Chapter Eleven
Lilavati
Ant is quiet as we drive away from my parents’ house. Which, I guess, is not surprising. They gave him a sound grilling. But it went better than I’d imagined. Which has me on my guard. It can’t be that easy.
I did think Warren was going to arc up when Ant corrected him on his name, but the moment passed without incident.
I fully expected Mum to pull me aside and give me a long list of reasons why Ant is not the man for me, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say she seemed charmed by him.
And somewhat to my surprise, he gave her no reason not to be.
He was polite, respectful, and raved about her food.
All sure-fire ways to my mother’s heart in the normal course of events.
From a surfboard-making barista, though? I’m not convinced.
Ant was very gracious. He didn’t even flinch when my stepfather asked him about university, or started talking politics. And though he clearly disagreed with Warren’s views, and wasn’t afraid to say so, he was still polite. And incredibly well-informed and thoughtful.
I learnt a little something about Ant tonight. He’s much smarter than he lets on. A piece of information I don’t really need since it only makes him more attractive, dammit.
“I’m sorry Mum and Dad were so nosy tonight,” I say.
“Totally fine. I was expecting it. What parents don’t interrogate their kid’s significant other?”
Can anyone really be as easygoing as he seems? Even when I snap and snarl, he takes it with good humour, yet without backing down from his position. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite so comfortable in who they are, or unconcerned about the opinion of others.
“I think they actually liked you.” Not sure that’s entirely true, but that seems to be the appearance they wanted to give. And if we can keep it that way until after the wedding, I’ll be happy.
He’s silent for a moment. Then he laughs, but there’s no humour in it.
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m charming and delightful. But I thought the point was for them not to like me? Aren’t you trying to get under their skin?”
“What? I never said that.” Okay, that’s exactly what I was doing, but how did Ant know that?
“Oh, come on. You’re a doctor. Smart. Successful. Ambitious. And you bring home a guy who’s one step up from a beach bum. Of course that’s what you were trying to do.”
I’m mortified. Ashamed even. It didn’t occur to me he’d figure out what I was up to. But it should have. He might be annoying and self-described as one step up from a beach bum, but he’s also, as it turns out, perceptive.
And if I’m honest with myself, his career situation wasn’t the only reason I chose him.
If you’re going to fake date someone, you want them to at least be good-looking.
Sure, Ant takes it way past good-looking into scorching hot, which complicates things, but beggars can’t be choosers.
And having someone like Ant on your arm is good for the ego.
Especially if Mum and Grandie are going to try and set me up with Emily’s brother-in-law.
If he’s anything like his brother, it would be no contest.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect.” My cheeks are burning. I can’t tell him I also thought there’d be no chance of me falling for him. That’s just too awful.
“I know.”
“Why on earth did you agree to it? If you knew what I was up to?”
I can’t fathom why a man like Ant would be prepared to humiliate himself this way. Especially not for me.
“Who’d be mad enough to turn down a week in Hawaii with a beautiful woman?” He runs his eyes up and down my body to punctuate his words. “Perhaps the better question is, why are you trying to upset them?”
The burning in my cheeks doesn’t subside from being called beautiful.
“I don’t know. I guess I’m just tired of them trying to set me up with pretentious snobs with weak chins and thinning hair.”
Unexpectedly, given what must have been at least a small blow to his ego, he grins.
“So what I’m hearing is, you think I’m good-looking.”
And there’s the Ant I’m coming to know. I roll my eyes.
“I’ve got eyes in my head.”
“I think you like me,” he singsongs.
“Get over yourself. You are objectively attractive, is all I’m saying. That doesn’t mean I want to fall into bed with you.” That would be a very, very bad idea. Although I’m sure it would have its positive side. Which I’m determined never to experience.
“Hmmm. We’ll see.” His wolfish expression, as much as his words, touches a match to the long-dead fuse running from my brain to the now-damp flesh between my legs. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat. I can’t let him see he’s affected me. Because no.
“We won’t see. This is a fake dating situation. Fake being the operative word.” If I say it often enough, maybe my hormones will get the message.
“Hmmm. We’ll see about that too,” he says with a smug smile.
I snort, putting an elegant end to the conversation.
A strange awareness lingers for the rest of the drive home. After his comment about seeing if this was a fake dating situation, I fully expect Ant to at least attempt a kiss when we arrive back at my place.
We climb out of the car, and he rounds the boot, trapping me in the narrow space between the vehicle and the garage wall.
My pulse picks up in anticipation. I had begun to think my libido was irreparably broken.
Like someone had jacked it up on bricks and stolen the wheels.
But in that moment, the engine roars to life, and I can smell burning rubber as tyres skid and it takes off.
“Thanks for driving.” His voice is a low rumble, his tone more appropriate to ‘thanks for the orgasm’ than a thank you for the lift.
My cheeks burn, and there’s another throb between my legs.
For several heartbeats, his gaze stays locked on mine.
His warm breath touches me. The heat from his chest touches me.
The smell of his cologne touches me. But his hands remain at his sides.
He’s going to kiss me. I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. My lips part in anticipation. My body sways towards him.
Then he shakes himself, and with a jaunty wave, saunters down the short driveway.
And I’m left frozen beside the car.
What just happened? I could have sworn … Not that I wanted him to kiss me, of course. That’s the last thing I need. Annoyance at myself bubbles up, along with a twisted vine of embarrassment and relief. And confusion. Too many uncomfortable feelings.
Maybe Ant just likes to play games. It’s not his fault that I’ve never learnt the rules.
Shaking off my bewilderment, I step out of the garage as Ant swings his leg over the massive motorcycle he arrived on and kicks the engine into a low rumble.
I know nothing about motorcycles, but this one is big and black and silver, and although it’s clearly modern, it has a vintage vibe about it.
I try not to notice the way the denim of his jeans stretches tight over his thighs as he balances. Or the way the black leather of the jacket he pulls on hugs his chest. But I’m only human.
There’s no denying the sense of disappointment I feel as he roars off down the road.
After a quick shower, I slide into bed, only to toss and turn for what feels like half the night, although when I check my phone, it’s only been half an hour.
I’m about to put my phone back down when a text appears.
Ant: Just wanted to let you know the love of your life arrived home safe and sound
I probably shouldn’t be, but I’m surprised by his flirting after he left me hanging in the garage. Regardless, I try and respond in kind. He’s met my parents, it’s too late to change course now.
Me: Haha. Thanks again for your patience tonight. I’m sure you had better things to do with your Sunday night
Ant: Than spend it with you? Nope
Me: That’s a very polite lie, but I appreciate it
Ant: Are you in bed?
Me: Yes
Ant: What are you wearing?
Me: Seriously? You’re incorrigible
But I laugh, despite how clichéed the question is. And there’s that rush of damp again. Followed by annoyance at myself for falling for what is surely a line. I need to keep this friendly but platonic.
Ant: It was worth a try. Goodnight, Sparky. Sleep well
I text back a sleepy face emoji. There’s silence for a minute. But I don’t put my phone down. For some reason, I’m reluctant to break the connection. Then the screen lights up again.
Ant: Next time we meet, we need to come up with a nickname you can call me. And before you suggest Stud or Handsome, remember how much I dislike pedestrian ideas, no matter how accurate they might be
Me: Goodnight, Ugly
Even though we’re texting, I imagine I can hear him laughing as he reads my text.
Ant: I can work with that
There’s no hope of me getting to sleep now.
I pick up the biography on my bedside table and try to focus. But it’s dry and boring. I grab earbuds and scroll through my phone looking for a podcast. Nope. Nothing of interest.
I toss. I turn. My legs won’t keep still. Until I finally relent and reach into the drawer beside my bed.
I wish I could say I don’t picture blue eyes and tattoos and a rumbling motorcycle.
But I do. And faster than I’ve ever been able to climax before, I’m switching off my battery-operated boyfriend and dropping it to the bed beside me.
I also wish I could say I feel satisfied.
But whilst the physical release has helped, I still yearn for something more.
So much for keeping it platonic, even if it was only in the privacy of my own imagination.
This is bad. Really bad. There’s no circumstance in which he can ever find out what I just did. Because he’d never let me live it down. And I don’t need him playing with me like a cat with a mouse.
Yet, there’s no denying he had my back at dinner. He could have just let Warren’s little digs go, but he didn’t. He saw me, saw my discomfort, and supported me.
Ant Stevens is a player. Ant Stevens is a good guy.
And I’m so confused.