Page 21 of That Secret Something

Her focus dropped to her thigh, where my hand was resting. I pulled it away sharply. Get it together, Jess. Stop touching her, for god’s sake!

I didn’t need to look at Rebecca to know she was amused. I turned my attention back to the road, feeling heat tinge my cheeks. “I should probably get going,” I said.

Rebecca studied me for a second that felt like a minute. “Sure, no problem. Thanks for the lift, Grant.”

I rolled my eyes, and Rebecca burst out laughing. She placed her hand on the door, but hesitated, turning back to me. “Unless…you want to come in for a little bit?”

My mouth popped open, and I glanced at her. Is she asking what I think she’s asking?

She moistened her lips, her focus dropping to my mouth.

Oh my god. Is she?

“I know how much my folks adore you,” she said.

Oh. The Lawsons. Right.

I cleared my throat, trying to shake away images of Rebecca leading me into her bedroom. How she’d push me back onto the mattress and touch me the way I wanted so desperately. Desire coiled tight in my belly. Images of us so close together in the cleaning cupboard taunting me. Her mouth, the feel of her pressed against me. That masculine scent of hers that was so uniquely Rebecca. Did she want this? Did she want to touch me the way that I wanted her?

Of course not. Why would she?

I swallowed. “Another time,” I barely managed, my voice coming out all dry and scratchy.

“Alright.”

I didn’t miss the disappointment flashing over her features. I needed to get out of here before the throbbing in my pants overpowered the sensible part of my brain.

“Night, Rebecca.”

“Night, Grant.”

And then she was gone.

I stayed and watched.

She unlocked the door, offering a little wave and a smile as she walked into the house. Then I sat in my car, waiting for my breathing to return to normal, trying to convince myself to start the engine and drive away. But I couldn’t. I stayed still, clasping the wheel with my fingers, Rebecca’s scent invading my nostrils. I knew I should drive away. Go home and unwind, have a bath, and deal with my feelings about Rebecca in a safe way. But my mind was frozen on that look in her eyes, daring me, tempting me to accept.

My phone chimed with a message, and I fished it out of my handbag on the floor.

Rebecca: Are you going to stay out there all night? Or come inside?

I exhaled, my hands tingling with a mix of nervous energy and anxiety. I couldn’t do this. Not right now. I couldn’t. Before I changed my mind, I fired up the engine, putting as much distance between Rebecca Lawson and me as I could, and as fast as possible.

Nine

I sipped tentatively at my wine, frowning at the fingerprints smudged on the glass. This restaurant hadn’t got the best reputation, to say the least, but I had little choice in the matter: this was where Jade wanted to meet.

I didn’t do blind dates. I didn’t do dates at all really, which was quite sad to admit at twenty-two. But then I’d never been the type to go out drinking every weekend, and I’d never been to university, either, choosing instead to focus on opening my own business. Sometimes I wondered how different my life might’ve been, who I might have met, if I’d decided to study biology, like my mum had wanted me to. Would I be successful? Rich? Have a boyfriend or a girlfriend who’d pursued the same life choices as me? Would that have made dating easier?

My party-planning business was steady going, reliable despite all the cost-of-living crises. I enjoyed my job when I wasn’t pandering to all the Maggie Thompsons of the world. I could work my own hours; I could do something that made me happy—and others happy too. Was it a gold machine? No. Would I have enough money to pay the rent? Yes.

I was quite happy in my own little world, but that did make meeting people difficult.

I’d met Jade at her best friend’s thirtieth birthday party a few months ago. I’d been the planner, not one of the guests, and she’d approached me to tell me how great the party was. I probably stuck out like a sore thumb, and she’d been kind enough to come and speak with me. It was a Moroccan-themed party, and the client had gone all out, embracing all the vibrant colours of the culture. The free rein for me had resulted in a lot of fun, like investing in a rent-a-tent with lots of beautiful eco-friendly decorations. Berber rugs and mandala floor cushions had filled the space, with colour and mismatched patterns everywhere. Moroccan solar lamps hung from the poles, coating everything in rainbow light. The guests wore takshitas and kaftans, and if I hadn’t felt out of place and awkward most of the night, I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed myself.

But making conversation that wasn’t about ribbons and balloons was difficult. People were scary.

Jade was nice enough, and in truth, there was nothing to dislike about her. She was pretty, had dark brown eyes and thick lashes, and long black braids that cascaded over her shoulder. In some ways, I was hesitant to take her up on her offer of a date; it was out of my comfort zone. I simultaneously yearned for affection and fought against it. I was my own walking-talking paradox.

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