“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” one of the servers announces while Ms Wilsborough smiles at her guests magnanimously.
God, I wish I hadn’t given up drinking. This is going to be a long night.
The first course takes forever to arrive. Or at least it feels like it listening to Keats’ boss’ wife regale us with stories that everyone at the table who isn’t a newbie like me has probably heard before. And it’s like no one talks unless spoken to. Who does she think she is? The Queen?
“Do me a favour, Keats,” I say, leaning in to whisper to him while Wilsborough is telling everyone about her garden, like the topic of grass growing could maintain an audience for more than a minute. “Don’t ever invite me to one of these again. I know how to fiddle around with cars to make it look like an accident.”
He chuckles, but his eyes flick over my face to check if I’m serious.
“Care to share it with us, Ms…erm…Keats’ cousin?”
Busted. I look up and find nineteen faces turned towards me, waiting for my reply. It’s like I got caught passing a note in class. I turn to Keats but he just bites his lower lip and shrugs.
Thanks a lot.
“There’s a certain etiquette here, miss.” Wilsborough surveys her minions and they nod at her in agreement. She steeples her fingers, her smile reminiscent of a smug spider’s and I’m the fly caught in her web. “This isn’t your usual pub crawl.”
I look at Keats again. He mouths, “Say something” to me but otherwise doesn’t help. Worse, there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. Bastard.
“Well?” Wilsborough prompts.
I square my shoulders and pin her with a shiteater’s grin.
“I was just saying, how sexy my cousin looks tonight.”
Encouraged by Wilsborough’s bemused expression, I grab Keats by the tie and shirt, pulling him half out of his chair. With his face an inch from mine, I lean in and plant a slightly parted, big, smacking kiss on his mouth that lasts long enough for me to feel his lips move against my own. When I let go of his shirt front, it takes Keats a beat to lower himself back down into his seat. Even then, the shell-shocked expression stays on his face as clearly as the lipstick marks I’ve left there.
“Have a nice dinner everyone. I have a pub crawl to get to,” I say as I pick up my bag and stand up. “I’ll see you at home later,” I tell Keats in the most suggestive way I could muster before I turn on my heel and leave the stuffy get together behind me.
Chapter 14
Two weeks later, a persistent thought is still on a loop in my brain. I kissed Keats McAllister. I still can’t wipe the grin off my face as I hop on the bus to head home. I should feel bad for embarrassing him at work. And I did. For about a week. But now, all I can think about is the good that came out of that horrible experience.
So what if the kiss wasn’t a proper lip lock? I’ve experienced the real thing even though he barely had time to kiss me back. Actually, I’m starting to wonder if I’d imagined his reciprocation.
I touch my lips. What a way to leave a party. What was I thinking? Still, it was so satisfying seeing the look on Wilsborough’s face like she was going to choke on her caviar. And Keats’ lips, partly open against my own. His breath on my mouth. His aftershave…
The street outside suddenly registers in my brain. I quickly jab the bell just before my bus misses my stop. The driver brakes suddenly, making us all whip forward and back in our seats. I scramble to get up and exit the vehicle, still floating on cloud nine, totally unfazed by the odd glare from fellow passengers who now probably have whiplash.
Twenty metres from my apartment building, I recognise the black sportscar parked in front, bathed in the warm glow of the streetlight. It’s only six o’clock but the winter sun set an hour ago. Under the same light, I spot the black Audi’s. owner leaning against it in a suit, legs crossed at the ankles just above his expensive leather shoes. He’s on his phone texting with a smile on his face like he’s flirting with or sexting someone.
I almost wonder if he’s here for me, but the only people who live in my rundown building are a smelly recluse who’s apparently been renting the room downstairs since the eighties, and an extended Sri Lankan family upstairs who is kind enough to give me some of their leftover food whenever they have one of their big parties. The dishes are unfortunately often vegetarian, but it’s the thought that counts, I guess.
My steps slow as I near Keats. The last time I saw him, I’d humiliated him in front of his boss, his boss’ elitist wife and the other big wigs at his company. He’d also begged me to cock-block his mother, but she’d had a date practically every night in the last two weeks that he was away, thanks to my Miz Peggy dating app.
God, he’s a good-looking bastard. I bet he’s distracting as hell to work with. I should’ve changed out of my heels to walk home so I can run from him. Maybe if I duck into the supermarket before he sees me, he’ll be gone by the time I get out.
Keats looks up as soon as I take a step towards the supermarket.
“Hay-gen, hey there,” he says, walking up to me. He slips his latest model iPhone into the inner pocket of his grey designer suit jacket.
“Hi.” I look at his eyes to stop mine from fixating on his lips.
Silence. Seconds tick by slowly so I ask him about his trip—better than apologising for my behaviour at the dinner party.
“I just got back. I’m still getting over the jetlag.”
More silence. This
