Chapter 16 #2
“I’m not that subtle. No need to look at me so searchingly. I’m willing to give it a go. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll tell you. You’re losing more than I am. Sounds like your granddad’s leaving you high and dry.”
“No. No, he’s— Well, he probably hasn’t done quite as much as your Nan has around the house—it’s not like I’m ever gone overnight—and I expect he’ll still be willing to let the plumber in and so forth, and fix the toilet when it runs.
It won’t be that bad. I’m grateful he’s done as much as he has. Of course I am. I just—”
“How did your husband die?” he asked.
The minute he’d asked, he kicked himself.
Why would he want to talk about that? Why wasn’t he suggesting that they could, for example, leave both sets of kids with the grandparents and go out next Sunday night?
Two could play at the “our turn to have a night out” game.
The kids could nark at each other all they liked, and he and Skylar could be in some cozy restaurant, the kind with low lighting.
Except that they weren’t doing that. Bugger. He kept forgetting.
“What, you want to hear how he was eaten by a hippo?”
He laughed. “No, seriously. He died in Africa, eh. What was he doing in Africa? Some sort of NGO thing? Working with an AIDS clinic? I assume he was the good-works type, like you.”
“I wasn’t joking. He was eaten by a hippo. Well, chomped by a hippo. Hippos are herbivores. I told you that the story could be seen as funny, viewed from a … a certain angle.”
“Funny? How is that funny? How could you imagine I’d think it was funny?”
“I made a joke about your wife being hit by a bus. You’re entitled to think it’s funny.”
“Tell me,” he said.
She didn’t have to tell him. She knew she didn’t have to tell him. She said, “It’s a good thing we’re not dating.”
“What?” He was frowning like mad again. “Why? It’s not a good thing as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, that’s nice,” she said, “except that even I know that sitting around telling each other how your spouses died is the definition of What Not to Do On a First Date.”
“We’re not on a first date. We’re on a … third date. Fourth date. Something like that.”
“In what universe are we on a third date?”
He held up a hand. It was a big hand. Also battered, with lumps and scars on the knuckles. He ticked off. “Speed dating.”
“Eight minutes? How does eight minutes count?”
“If we were bull riders, eight seconds would count.”
“Ha,” she said. “Not a date. A brief meeting.”
“A brief meeting we both enjoyed.”
“Still not a date. Also, you hated me at the end there. Move on.”
“OK. In your classroom, then.”
“Not a date. Absolutely not a date. A parent conference.”
“When I asked you out,” he said, “and you told me you were a social warthog. Made me laugh. Right, then. Starting over. We’ll say the first date was after the rugby. The wine and all.”
“If that was meant to be a date,” she said, “I shouldn’t have worn my PJs.”
“And your fuzzy slippers. Nah, you looked good. Soft. Sweet. I’ve had worse dates.
I’ve had much worse dates. Before I stopped dating the young ones, when they’d want to go dancing at some club with horrible music, nothing but a bunch of blokes banging heads and thrashing at their guitars and screaming into microphones.
They’d talk to me about their problems with their parents, too.
Bit creepy, really. The PJs and wine were a pretty good date, as far as I was concerned. ”
“Oh.” That shouldn’t make her feel so warm and fuzzy. Like her slippers. “We’ll call that a half date.”
“Then breakfast the next morning,” he said. “Second date.”
“With our kids sniping.”
“With you enjoying your duck salad. You got flustered again that time, too. Not sure why you keep getting flustered. Also not sure why I like it.”
She put her head in her hands and moaned. “You weren’t supposed to notice that. I’m hopeless. Hopeless. The wrong jeans every time. My PJs. My total lack of cool and sophistication. I’m so out of practice, I don’t even belong on the field.”
“What’s wrong with your jeans? I like your jeans.”
“Out of style. You should hear my friend Jess on the subject. You met her. She was one of your speed dates. Tall and thin?”
“Don’t remember any of them, sorry. Tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. And what you’re meant to be saying here is all the ways I fell down during our non-dates, not how you did.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “What would that be? Buying breakfast for me, my grandfather, and my three hungry children? And, I suspect, buying some very expensive rugby tickets for all of us, too? Fixing my pipe? Looking like … like you do?” She waved a hand.
“The body and all? The rugby? I keep having these thoughts about you, because I can’t help it, and then my kids start talking about pooing cats and dead rats, and you’re kissing me because you feel sorry for me, and my grandfather starts putting moves on your grandmother! ”
“Looking like I do, eh,” he said. “And the rugby.” He was starting to smile now.
“Stop looking so smug,” she said. “I didn’t mean to say that. Obviously.”
“And I didn’t kiss you because I felt sorry for you. I kissed you because I wanted to. I want to again now, if we’re being honest here.”
“We’re not …” She could feel her cheeks getting hot. “I’m not that … I don’t have casual relationships, all right? Even if I could. Which I can’t.”
He had his hand in her hair again. Just touching a curl, that was all. Winding it around his finger. “So if I kissed you now, that would be bad?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t sure how she managed to say it.
“Even if …” His hand was on her face again. Would he stop that?
A voice from behind her. “Mum.”
She jumped a mile, then turned. It was Finlay, of course. She pasted a smile onto her face. “Yes? How’s it going up there?”
“You said ten minutes,” he said. “Or five minutes. It’s been ages.” His eyes were, once more, going between her and Zane. “It’s going to be George’s bedtime, too,” he added virtuously. “You always say bedtime’s important, and it’s a school night.”
“Yes. Right.” She got up, smoothed her shirt, smoothed her hair, and tried to stop her heart from beating so hard. It didn’t work.
Zane got up, too, of course. “Right,” he also said. “Bedtime here, too.”
Finlay went up the stairs again, looking back in a suspicious manner to make sure she was following him. “Like he’s going to catch us having sex on the stairs,” she muttered to Zane. “I have the most puritanical children.”
He uttered a bark of laughter, put his arm around her waist, and squeezed. Just for a moment, and then he let go. “And we never even got to the hippo.”
“We’ll save it for another time. As we seem destined to have another time. But I’m probably still not going to want to talk about the hippo.”
“Fine,” he said. “As I don’t much want to talk about it either. Or our grandparents. Sex on the stairs, now …”
“Then why did we just have a talk?” They were walking around to another staircase now. This was the most unusual house.
“I think you know why,” he said. “Call it your animal magnetism.”