“Hmmm, let’s see—a dark room, a private box, and you. I think I could handle it. As long as there are Magnums.”
“Of champagne?”
“The ice cream.”
“Ah.”
The dense clouds disappear as we break away from the gray bulk of the city, a few silvery threads of light peeking through the clouds here and there. On one of the Porsche’s tiny backseats is a large bunch of flowers. The stuffy air is filled with the rampant scent of lilies, roses, and gerberas. Vincent had them delivered earlier. Not for me, and not even for my cousin Elizabeth, whose engagement party we’re attending, but for my mother. The guy buys flowers for mothers.
“It’s the right thing to do,” he said when I came out of the bedroom to find the ginormous spray covering most of the kitchen counter. “I’m your pretend boyfriend meeting your mother for the first time. Don’t all young folks offer a gift when they meet a loved one’s family?”
Davies snorted in derision from his position on the couch. He’d already made himself at home, cramming sour cream Pringles into his mouth with one hand and channel-hopping with the other. “Only if you’ve knocked up their daughter,” he said cynically, shaking his head. “Jesus, Vince, this is the twenty-first century, not Pride and Prejudice.”
“Well, I think it’s really sweet,” I said, glaring at Davies. “Plus, it might overwhelm her so she won’t ask too many questions about how we met.”
Vincent nodded, flashing me a secret smile, and I’d swayed a little toward him, unsteady in my heels.
Back in the present, I smooth down the full skirt of my two-tone dress. The bottom half is sugar pink and lacy, falling just below my knees, and the top half is white satin, the sleeveless style showing off the last of my Australian tan. I had worried it was too fussy and princess-like—it’s not really a sexy dress—but Vincent’s face when I’d stumbled out from the bedroom laid those fears to rest. For the first time in my whole life, a man looked at me as if I were the sun rising over the mountains. The cold beer he’d just retrieved from the fridge for Lee Davies slid through his fingers and smashed on the floor, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a symbol of broken things to come. Things like my heart.
“Has Burke made any progress with the case?” I ask, thinking perhaps Lee Davies had brought information with him.
“Burke hasn’t, no, but I’m waiting on some new leads. Going through the official channels is always time-consuming.”
I nod, staring out of the car window as the hills roll by, moss green and endless. The notion of Jeremiah Lopez being brought to justice fills me with fresh dread now that I know Vincent will be the one dispensing his punishment.
I feel Vincent’s eyes on me. “Mila, do you mind me asking something? You’ve never mentioned your father. Will he be at the party?”
My mouth goes dry. I get the same slapped-in-the-face feeling I always do when I’m asked about him. Most of the time I prefer to pretend he doesn’t exist.
“No. He left us years ago when I was thirteen. He lives up north somewhere—with a new family.”
A dent appears in Vincent’s brow. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mila.”
I wave a hand dismissively, the gesture I’ve been making since my teens. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t miss him.”
Vincent’s eyes are soft. “Were you very distressed? When it happened?”
“Yes. Particularly because I was always a daddy’s girl. But I wasn’t hit as hard as my mother. She was devastated. Luckily I’m the youngest, and we were all old enough to fend for ourselves.”
He places a hand on my knee, as if his touch might melt away the hurt of the past.
Before Laura did interior design, she studied psychology at university. Once she suggested that my appalling dating history isn’t bad luck at all; instead, I subconsciously pick unsuitable men as a way of replicating the pattern of my childhood—growing close to a man and then having him leave me. The conversation caused one of the biggest arguments we’ve ever had. But sometimes, I wonder if it’s true. Maybe this relationship with Vincent is an extension of the pattern. After all, there’s no future with a man who won’t age, who can’t give me a family.
Suddenly my mood is darker than the clouds on the horizon.
Vincent squeezes my leg. “I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t ask you about it right before a party.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, covering his smooth, golden hand with mine. “I like sharing things with you.”
He smiles, lifting his knuckles so our fingers lock together. “I like sharing things with you too.”
When we arrive, the party is in full swing. A few people I’ve never met are hanging around outside the front doors, smoking and laughing as the strains of an acoustic guitar drift out from the hall.
Although the music doesn’t stop when we walk in, what feels like a million heads swivel in our direction. I can almost hear their thoughts—Mila, romantic pariah, has a man on her arm at last.
The spacious hall is low lit and decked out in pink and white balloons, strings of heart-shaped fairy lights strung across the ceiling. It isn’t long before Mum appears, cutting across the room faster than a puppy chasing a pork chop. She never got to meet Scott the douchebag, so she’s hungry for this. And let’s face it, Vincent is unlikely to disappoint.
Mum—who is five foot five like me—never wears heels, so she has to lean back to gander at the handsome man clutching the ridiculously large bunch of flowers. She is so mesmerized she completely forgets to greet me.
“Are you Vincent?” she asks, extending a hand. From the hopeful note in her voice, you’d think she’s meeting Jesus Christ himself.
“I am,” he says, taking her small, pudgy hand in his long, tapered fingers. “You must be Mrs. Hart, Mila’s mother?”
Mum nods, her free hand resting limply at the base of her throat. “I don’t think Mila’s ever been out with anyone who wears suits before.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I have, Mum,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
But neither of them is listening. Vincent holds out the bouquet. “These are for you, Mrs. Hart. Mila already has a gift for the happy couple, but I wanted to express how sincerely pleased I am to meet you.”
Mum eyes the flowers as if he’s holding out a million-dollar check, her eyes glassy with moisture. “That is so kind,” she says, patting her short bobbed hair and accepting the bouquet.
Then without so much as a nod in my direction, she grabs him by the elbow. “Come and meet the family.”
Vincent pauses to flash me a brief smile before allowing her to manhandle him across the room. He disappears into a melee of elderly relatives who swoop like wasps around a candy wrapper.
So there it is. Now my mother will probably never ge
t over him either. Maybe we can form a support group.
Someone taps my shoulder. “Ahem.”
I whirl around to find Laura and Tom standing behind me. Judging by the bottle of champagne Tom is holding, they’ve only just arrived too.
“Laura!” It feels like years since I last saw her. We hug fiercely for a few seconds before she breaks away, her eyes sweeping the room like searchlights.
“Where is he?” she demands as I give Tom a quick hug.
“Over there,” I say, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the table full of elderly relatives where Vincent is holding court.
I delight in watching Laura’s jaw drop. “Holy mother of God, angels walk among us.”
“Laura,” Tom says, smiling awkwardly. “Your husband is in the room.”
“Is he?” she says, her wide eyes fixed on Vincent. She smooths down her shiny, dark hair. “He’s exactly as I pictured he would be.”
Tom looks faintly appalled. “When exactly have you been doing this picturing?”
“Oh relax, Tom, you know I don’t go for blonds.”
Tom shakes his head and smiles, but when he looks away, Laura feigns a swoon, fanning herself with her hand.
“Seeing as my wife is incapacitated by another man’s beauty, I’ll go say hi to our hosts,” Tom says good-naturedly, heading over to the table laden with gifts and depositing the champagne.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Laura’s head swivels back around. “So tell me everything that’s happened since we last spoke.”
I drag her outside, where the smokers are puffing away, and tell her as discreetly as I can about our night of all-consuming passion.
“What did he say about the future?” she demands. “Would he be willing to adopt?”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Do you really think I’m going to ask him if he wants children when we haven’t even been on a date?”
Laura quirks a smile. “Not even a date and you’re shagging. So much for The Rules. Did he bite you?”
“No. But I wanted him to. I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do with him.”
She sighs dreamily. “I love relationship beginnings.”
“We don’t know this is the beginning of anything. Besides, you’re forgetting I’m usually about the endings. Lots and lots of endings.”
But Laura isn’t listening; she’s leaning backward and peering into the party. “Geez, the old people still have him hostage in there. I’m going to go and introduce myself.”
“What?”
But it’s too late—she’s already swanning confidently across the room. I didn’t even remind her to play it cool.
As it transpires, I don’t have time to worry about what she might be saying. I’m soon swept up into a million conversations with relatives I haven’t seen since before I left for Australia. At one point, I briefly glimpse Laura sitting with Vincent. His eyes are creased at the corners, and he laughs as my best friend wildly gesticulates some unheard story. I dread to think what it’s about. The time whizzes by—each time I try to seek out Vincent, another person accosts me. Laura and Tom make it back to me before he does.
“I like him,” Laura says grinning.
I narrow my eyes. “What did you say?”
“I just told him a few stories about our misspent youth. Don’t worry,” she adds as my eyes widen. “Nothing about guys. He really likes you, Mila. He was lapping it up faster than an alcoholic at a wine tasting. Even Tom thinks he’s into you.”
Tom cocks a brow. “Men don’t do family unless they’re serious.”
“Not even under duress?” I say, assuming Laura’s told him about the police protection.
Tom shrugs. “He doesn’t have to talk to them. He could protect you just as well from the sidelines.”
I’m about to respond when the microphone on stage whines sharply and the singer of the band announces they’re going to play the bride- and groom-to-be’s favorite song. Instinctively I begin to shuffle backward. Our family occasions always seem to involve a slow dance. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to sway about with Great Aunt Eileen to “Lady in Red.”
But tonight is different. I hear a deep cough, and when I glance over my shoulder, Vincent is standing a few feet away. He smiles at me through dark-blond lashes, eyes glittering beneath the fairy lights like blue diamonds.
“I thought I’d lost you,” I say, unable to keep a huge grin from breaking out across my face. “What were you talking about for so long? Bingo tips? The merits of rationing during World War II?”
He lifts an index finger, eyes narrowed playfully. “Did you know your uncle Patrick thinks he was Napoleon in a past life?”
I burst out laughing. “I should have warned you about that.”
The song begins and the people around us start swaying from side to side like pendulums.
“Shall we?” Vincent asks, holding out his hand, palm up.
It’s the easiest question I’ve ever had to answer. I step toward him and lay my hand in his. “Don’t expect me to be able to waltz, Mr. Son of a Duke. Because ‘La Macarena’ is about the limit of my dancing abilities.”
“Isn’t that a village in Andalucía?” he asks, curling warm fingers around mine.
“No, it’s a dance song.”
In my heels, my head fits perfectly into the gap between his shoulder and chin. I loop my arms around him, brushing the hairs at the nape of his neck, the skin at his collar velvety soft beneath my fingertips. His scent is both comforting and arousing—freshly ironed clothes and cologne, a hint of leather. He releases a faint sigh as he holds me lightly around the waist, the warmth from his hands searing through my dress.
Even though we spent the best part of last night and most of today naked in each other’s arms, there is an intimacy, a vulnerability to dancing that seems distinct from all that. It feels a little like we’re strangers again, staring at each other in the darkness of a police car. I blush as fiercely as I did that night as we begin to sway in time to the music, my heart pounding against his chest as our bodies inch closer.
Though it’s true I’m not much of a dancer, I needn’t have worried. He moves for the both of us, graceful and long-limbed, turning me so that the lacy skirt of my dress fans out around us in a frothy halo. I forget there are other people on the dance floor, losing myself in a sea of him.
“Vincent?” I whisper into the collar of his shirt.
He glances down at me, golden lashes feathered on angular cheekbones, his eyes glazed and drowsy. “Yes?”
“I was thinking how this party would have gone if what happened between us didn’t happen. I might be dancing with Great Aunt Eileen by now.”
He chuckles, his chest vibrating against my chin. “I still would have asked you to dance. Would you have accepted?”
“Yes. You know, for appearance’s sake.”
We smile and he slowly ducks his head, capturing my lips with his.
“By the way, I’m going to have to arrest you later,” he murmurs into my lips. “Laura informed me about the stolen Pokémon cards racket when you were eleven.”
“Oh,” I say, eyes wide. “Well, be sure to use the handcuffs on me. I’ll come quietly if you do.”
Leaning down to my ear, he whispers, “There’ll be no coming quietly if I have any say in the matter.” He presses himself against me, making sure I get the meaning.
“Let’s leave,” I say, my whole body growing unbearably hot and heavy. “As soon as the song ends, we’ll slip out.”
“Okay. Though I’ll have to say a quick goodbye to your mother.”
I roll my eyes. “She has the flowers. You’re already her benchmark of potential son-in-law perfection.”
He chuckles. “It’s only polite.”
After the dance, it takes us a while to extract ourselves from th
e gaggle of relatives who gather around to say goodbye. I guess they think it might be another three years before they see me again and possibly a whole lifetime before I bring another boyfriend to a party.
When we finally make it back to the car, I’m surprised to discover it’s still light out. A glowing blue sky shot with silvery streaks of cloud. “Do you think Davies might have fallen asleep by now?” I ask.
“I hope so. If not, go straight to my room—it’s farthest away from the lounge—and I’ll meet you there after ten minutes.”
I smile. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
He leans in, fastening soft lips to mine. “I couldn’t wait if I tried.”
* * *
Back at the apartment, Davies is sprawled out across the sofa in a bathrobe. The TV is blaring, the sound of machine gun fire erupting from the speakers. He barely rouses as we enter the room.
“Good party?” he asks eventually, eyes still glued to the screen.
“Yes, thanks,” Vincent says, frowning at the TV. “Let me guess—Die Hard?”
“Back to back. I’m on Die Hard 2.”
I stretch my arms in an exaggerated way. “Well, I’m beat. I’ll leave you boys to it.”
Vincent stares at Lee meaningfully. “I think I’ll turn in too. Maybe I’ll call Catherine and see if she has any information for me.”
Lee ignores us. Another explosion erupts from the screen, casting Davies’s plump face in a yellow glow. While the going is good, I make a dash for the bedrooms, Vincent hot on my tail.
Just as the door is about to click softly shut behind us, Lee says loudly, “Have a good shag, you two.”
Vincent’s broad-shouldered frame stiffens, but he keeps walking. We make it to his bedroom before dissolving into fits of laughter.
“So much for being subtle,” I say, sweeping my gaze over Vincent’s things.
The room is almost double the size of the guest room and painted in a soft shade of forest green. A huge rosewood bed with beautifully carved rolled ends takes center stage, white sheets and a diamond quilt coverlet stretched across it. Beneath the window is an ancient-looking chest of drawers, several black-and-white photographs in small frames arranged on top. Unlike the other rooms, thick and expensive gold carpet covers the floor.