Chapter 12 #2
Elena pinned him with her sweetest smile.
She could fob him off with a lie, but that would hardly encourage him to open up about his own troubles, and sometimes the brutal truth was needed.
‘That’s because he left me, took a job in Manchester and walked away from a five year-relationship without so much as a single tear.
It’s rather cutting to discover a man is affected more by leaving his golf club than his girlfriend.
So here I am, alone and bruised, and spending the evening with a man who’s only here because he doesn’t want to break a deal with his brother.
Life’s harsh. Am I complaining? No, I’m not. ’
Her date blinked a few times, no doubt wondering whether she was serious, before handing her another flute of champagne. ‘I think you need this more than I do.’
‘Debatable.’
‘He doesn’t sound like a nice man.’
‘He was perfectly nice, most of the time. He just didn’t love me enough to stay. Such is life.’ She walked off with a shrug, feigning more nonchalance than she felt. The rejection still stung. ‘Coming?’
He joined her by the roulette table. ‘So you’re off men?’
‘No, I’m just more careful about who I let into my life. No more suits.’
‘Suits?’
She watched the croupier deftly spin the wheel. ‘It’s what my sister calls men who put their careers ahead of their family. Serious, rigid types with no sense of fun, who’d rather be working at the office than at home in bed pleasuring their loved one.’
He choked on his drink.
She patted his back.
Red twenty-five landed and the man opposite yelled with delight as he collected his winnings.
Danny frowned at her. ‘Am I a suit?’
‘More champagne?’ she asked, following his lead by swerving the question and snagging another two drinks from the passing waiter. ‘So, why doesn’t Connor date?’
‘He has trust issues. Plus, it transpires I haven’t been the best role model in that department.’ He turned back to the table.
She waited a beat. ‘And that’s why he made a deal with you?’
Danny kept his eyes on the wheel as it spun. ‘We both date, or we both stay single. Which is fine by me, but not fair on him. I don’t want him missing out.’
‘Why is being single okay for you?’ She nudged his arm. ‘None of this “women scare me” bullshit. What gives?’
He turned to her, one eyebrow raised. ‘What gives?’
‘It’s something my sister says. Let me rephrase, what’s stopping you from meeting someone?’
‘Fear.’ When the woman next to him won and threw her arms in the air, he nearly spilled his drink. ‘Seriously, I don’t have the energy to deal with the drama.’ He moved away from the woman and towards a small stage where a magician was performing card tricks.
Elena followed him. ‘Drama?’
‘Yes, the drama. You avoid suits, I avoid drama.’
‘And what’s the definition of drama?’
‘High-maintenance, emotional, irrational, complicated.’
‘Ah, right.’ Elena smiled. ‘What was her name?’
Danny knocked back his champagne. ‘Trouble.’
She laughed. ‘Divorced?’
‘Dead.’
She stopped laughing.
The magician pulled out a playing card from a man’s top pocket and the crowd applauded.
She studied Danny’s profile: square jaw, defined cheekbones, his almost perfect eyebrows, even if his glasses didn’t sit quite straight on his nose.
‘You’re not the luckiest bloke on the planet, are you? ’ Looks aside.
He gestured to a passing waiter. ‘I’m the human equivalent of a black cat.’
‘I thought black cats were supposed to be lucky.’
‘Not in my experience.’
‘Also dead?’
‘Squashed by a tractor.’
She couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of it all. ‘Christ, maybe I do need another drink. This is depressing stuff.’
Danny swapped his champagne for a glass of Jack Daniels. ‘Now you know why I don’t date.’
Elena declined more champagne and opted for a non-alcoholic fruit cocktail—she needed to keep her wits about her. ‘Because they will either give you grief, mess up your perfectly ironed shirts, or end up dead?’
He nodded. ‘That about sums it up.’
‘Then it’s just as well this isn’t a date.’ She clinked glasses with him. ‘Cheers!’
He sighed and took a swig of whiskey. ‘Hugh would’ve been a great date for you. He’s more fun than I am. Sorry you drew the short straw.’
She watched his face turn serious. ‘Do you ever have fun?’
‘Depends on your definition of fun?’
She thought of all the fun times they’d had as a family before her mum’s death. ‘Letting go, being daft, laughing until your bladder gives way.’
‘Based on that definition, never.’ He drank more whiskey. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? Stop it, I don’t like that calculating look, it usually means pain is about to happen, and I’ve suffered enough, you said so yourself.’
She rested her hand on his suit lapel. ‘I’m thinking this evening could be part of your ongoing therapy.’
He looked down at her hand. ‘The answer’s no. Whatever it is, no.’
‘Appalling attitude. Talk about fatalistic. Here’s the thing, we’re at an amazing venue, we’re dressed up, there’s music playing, games on offer, and free alcohol. If you can’t loosen up and have fun on a night like this, when can you?’
He didn’t look convinced. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Nothing alarming, no pain involved. Just succumbing to the ambience and allowing those rigid muscles of yours to relax a little.’ She squeezed his bicep. ‘What have you got to lose?’
‘My dignity?’
‘Oh, please.’ She punched his arm. ‘I’m talking about a few games of poker and dancing the Charleston, not stripping naked and swinging from the chandeliers …
at least, not while sober.’ She slipped her arm through his.
‘Just think, you can return home dishevelled and tipsy and delight in telling Connor all about your exciting date. He’ll be so proud. ’
He swayed slightly on his feet. ‘Why do I feel like I’m being manipulated?’
‘Because Connor isn’t the only one with trust issues.
Like father, like son … or rather, brother, whatever.
Like I told you before, I have no agenda.
My only goal is to help you get better, and that includes letting go of your inhibitions.
You never know, you might actually enjoy yourself. ’ She held out her hand. ‘Truce?’
Whether it was to stop her badgering him, or acknowledging the opportunity in front of him, she wasn’t sure, but he shook her hand. ‘Truce.’
‘Good. Let’s go party.’
It took an hour before his jacket came off, and another half hour before he loosened his tie, during which time they played two games of poker, and lost, four games of roulette, without a single red or black colour match, and failed to guess the correct suit in a game of chance with the magician.
Danny Jackson really was the unluckiest man on the planet.
Throughout the mayhem of a noisy swing band, raucous laughter and uncoordinated dancing, Danny knocked back whiskeys, smiled like a lunatic, and gradually succumbed to the effects of excessive alcohol. It was hilarious to witness, and oddly endearing.
His attempt at the Charleston made them both laugh to the point of stomach ache, and he was a beat behind everyone else during the salsa—although he did redeem himself during the slow dances.
With his arm around her waist and his other hand holding hers to his chest, she could almost feel the moment his body relented.
The rhythm of his breathing mirrored hers, and the assuredness of his hold hinted at what lay beneath, and it certainly wasn’t a rigid suit.
She couldn’t remember dancing with Felix like this.
Maybe because they’d started out as friends at university and gradually eased into a relationship.
There’d never been heightened attraction, or a steamy honeymoon period that had eventually cooled off.
Their relationship had been tepid from the start.
Steady and serious. Boring, as Luisa would say.
Maybe she was finally realising what she’d missed out on.
By eleven p.m. Danny had lost all trace of sadness, by midnight he was suitably dishevelled, and by one a.m. he was as floppy as an inflatable Santa on a windy night and unable to remain upright for any length of time.
If composed and suited Daniel J Jackson was hot, then his crumpled, slightly slurred counterpart was positively smoking.
His self-deprecating humour was endearing, his inability to throw dice in a straight line was adorable, and his throaty laugh was unexpected and infectious.
The real killer was the photo booth session.
‘Your turn,’ he slurred, placing a felt gangster hat on her head. With a pink feather boa wrapped around his neck, shedding glitter onto his glasses, he was a far cry from the serious man she knew from work. ‘You look lopsided. Why are there two of you?’
‘Probably down to the amount of whiskey you’ve consumed.’ She caught him as he slid off the seat. ‘Careful … It’s a wonder you’re still conscious.’
A beeping noise counted down to another photo.
‘Smile for the camera.’ He twisted his head as the camera flashed and knocked foreheads with her. ‘Sorry … sorry … I’m such a clumsy goose,’ he said with a hiccup, patting her forehead while trying to stop her hat falling off.
Clumsy goose? He really was drunk.
The swivel chair shifted as he slumped forwards and dropped with a loud clunk, resulting in them both losing their balance and falling through the curtain.
They landed outside the booth on the plush carpet, a tangle of arms and legs, his body on top of hers. The gangster hat obscured her face and she had a mouthful of feathers.
Danny lifted the hat from her face. ‘Peekaboo,’ he said, making her laugh so hard she sucked in a breath and nearly choked on a feather. ‘You have feathers stuck to your lipstick.’ He gently blew on her face, trying to remove them, which was oddly arousing.