With a jaw-cracking yawn, Ford rolled upright, eying the pale blue shirt hanging on his door. Did he even have the energy to button up the damn thing?
Last night, he and Julia had spent a pleasant enough evening eating takeaways picnic style at the small park opposite Due South. Afterward, Julia had claimed she needed to unpack, go for a run and then do an hour of Pilates, so Ford had returned home.
Today’s day-long date—and he used the term “date” instead of the more accurate description of “eight-hour-workout”—involved kayaking for two hours that morning, a tasteless protein shake that Julia insisted they eat for lunch and then a five-hour hike, which hey, Julia said would be more fun if they ran some of it.
His legs ached, and dammit, he was pretty certain he’d strained a muscle in his shoulder after Julia insisted on a pull up competition. The woman was an energiser bunny on steroids. He’d only just managed to evade her suggestion of a weight training session before dinner.
Ford limped to the door and dragged on the shirt. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair—having already showered and shaved pre his exhausted, twenty-minute Grandpa nap—curling his lip at his reflection.
“Boo-hoo you big pussy. Get it over with.”
Ford made it to Due South at five minutes after seven since he stopped to help Rhonda McCullum, one of his neighbors and the local school principal, carry in a load of firewood. Checking he’d brushed the last smattering of woodchips off his shirt, Ford slipped into the pub. Winter kept most of the tourists to a minimum, but there was still a few dotted around some of the smaller pub tables, soaking up the atmosphere of a dozen different simultaneous conversations held at a deafening level, plus the fragrance of spilled beer and eau de body odour.
His kinda place.
Ford nodded to a few mates as he edged through the crowd, checking out the gang’s usual corner spot near the mic set-up. Holly nursed a beer next to Piper and Kezia, with Ben sprawled on the other side, shooting the shit with Graham Barlow at a table over. Ford badly wanted to head in that direction and slide in next to Holly—who was deliberately studying her fingernails and keeping her gaze away from his direction.
He spotted Julia at the bar, back to him and apparently in deep conversation with his parents, who stood close together with identical expressions on their faces. The how do I excuse myself without being rude smile on his dad’s face shifted to relief when his gaze skipped behind Julia’s shoulder to Ford.
“With the research showing that red wine can improve physical performance and muscle strength, not to mention all those powerful antioxidants that can lower the risk of heart disease—” Julia swirled the contents of her wine glass and passed it under her nose. “I mean, you’d be insane to drink anything else.”
“Insane,” his dad echoed, clutching his beer mug close to his chest and shooting Ford a you poor bastard glance. “Oh, look, here’s Ford.”
Wine sloshed dangerously in her glass as Julia turned, wobbling slightly in the red strappy heels that matched her red strappy dress. “Ford, you naughty boy, you’re late. Lucky I found your mum and dad to talk to.”
Talked at, if his parents’ glazed eyes were anything to go by. He opted to ignore the naughty boy comment and notch it up to…God knows what. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t a baby talker. All bets were off if she disintegrated into babycakes or snookums.
“Sorry,” he said.
She fidgeted with the flimsy wrap thing draped around her shoulders. Was she oblivious that every other person in the room wore wool, fleece or layered combinations of the two? To be fair, wool and fleece wouldn’t show off her perfectly sculptured arms and shoulders. And the woman was stunning—her long blonde hair tumbling down her back, her perky breasts straining the dress’s stretchy confines. Stunning but nothing his dick sat up and begged for.
Behind Julia, his mum’s eyes narrowed into the universal maternal be nice warning. Yeah, Julia had travelled all the way down here—barring the fact he’d sprung for her hotel accommodation and for the ferry—so he’d do his best to make this evening as pleasant as possible. And then get the hell out.
“You look, um…” Nice? Pretty? Like your biceps could crush walnuts? Ford cleared his throat. “Ataahua—beautiful.” When cornered, change a clichéd description into Maori and it suddenly became fresh and complimentary.
Julia beamed.
His dad rolled his eyes hard enough to sprain them.
“We’ll leave you two to your evening, then.” His mum propelled his dad away, tossing a pitying glance back as Julia attached herself, limpet-like, to Ford’s side.
“You hungry?” Ford cast a sneaky glance down at his watch.
Only five minutes had passed since he’d last checked. Felt more like twenty-five.
“Starved.” Julia ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip, which shot a whole bunch of jitters through him. Not the pleasant kind, either—the kind of jitters he’d get if he discovered a Great White at the end of his fishing line instead of a snapper.
“Ah, good. I could eat, too.” Ford gently unhooked Julia’s fingers from his elbow. “Let’s head next door.”
He risked a last glance to the corner of the pub. Piper and Kezia were deep in conversation, Ben still talking to Graham and for a moment, Holly was focused solely on him, her eyebrows drawn together in a soft V, her full mouth thinned to a straight line. The sight of her in her plain blue sweater and knitted scarf wound around her throat made him ache in a way Julia’s sex-on-a-stick dress hadn’t.
Dragging his gaze away required more willpower than he possessed. The crowd closed around him, severing their last fleeting eye contact, destroying what remained of his appetite. Ford followed Julia out of the pub, a slow burn crawling up his neck.
No amount of food would satisfy his growing hunger for Holly.
***
Ford took a long pull on his beer—no way could he get through the rest of the evening sober—and wondered if Julia would ever, shut, up.
After she’d discussed in depth her dietary requirements, going through the menu item by item with his little cousin, Lani, their server tonight, Julia revived her most favourite-est topic…Julia.
In the past thirty-eight minutes since their meals arrived, Ford had learned about the woman’s diet, fitness routine, allergies and the dire results of what happened when said allergies flared up. Yeah, she over-shared. And apparently, it slipped her notice that Ford had yet to say more than a “be right back,” as he made another run at the salad bar.
Julia finally nibbled her last lettuce leaf and lined up her flatware on the empty plate.
Lani appeared like magic to clear it. “Can I tempt you both with dessert?”
Oh-bloody-hell-no.
Ford’s gaze slid from Lani’s demonic grin—and he’d kick his cousin’s butt later—to Julia’s pinched thoughtfulness.
“Not for me. I’m stuffed.” Ford patted his stomach, which, admittedly after steak, chips, and three helpings of salad did feel like a giant boulder had taken up residence. “Just a coffee. I’m cutting down on sugar.”
Lani’s gaze called bullshit, but she still had some remaining humanity inside her tough-as-a-lobster outer shell, and she angled her order pad toward Julia.
“And for you?”
“No dessert for me either, I’m sweet enough.” Julia winked—bona-fide winked—at him. “What herbal teas have you got?”
She chose one of the flowery-fruity combinations, and Lani left. Julia stood and leaned across table. “While we’re waiting, I’m going to pay a quick visit to the little girls’ room.”
Again with the oversharing…
Ford mustered a smile. “Okay.” Because what else could he say? Other than a plea to not go into any more detail about her urine color after trialing different vegetable juices?
“And while I’m there”—her voice dropped to a husky approximation of low and sexy—“I’ll get rid of my very restrictive thong.”
Since a fight o
r flight response paralyzed his vocal chords, Ford could only blink up at her. His stunned silence must have been perceived as encouragement, as Julia winked again and sashayed out of the dining room.
Ford snatched out his phone and fired a text to Holly.
Help!
The reply came a beat later.
Beatles. 1965. Too easy. Hope you and Jules are having a super time.
The steak and fried potatoes fought epically on the battleground of his stomach. Ford clenched his jaw and tried again.
Seriously, don’t be a mean girl. I need a wingman.
Thirty damn seconds passed before his phone buzzed again.
Try Ben. Or West. Or wolf up, sweet.
With a growl, Ford stuffed the phone into his pocket. What exactly Holly could do, he had no idea. He’d hoped in some desperation she could duck into the women’s bathroom and cut Julia off mid-thong-removal and…okay. A bad idea, all things considered.
Ford stood and headed to the restrooms. Time to “wolf up” as Holly suggested, and let Julia down easy.
The hallway was deserted, and Ford approached the door to the women’s bathroom with all the enthusiasm of a man heading for the gallows.
He knocked lightly. “Um, Julia?”
The door flung open, and Julia teetered out with a sex-me-up smile. Before he could think of a damn thing to say, he caught sight of a flash of red in her hands as she tucked something into his pants’ pocket.
“A souvenir,” she said.
His balls shrivelled to the size of walnuts as her fingers got a little too close to his junk. He grabbed her wrist before her hand delved any deeper into his pocket.
“Julia—”
Saying her name had the effect of a starter pistol. Her perky boobs mashed against his chest, and she wrapped her scarily strong arms around him like a boa constrictor. Then her lips slammed onto his, her tongue taking advantage of his shocked inhale by thrusting into his mouth. He tried to pull away, but Julia had a solid grip of his hair. Not to mention her leg hooked around his.
Ford grabbed a bony hipbone to prevent the squirming woman from dropping them both on their asses and ended up with a handful of muscular butt cheek—bare butt cheek. Even though he let go faster than passing a rugby ball, Julia moaned to rival a porn star.
Ford wrenched his mouth to the side, suspecting he’d lost a handful of his newly cut hair. He kept both hands off her body, bracing one on the wall behind her for balance, the other trying to unhook her fingers from his hair.
She ground against him, eyes still squeezed shut in what he assumed was lust.
“Julia, stop.”
His words seemed to penetrate the haze. Or maybe because her body registered the guy she was dry humping wasn’t humping her in return. Ford used her momentary distraction to peel away and step out of the danger zone.
Red lips pouted as she smoothed down her dress. “Not into PDA, I take it?”
If having her tongue shoved down his throat and her naked butt in his hand was only a PDA, he didn’t want to consider what she considered was the alternative.
She took his silence as agreement, but instead of being insulted, she smirked. “That’s okay. We can take the public out of the equation and head up to my room.”
Julia reached for him, but Ford grabbed her hand before she could latch onto him again.
“I don’t think so.” He released her, bending to pick up her evening wrap as an excuse to keep his distance.
Her brow crinkled then smoothed. “Oh, I get it.” She tipped her head toward the end of the hallway and the door leading into the pub. “Disappearing upstairs with me would set local tongues wagging.” She took the wrap he offered and draped it around her shoulders. “So let’s go to your place. There must be a back door around here somewhere?”
Call him the world’s biggest chicken shit, but conflict, especially conflict with a woman, turned his spine to jelly. Sniffing out the subtle stench of bat-shit-crazy had developed in him over the first five years of his life. He’d learned early to judge if a woman’s silence meant an oncoming shit-fest, or if she was merely mellow after scoring some better-quality weed.
“I’m sorry, Julia.” Ford softened his voice to the tenor he’d use on a skittish dog. One he suspected might take a chunk out of his leg if he made a wrong move. “It’s not going to happen with us.”
The crinkled brow returned, this time accompanied by a fishy lip pout. “Because of what people might think? We’re both consenting adults.”
“Not what I mean.” She wasn’t picking up on his not interested vibe. “You’re a very attractive woman, but…”
Julia’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to sleep with me?”
Sleep with her, bang her, touch her with a ten-foot-pole…yeah, she was getting his jam now.
“No.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. Shuddered after his fingers encountered lace. “I don’t think we’re compatible.”
The pout transformed into a cat-butt pucker. “We were compatible enough when you had your hand up my skirt and your tongue in my mouth.”
“Sorry.” Wisely not mentioning whose tongue had been in whose mouth, Ford pinched the thong between his fingers and dragged it out of his pants, dangling it in front of her.
Julia shoved his hand aside and stalked to the stairs, tossing over her shoulder, “Keep them and think about what you’re missing when you’re jacking off alone tonight.”
Behind him came a wave of sound as someone opened the pub door. Ford stuffed the thong into his pocket and turned. His dad sauntered down the hall, a huge grin stretching his face.
“Whatcha got there, boy?”
“Nothing.” And no way would he explain that nothing. “Just said goodnight to Julia.”
His dad paused by the men’s room, his dark eyes a mirror image of Ford’s, gleaming with repressed humor. “Bit early for bed, isn’t it? Or perhaps not…”
“Shut up. I need a drink.”
His dad struggled to keep a straight face. “You and me both. Looks as if I’m down twenty bucks since it’s not even nine o’clock and you’re bailing.”
Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. “Guess that means having a quiet drink in the pub is out.”
“Yep. I’d sneak out through the kitchen if I were you.”
“Gotta pay for dinner first. Maybe I’ll text Hol and get her to sneak me out a beer-to-go.”
Some of the humour slipped from his dad’s face. “She left about five minutes ago.”
Icicles slicked down Ford’s spine, coating each and every vertebrae. “She come this way?”
God, please say no. The thought of Holly stumbling onto him and Julia kissing—even though he sure as hell hadn’t kissed her back—made his gut lurch alarmingly.
“How should I know?” His dad opened the men’s room door. “Just saw her go past outside. Looked as if she was on her way home, in a hurry.” With a clap on the shoulder, he added, “So settle up and I’ll sneak you out a beer to go.”
Ford closed his eyes as the men’s room door squeaked shut. Somebody had cranked the volume up on the pub’s stereo system, pumping out a seventies rock ballad. The opening notes flowed over him, making his fingers itch to feel metal strings beneath them. Music soothed the savage breast, though he wondered if anything would soothe the ache Holly stirred in him.
***
Writteninthestars.com Daily Horoscope.
Pisces.
A friend or colleague hurts you, but things aren’t always what they seem. An opportunity for honesty arrives. Take it.
Men were assholes. Period.
Holly slammed into her house, heart colliding with her stomach that threatened to upend the one-and-a-half beers she’d had at the pub. She leaned against the door, as car headlights cut away from the wall and disappeared down the street. Graham Barlow had seen her barrelling along in the dark and had pulled over. He insisted on giving her a ride home. So, scratch that. Graham wasn’t an asshole, just Ford.
“Asshole, butthead, douchebag, sonovabitch. No offense, Denise.”
Holly marched into her kitchen and flung open the pantry door. Slammed it shut again when nothing leaped out hollering, “Eat me and you’ll feel better.” That left the fridge.
She dragged out her emergency stash and ripped open a brand new block of dark chocolate. Which she’d been saving for a Supernatural marathon, and now it was all Ford’s fault that she was gonna eat until she puked.
Because she was pissed—irrationally pissed, granted—but still pissed.
Holly broke off a chunk of chocolate and stuffed it into her mouth. Pissed and squicked out at catching Ford sucking face with Julia, his hand on her panty-less bum. The sweetness trickling down her throat jammed halfway, and she swallowed hard, blinking away hot tears.
Three sharp bangs came from the floor beneath her feet. “What’s going on up there?”
“Gonna take that broom away from you one day, old woman,” she said, then raised her voice. “Sorry.”
“No you’re not.” A beat of silence. “You crying and gobbling chocolate, girl?”
“No!” A cracked sob snuck out, and Holly clamped a hand over her mouth. It came away smeared with brown streaks. “A little.”
Great. Not only was she irrationally pissed over something she had no right to be pissed over, she was now a chocolate-binging, snivelling cow.
Three more bangs on her floor. “You come on down here now. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“You should be in bed asleep.”
“And miss all the fun? That’ll be the day. Now, get down here.”
Dixie’s solution to everything—tea and cookies. Holly blamed the old woman for fostering her crippling emotional dependency on sugar when life dumped another truckload of crap on her head.
Holly headed downstairs. She let herself into the hallway, and Diablo, Dixie’s black cat, wound around her ankles and nearly took her down in a twisted heap. “Dammit.”
Green eyes sparked disdain. He flicked his tail in the air in what Holly interpreted as a feline up yours gesture and squeezed through the cat door leading into the garage—where he stayed at night.
Playing For Fun Page 9