“I know who you are,” I snap. Hm, that didn’t come off as very welcoming. I take a deep breath, wanting a calmer, friendlier tone.
“So, are you okay? Are we good, Hog-gen?”
That damn nickname’s like nails down a blackboard.
“No, we’re not ‘good’. My name’s Jess.” My voice comes out gruff. I can’t shake my annoyance. I should be past this by now. My stupid nickname shouldn’t still make me feel like hating the world. Why am I surprised that my secret high school crush is still calling me by the high school nickname that all the popular kids did? “You know, you’re not so perfect either. In certain lights, your hair’s got a tinge of red in it, but no one ever made fun of you, did they? No one ever called you ‘Ginger’. Or ‘Ranga’ for being a redhead.”
He raises both brows at me, looking puzzled.
“How did you even survive high school without getting teased about your hair, Ranga?” Okay, I’m obviously too frazzled for friendly tonight, and “hangry”—so hungry that I’m angry—from only having a salad for dinner. “Forget it.”
I walk away before I can say more. I’m not good at hiding my feelings and I don’t usually bother, but my practical brain is telling me I have wandered into dangerous territory that I’m already regretting. If TV has taught me anything, the cranky girl never gets the hot guy in bed. Well, unless she’s a gorgeous supermodel, which I’m not. I don’t want to put Keats off me forever over a momentary annoyance.
Jillie is not at our booth as I go past it on my way outside. The muggy night air puts an instant film of sweat on my skin. I look up and down Charlotte Street for the nearest bus stop. I spot it behind a line of taxis on the other side of Edward Street.
“Hog-gen, wait! Um, Jess!”
I ignore Keats. I am about to turn into the proverbial pumpkin and I don’t need him to witness me at my grumpiest.
I’m almost across the street when he catches up to me, but I keep walking, eyes down, not wanting to talk to him. At this point, I’m the furthest from the perky, all-smiling girls he constantly fell for in high school.
“Fuck me. This is about lunch today, isn’t it?” He runs his hand over his short beard, walking backwards to talk to me. He swears to himself again. “I totally forgot.”
“No shit.”
He stumbles a little where the road meets the footpath. It’s disappointing he doesn’t fall flat on his arse.
“Can you please stop walking so I can talk to you?” he asks, a hint of frustration in his voice. He plants his feet a metre in front of me and unless I want to walk around him or bulldoze him over, there’s nothing else to do but stop. “Look. I’m sorry about lunch today. Friend of mine got engaged which was totally unexpected, and by the time I remembered, I didn’t have your number anyhow.”
“I left you a voicemail message.”
“Yeah, without your phone number in it. Your number comes up as ‘unknown’, you know.”
Oh, that’s right. I made it unlisted so I could call my website’s customers when necessary without giving away my personal phone number. “Why didn’t you just ask Isabella for it?” I ask, my annoyance dissipating.
He gives me a pointed look.
“Byron, then.”
Another pointed look.
“Aren’t you the best man?”
He lifts one sexy shoulder. “It wasn’t a good choice on their part. Are you Isa—her best friend?” His voice sounds tight like he almost choked on her name.
They only went out for a month, but I would’ve thought he’d know things about her like who her friends were. I shudder to think how they’d spent their time together. I shake my head, both to answer his question and to halt the unwanted images provided by my overactive imagination.
“So, you’re not close?”
“That would be a big no,” I admit to him.
He raises a questioning brow at me.
“It’s hard to like someone who gets everything you want,” I say. Shit. TMI.
He bites his lower lip with a thoughtful frown. “Byron was your date to the reunion, right? Do you have a thing for my brother or something?”
He’s looking at me so intently with those expressive blue eyes, I can almost guess what he wants me to say.
I inhale slowly, square my shoulders and meet his gaze. The air sizzles between us but maybe it’s just me because he’s showing no signs of sexual awareness.
“Yes.” I force my eyes to stay on his, sure I didn’t pull off that lie. But I had to try—I’ve finally found an “in” with the guy I’ve been crushing on for over half my life.
“I see. How long have you been hiding your feelings?”
For Byron? Never. For Keats? “A while.”
He studies me some more, then nods. “Look. Can we try meeting again tomorrow? Here.” He pulls something out of his wallet and hands it to me.
It’s a business card. So grown up. All I have in my handbag is a bus pass, a mostly empty wallet and two Tic Tacs floating around gathering lint.
“It’s got all my contact details on it. If you stand me up, I’ll totally understand but can we try meeting again tomorrow? Twelve o’clock, same place?” He flashes me a sad, but no less sexy, smile. His “fuck me” eyes extend the invitation further whether Keats actually means to or not.
“Yes,” I say to his eyes.
“Great!” His smile widens.
Wait. What did I just agree to?
Chapter 4
I scan the tables of the restaurant for Keats. I’m ten minutes late on purpose. It was a gamble. Every fibre of my desperate being wanted to be here ten minutes early. But if I’ve learnt nothing else in the last ten years, it’s overly eager girls never get the guy.
And he’s not here. Again.
I dither at the café’s entrance,
