Oh, God. It’s the failed Taco Test all over again. But when I return my gaze to my companion, he looks amused, his lower lip lightly between his teeth.
“Sorry. That happens a lot.”
He nods, face unreadable as he looks out to the water, sipping his coffee.
“You were saying? About your, um, penis?”
He chuckles. “Just that. You were right. I don’t know why I got all uptight about the whole thing with Neil. He seems like a nice guy…with a douche-y car.” He grins when I stiffen at his dig. “Is he like your boyfriend now?”
“No.” I might not know what Neil is yet, but it doesn’t feel like we’re exclusive. Especially not when my heart refuses to let go of the hope of being with the guy across the picnic blanket from me.
“How exactly does a guy get on your booty call list?” Keats asks, giving me a sideways glance as he rests his arms on his knees. A kite surfer leaps off the water’s surface in an amazing display.
“Why? Are you applying?” I banter, before taking a drink from my bottle of water.
“Maybe,” he replies with an impish curve to his lips.
Water half-sprays, half-dribbles out of my mouth but some make it down the wrong hole. Keats thumps me in the back a couple of times while my eyes water and my throat burns.
“I was kidding, Hay-gen,” he says with a little laugh.
Drats.
Chapter 23
Isabella picks me up from my apartment to make sure I’m not late. She texts me when she reaches the car park downstairs. I slip into the passenger seat, bag on my lap and check out her vehicle. Now that I’m close to being ready to take the practical driving test, I’ve started looking for potential cars for myself, and Isabella’s Mini Cooper is cute. Though I wouldn’t want to get the same ride as her like an obsessed stalker.
“Thanks for coming again, Jess. Though, next time Keats asks, could you please help me get out of it? I don’t think I should go swimming with him anymore.”
I consider telling her to fake a back injury. That stuff is easy to feign and hard to diagnose. But I don’t—I’ve enjoyed seeing Keats one to two more extra days a week for the last three weeks, and with me around, I can make sure his attempts to get her back are foiled. “If I’m around, you’re pretty safe.”
“I guess you’re right. But I wish there was someone else to exercise with—I need it. Why don’t we go swimming together?”
“I don’t swim in public,” I remind her. Just like my allergy to bananas, Isabella has a tendency not to retain little titbits of information about me.
“Oh, yeah. Still? Bummer. The wedding’s just over five weeks away and I’m barely keeping my weight down.” She gets on the Southeast Freeway and the car zooms to eighty. “It was easy to watch what I ate living by myself in London. But here, Mum just feeds me all day, and when Byron comes home on weekends, I just eat and eat with him.” She sighs, then beeps at a BMW that cuts in front of us without indicating. “Swimming’s been good. But agreeing to go with Keats was a huge mistake.”
“Do you still like him?” My breath sticks to my throat while I wait for her reply. The thought of Isabella reciprocating his feelings has such a finality to it—her disinterest is the only thing keeping them apart.
“No—not romantically. But…he’s so flirty, and nice. And…well, he’s not exactly unattractive. I feel like I’m cheating on Byron just being around his brother.” Isabella exits the freeway and negotiates us through the light evening traffic to the public car park closest to the swimming pool.
“Maybe you need to talk to Keats,” I suggest. “Just you two. Let him down easy. Finally.”
Isabella keeps her eyes forward but I see the grimace on her face at the idea.
“You’ll need to broach that topic one day soon.”
“Ugh. I can’t imagine a more awkward conversation. Oh wait, there’s something almost equally as bad. Eamon has been trying to contact me.”
“Your ex-fiancé?”
She nods. “I don’t know why he’d think I’d ever want to speak to him again.”
“What does he want?” A spike of jealousy stabs my gut—she has three guys who want a future with her. I’m allowed to hate her a little bit, right?
“No idea. Surely, he doesn’t think I’d ever get back together with him after that whole Sandy Grey thing on the internet.”
I totally agree. After returning to Brisbane alone, it took her British fiancé a month to hook up with the hotel heiress. Isabella only found out after I told her about Eamon and Sandy Grey’s paparazzi shots on the gossip websites I love to visit.
“Maybe he’s on the twelve-step programme and he just wants to apologise for being a douche,” I say helpfully.
Isabella chuckles, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, while we both search left and right for an empty spot. A car starts to pull out of a space ahead of us and Isabella indicates while we wait to park. “Yes, maybe I’m reading too much into this whole thing with Keats as well.”
Her tone tells me she wants to believe that but doesn’t.
“I mean, he’s been flirting with you,” Isabella adds as she expertly slides into the space and turns the engine off. “Maybe he just flirts with everybody, and this really is an innocent, help-his-future-sister-in-law-get-fit thing.”
“Yeah.” If I sound vague, it’s because I’m still processing the fact Isabella thinks Keats flirts with me. And I remain quiet while we make our way to the indoor pool.
When we reach it, the big flirt is already there. He’s typing something on his iPhone while he waits, putting away the device as soon as he notices our arrival.
“Hey,” his face lights up when he sees Isabella. He
