There’s a flurry of white followed by, “You bastard!” as the redhead bride runs past me, and hits Keats on the back with her bouquet.
He turns around, arms up at chest level, not doing much to stop her as she sends delicate petals flying with each pound on his chest. Thank God for the fashion show—or there would’ve been a bigger crowd to witness this attack. I take a step towards them, intent on pulling the crazy woman off Keats but she starts yelling at him, so I hang back. Obviously, they know each other, and he probably deserves it.
“You arsehole. You told me you were never getting married and you’re here at a wedding expo less than a year later?” She hits him again with her bouquet, sending the last petal flying down to my shoe. Noticing her flowers are down to their stems, she pegs the bunch at his head.
Keats just manages to duck out of harm’s way. “You ended it,” he points out, hands up with palms out like he’s trying to calm a raging beast. He surveys the crowd with a frown, probably wishing they would all mind their own business.
“You said you weren’t the ‘marrying kind’!” She breathes hard through her mouth, her perfectly made up eyes glowering at him and conveying more than words ever could. Pillbox hat now unfashionably askew, the wedding gown model turns her attention to me. She gives me a slow once over with a disgusted expression on her symmetrical face. “This is who you’ve chosen to marry?”
I take a menacing step towards her—pinning her with a glare that should tell her I wasn’t “raised right” and my uncouth side is just under the surface, ready to bust out. I could so snap her slender frame, or at least pull out some hair. She seems to realise she’s crossed a line with me and backs off with an unintelligible sound of frustration before she turns on her heels and storms off in a huff.
Keats releases a sharp exhale as soon as she’s gone. I slowly walk up to him, hoping he didn’t see me with my hackles up.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He nods, straightening out his light jacket and brushing pollen off his clothes. “Lucky she wasn’t carrying thorny roses.”
I study him. He looks tired and a little ashen, despite his attempt at a joke. My muscles tense from stopping myself from giving him a hug.
“I’m all right, Hay-gen. Honestly,” he reassures me. “This ain’t my first rodeo, you know.”
I nod, somewhat appeased by his Oklahoma accent and his sexy phrasing.
“So, you’re used to ex-girlfriends attacking you in public?” I ask as we briskly walk away to leave the stunned gawkers behind.
He shakes his head. “Not quite. But if you thought she was bad, you should meet some of the ones I dumped.” He pulls a yikes face, the colour returning to his cheeks.
I chuckle. “Is that how you dodged the bouquet today?”
“Yep, lots of practice.” He holds the exhibition hall side exit door for me and waits till I’m through before exiting himself—the way he so casually did it shows this gentlemanly gesture is well-practised. “That’s mainly why I don’t like breaking up with women in person any more—too dangerous. I’m one of those assholes who texts or emails his goodbyes.”
I turn my head to study him again. I don’t think he’s kidding.
“A mass email, I bet,” I say with a sideways glance.
He chuckles. “Hey, I might be an asshole, but I’m not a cheater. One woman at a time—single file.”
I roll my eyes, shaking my head, and his laugh tells me that’s exactly the reaction he was after.
“So, who was that nutter?” I venture as we enter the stairwell to the car park.
“Linda—my ex before Isabella.” He seems to read the curiosity on my face because he says, “Don’t ask.”
I nod, falling silent to my thoughts as we make our way to his car. I could think of this in two ways. One, he is used to dating gorgeous women—models for God’s sake!—and I have no chance with him. Or two, he used to go out with models and then he went out with an ex-chubby nerd like Isabella. I might have a chance here after all.
I’m smiling and optimistic by the time I’m seated in his sports car.
Chapter 8
Early-May
How could I have missed that sports bra?
It’s bright pink, with a cup size that could accommodate a small child’s head. It had obviously fallen out of my gym bag when I’d grabbed it to chuck it into my bedroom. I hadn’t noticed it in my mad dash to give Keats the impression that I’m a tidy person. Now that my neat freak roommate has moved out to live with her boyfriend, my little flat is deteriorating into the proverbial pig sty.
Hog-gen living in a pig sty—the arseholes in high school would’ve loved that.
Keats picks up my pink bra off the floor, and hangs it on my door knob, like some dormitory code that someone’s getting lucky on the other side. Without missing a beat, he strolls over to my bookshelf, and starts perusing my DVD and Blu Ray collection, and the few chick lit novels I have there.
Why couldn’t I have something edgier like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo or something classier like a novel by Paolo Coelho? Oh that’s right, I’m neither edgy nor classy.
Keats stops in front of a framed photograph of me with a skinny blond guy with a mullet. Behind us, the purple-blue spring sky of a clear Brisbane day provides a contrast to the mauve jacaranda tree to my right.
“That’s my brother, Kris. He lives in Sydney now.” I’m so glad I haven’t framed and displayed my photo booth shots with Keats. Nope, they’re tucked away where he’ll never go—my bedroom goodie drawer. My favourite one is of him smiling
