“Just a guy from work,” I explain with faked nonchalance like I get male attention all the time.
His eyebrow goes down.
“Yeah, I’m kinda sleeping with him.”
And the eyebrow goes up again. Keats leans a forearm against my doorframe. I seem to have his full attention now.
“Oh. I didn’t realise…What about Byron?”
Shit. Good point. “Well, um…” Lie faster! “I can’t just wait around for him forever. And besides it’s not that serious with Neil. I just sometimes, um, you know, use him for sex.”
Shut up, Jess!
But my self-preservation instincts are in control. Besides, Keats’ expression is totally intrigued, and for the first time, I don’t feel so unwanted around him. Which is saying something since the whole relationship with “Neil” is made up.
Keats’ jaw actually drops at my last comment. Shit. I’ve definitely just revealed another of my rough edges. I can’t imagine Isabella talking about her sex life like this—being “raised right” and all. Too late now.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you in three weeks for my first driving lesson.” I give him a final light shove out my door, just to touch him.
Keats nods, light blue eyes a little distant like he’s distracted. “Yeah, see you then, Hay-gen.”
Chapter 11
“How’s that one?” I ask Jillie after she bites into a slice of mud cake. I’m not tasting any baked goods myself. Jillie might not do monogamy and weddings, but she does free cake tasting. And since she’s one of those people who can eat me under the table without gaining any extra weight, I brought her along to help me choose Isabella’s cake. Besides, Jillie and I have spent enough time together in the past, making our way through the dessert menus of several establishments, for me to know we like the same things.
“Hm,” she groans, eyes shut and face scrunched up like she’s in the middle of an orgasm. She stuffs the whole slice into her mouth.
“So, that’s a ten.” I scribble a note in my little notebook, ignoring the increased saliva production in my mouth as it remembers what rich mud cake tastes like. Jillie and I don’t often get the chance to be away from the Styler building’s lobby—otherwise known as “where dreams go to die”. I have a late start today, so she’s taken an early lunch to be here.
“You have to try this, Jess,” Jillie says, holding the slice dangerously close to my face. If she’s not careful, she could lose a hand.
The rich, chocolate dessert draws me. Just a little bite…No, I have to stay strong. I want to look fabulous for Isabella’s wedding. Especially for my photo with Keats. The thought of looking svelte and gorgeous next to him has been good motivation for me to tone up. And I’m sticking to it.
“No thanks.” I lean away from the tempting dessert. I have just one more week before my driving lesson with him. I want him to notice the difference in my appearance when he sees me after almost three weeks apart. “I’ve already lost ten kilos since January—just another fifteen and I’ll be in my healthy weight range for my height.” This has been my most successful diet to date. And I’m going to cling on to anything that helps me stick to the ration the diet company sends me. “So, which one do you like best so far?”
“All of them,” Jillie says around a mouthful, treating me to a view of half-masticated mud cake.
“Isabella only wants five layers on her cake.”
“Only five? My cousin bought a mud cake from the supermarket for her wedding.”
Jillie’s cousin also had her reception at her caravan park—I can just imagine Keats calling it a “trailer park”—but I don’t bother pointing that out. Besides, who am I to judge? My family was a few days away from moving into our own caravan until the government finally granted us a rundown Housing Commission property. “Isabella’s inviting a few more people than your cousin.”
“Oh, can I be your plus one? I mean, it’s not like you need it.”
“Thanks a lot, Jillie.”
“What? I meant ’cause you want to go with the best man, so you have a spare plus one.”
“Oh, well, I can’t invite anyone. It’s close family and friends only. Isabella sent me the guest list yesterday. She’s sent out the first lot of invitations already and I am the contact person for RSVPs and queries. She didn’t want people to deal with the time zone difference.”
“That sucks. You’re doing so much work for her wedding.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’m actually enjoying planning. Like, cake tasting’s pretty fun. Oh and wedding bouquets are so beautiful. Whether the marriages last or not, there’s just something magical about weddings, don’t you think?”
She stares at me wide-eyed, jaw slack. “You are so in love with Keats McAllister.”
“What?” My cheeks burn. When did this happen on a regular basis? I was never a blusher. I’ve become an emotional mess with unfamiliar feelings leaking out of my pores in public.
“Yeah. You want to marry him, don’t you?” Jillie says this in a singsong voice like we’re in a playground in primary school.
I look around, suddenly worried that strangers who somehow know Keats might hear. “I don’t believe in marriage.”
Jillie places a hand on my arm, and with the earnestness that only slightly bulging eyes could communicate, says, “But marriage believes in you.”
My stomach knots as her words hit me like a slap in the face to wake up.
Jillie bursts out laughing. “I was kidding. God, you should see your face. You look like I insulted you.”
“Yeah,” I say distractedly because her off-hand comment has planted the smallest niggle of doubt in my mind about my plan to bed Keats and cross him off my To Do list (pun totally intended). What if I do get in his pants and I’m unable to walk away first? I need to be the one who ends things. No question about it. It’s always easier to be the
