“It’s a nice place,” I comment hopefully to distract Keats from busting his tenants.
“It’s not bad.” He smiles proudly but doesn’t elaborate as we unbuckle our seatbelts to swap seats again.
I bet he can see the lit up buildings of the city from his balcony at night, and the New Year’s Eve fireworks along the Brisbane River.
“Did you live here with Linda?” I pry as I belt myself in behind the cool, flat-bottomed steering wheel.
He raises a brow at me. “Hell, no. I was already living at Mom’s when we met. I never even took Linda here.”
“I thought you two were serious.”
“I’m sure if she’d seen this place, she would’ve insisted we move in together so she could decorate my house with her stuff—start figuring out where to put a nursery.”
Poor Linda—undone by her own hubris.
I want to ask Keats what he’d do if Isabella wanted the same thing, but I know better than to ask a question I don’t want to hear the answer to. Instead, I opt to shut up while I position the mirrors to suit me. Putting my foot on the brake, I start the car. But as soon as I press on the accelerator, the car jerks forward. Surprised, I take my foot completely off the gas—a bad move on a downward slope.
“Brake!” Keats yells.
I do as he asks and stomp on the middle pedal, making us both whip forward, then back with inertia. I brace myself before I look at Keats. He is so going to chuck me out of his pricey car for good. But he actually flashes me a reassuring smile past the grimace on his face.
“It’s all right. Try it again. Gently.”
I do as he suggests and the vehicle glides forward—no screeching, no jerking.
“I’m doing it! I’m driving!” I yell, going at 30kph.
I look at Keats and whatever he sees on my face makes him chuckle. His smile makes me forget to pay attention to the road until he quickly grabs the steering wheel and straightens out the vehicle before I could mount the footpath.
“Eyes on the road, Hay-gen,” he reminds me but he doesn’t look mad at my lapse.
I look through the windshield and try to concentrate on keeping the car on the correct side of the street. “What? No yelling and recriminations?” I ask with a weak laugh.
“Don’t worry. I’ve just thought of a way you can compensate me for rough handling my car.”
“I’m a poor receptionist,” I tell him. There’s no way he’s getting his rich hands on my home deposit money courtesy of my Miz Peggy website.
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about monetary payment, Hay-gen.”
I take my eyes off the road again to try to read him. This sounds very bad. Or very, very good.
Chapter 13
“Ms. Wilsborough, this is Jess Hay-gen, my…cousin.”
I put on my best smile, almost sure there’s no stray lipstick on my teeth or an unnoticed stain on my dress. I extend a hand out to Keats’ boss’ wife, in a fair impression of Isabella at a meeting, I’m guessing. The woman glances at my attempt at a grown up handshake before presenting me the tips of her fingers pointing downwards.
Am I supposed to kiss one of her diamond rings? I turn to Keats whose smile looks frozen, but whose eyes seem to be indicating to me to take the proffered appendage.
“Good evening,” I greet her as my huge hand envelops hers. I pump it a few times for good measure. Beside me, Keats sounds like something got stuck in his throat, and coughs. When I look at him, he’s turning his face away but his eyes are suspiciously smiling like he’d covered up a chuckle with a cough.
“How do you do?” Keats’ boss’ stuffy wife replies, looking down the length of her nose at me—tricky, considering I’m way taller than her. That kind of snobbery must take years of practice. She turns to Keats. “No Isabella today?”
Isabella was the first and only girlfriend Keats has ever brought to one of these get-togethers. Talk about having tiny Christian Louboutin heels to fill. I feel like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters. And the queen is not impressed.
“She’s currently in London,” Keats hedges, conveniently leaving out the part where his then girlfriend is now engaged to his brother.
“What a shame. I love that girl. So much experience and wisdom for such a young woman.”
Keats nods and I get the usual zing of envy zip through my veins like an air bubble. It’s not Isabella’s fault she’s smarter and thinner than me, I remind myself. I stretch my closed mouth into a tight smile.
“You must bring her next time,” Ms Wilsborough says, a quick glance at me as if to tell Keats not to bring me in future.
I must not be rude to Wilsborough and walk out, I repeat in my head like a mantra. I did not buy an especially respectable Jackie O-style dress just to get fifteen minutes’ use out of it.
“And you, Jess, what do you do?”
I am very tempted to tell her I run a successful raunchy website that celebrates curvy to obese women. I doubt someone like her would ever have a need for such a service. Sour old woman looks like she’s too busy constantly sucking on lemons to ever get fat.
“I’m a receptionist.” I force a smile. In this room of high-powered executives, that doesn’t sound like much, especially considering I finished a Bachelor of Business degree and started there six years ago. Meanwhile, Jillie, who’s nineteen, and finished high school last year, is in the same job as me.
“Well…good for you,” Wilsborough says. “Excuse me, I see Enid.”
Ouch. I’m pretty sure I just got burnt. What an elitist cow.
I turn to Keats. “Your ‘cousin’?”
“If I’d said ‘friend’, they would have you and me married by tomorrow. That’d just be weird when I get back with Isabella.”
He said, “when”, not “if”. Cocky bastard. I shake
