Wedding Night
Page 50
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“How long ago was it?”
“Still happening.” My smile broadens. “Should be sorted soon.”
“And you’re smiling?” He sounds incredulous.
“I like to be Zen about it.” I nod several times. “Stay calm, move on. Look on the bright side. Don’t dwell.”
“Wow.” Lorcan’s eyes have widened. “I’m impressed. Mine was four years ago. Still hurts.”
“That’s a real pity,” I manage. “Poor you.”
My fake smile is nearly killing me. I want to ask him how it still hurts and what happened and shall we compare ways in which our exes are total louses? I’m desperate to spill out all the details and talk incessantly about it until I hear from him what I need to hear, i.e., that I’m in the right about everything and Daniel is in the wrong.
Which, no doubt, is why Barnaby gave me a talking-to.
He’s always right. Bastard.
“So. Um. Shall I get some more drinks?” I reach for my bag and hurriedly pull out my purse.
Argh. No.
The purse flipped up as I tugged it out and with it came the contents of my Durex variety pack. Ribbed for Extra Pleasure falls on the table, and a Pleasuremax lands in Lorcan’s drink, splashing him in the face. A Fetherlite has fallen on top of our bowl of peanuts.
“Oh!” I quickly start grabbing them. “Those aren’t—They were for my son’s school project.”
“Ah.” Lorcan nods, politely retrieving the Pleasuremax from his drink and handing it to me. “How old’s your son?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?” He looks scandalized.
“It’s … Long story.” I wince as he hands me the dripping condom. “Let me get you another drink. I’m so sorry.” Automatically I’ve started drying the Pleasuremax with a paper napkin.
“I’d probably chuck that one,” says Lorcan. “Unless you’re desperate.”
I glance up sharply. He looks deadpan but there’s something about his voice that makes me want to laugh.
“It’s fine,” I counter. “Waste not, want not.” I stuff it back into my bag. “Another gin? Without the contraceptive garnish?”
“I’ll get them.” He leans back, tilting his chair to signal at the waiter, and I find my eyes running over his long, lean body. I don’t know if it’s the gin or the frisson of having told him he’s good in bed or this whole weird situation, but I’m becoming a little fixated. I’m mapping myself onto him in my head. Bit by bit. What would those hands feel like on my skin? What would his hair feel like between my fingers? His jaw is faintly stubbled, which is good. I like friction. I like spark. That’s what I’m feeling between us. The right kind of spark.
I predict he’s slow and determined in bed. Focused. Takes sex as seriously as he takes fixing his friend’s love life.
Did I just say predict? What exactly am I thinking myself into here?
As Lorcan lets the chair rest back on the ground, he looks at me and his eyelids flicker. He’s thinking something too. His eyes keep skimming over my legs and I casually shift in my seat so that my skirt rucks a little higher.
I bet he leaves teeth marks. No idea why. I just feel it instinctively.
I don’t know what to say. I can’t find any breezy conversational gambits in my head. I want to drink two more gins, I decide. Two gins should do it. And then …
“So.” I break the silence.
“So.” Lorcan nods, then adds casually, “Do you have to get back for your son?”
“Not tonight. He’s sleeping over at a friend’s.”
“Ah.”
And now he looks directly at me and my throat is suddenly tight with longing. It’s been too long. Far too long. Not that I’ll admit that to him. If he asks, I’ll say casually, Oh, I had a recent short-term relationship that didn’t work out. Easy. Normal. Not: I’ve been so alone, so stressed, I’m totally gagging for it, not just the sex but the touching and the intimacy and the feeling of another human being beside me, holding me, even if it’s only for a night or half a night or some portion of a night.
That’s what I won’t say.
A waitress comes up with our fresh drinks. She sets them down and then eyes my bouquet, followed by Lorcan’s buttonhole. “Oh! Are you two getting married?”
I can’t help bursting into laughter. Of all the questions.
“No. No. Not at all.”
“Definitely not,” Lorcan affirms.
“Only we have a special champagne deal for wedding parties,” she persists. “We get so many, what with the registry office down the road. Are you being joined by the bride and groom?”
“Still happening.” My smile broadens. “Should be sorted soon.”
“And you’re smiling?” He sounds incredulous.
“I like to be Zen about it.” I nod several times. “Stay calm, move on. Look on the bright side. Don’t dwell.”
“Wow.” Lorcan’s eyes have widened. “I’m impressed. Mine was four years ago. Still hurts.”
“That’s a real pity,” I manage. “Poor you.”
My fake smile is nearly killing me. I want to ask him how it still hurts and what happened and shall we compare ways in which our exes are total louses? I’m desperate to spill out all the details and talk incessantly about it until I hear from him what I need to hear, i.e., that I’m in the right about everything and Daniel is in the wrong.
Which, no doubt, is why Barnaby gave me a talking-to.
He’s always right. Bastard.
“So. Um. Shall I get some more drinks?” I reach for my bag and hurriedly pull out my purse.
Argh. No.
The purse flipped up as I tugged it out and with it came the contents of my Durex variety pack. Ribbed for Extra Pleasure falls on the table, and a Pleasuremax lands in Lorcan’s drink, splashing him in the face. A Fetherlite has fallen on top of our bowl of peanuts.
“Oh!” I quickly start grabbing them. “Those aren’t—They were for my son’s school project.”
“Ah.” Lorcan nods, politely retrieving the Pleasuremax from his drink and handing it to me. “How old’s your son?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?” He looks scandalized.
“It’s … Long story.” I wince as he hands me the dripping condom. “Let me get you another drink. I’m so sorry.” Automatically I’ve started drying the Pleasuremax with a paper napkin.
“I’d probably chuck that one,” says Lorcan. “Unless you’re desperate.”
I glance up sharply. He looks deadpan but there’s something about his voice that makes me want to laugh.
“It’s fine,” I counter. “Waste not, want not.” I stuff it back into my bag. “Another gin? Without the contraceptive garnish?”
“I’ll get them.” He leans back, tilting his chair to signal at the waiter, and I find my eyes running over his long, lean body. I don’t know if it’s the gin or the frisson of having told him he’s good in bed or this whole weird situation, but I’m becoming a little fixated. I’m mapping myself onto him in my head. Bit by bit. What would those hands feel like on my skin? What would his hair feel like between my fingers? His jaw is faintly stubbled, which is good. I like friction. I like spark. That’s what I’m feeling between us. The right kind of spark.
I predict he’s slow and determined in bed. Focused. Takes sex as seriously as he takes fixing his friend’s love life.
Did I just say predict? What exactly am I thinking myself into here?
As Lorcan lets the chair rest back on the ground, he looks at me and his eyelids flicker. He’s thinking something too. His eyes keep skimming over my legs and I casually shift in my seat so that my skirt rucks a little higher.
I bet he leaves teeth marks. No idea why. I just feel it instinctively.
I don’t know what to say. I can’t find any breezy conversational gambits in my head. I want to drink two more gins, I decide. Two gins should do it. And then …
“So.” I break the silence.
“So.” Lorcan nods, then adds casually, “Do you have to get back for your son?”
“Not tonight. He’s sleeping over at a friend’s.”
“Ah.”
And now he looks directly at me and my throat is suddenly tight with longing. It’s been too long. Far too long. Not that I’ll admit that to him. If he asks, I’ll say casually, Oh, I had a recent short-term relationship that didn’t work out. Easy. Normal. Not: I’ve been so alone, so stressed, I’m totally gagging for it, not just the sex but the touching and the intimacy and the feeling of another human being beside me, holding me, even if it’s only for a night or half a night or some portion of a night.
That’s what I won’t say.
A waitress comes up with our fresh drinks. She sets them down and then eyes my bouquet, followed by Lorcan’s buttonhole. “Oh! Are you two getting married?”
I can’t help bursting into laughter. Of all the questions.
“No. No. Not at all.”
“Definitely not,” Lorcan affirms.
“Only we have a special champagne deal for wedding parties,” she persists. “We get so many, what with the registry office down the road. Are you being joined by the bride and groom?”
