Page 180 of Something So Strong

“Goddamn, you’re incorrigible.” He tries to make himself look angry, but with his perfect features, he just ends up smoldering.

“Incorrigible?” I practically snort. “You’ve been spending too much time with those posh prats at work.”

“Shut your face and come on.”

Kai tugs my arm so hard I almost fall over trying to catch up to him, and bump into one of a group of women rounding the corner. Attempting an apology as I continued to be dragged, I’m then flung back beside Kai, and within three steps we’ve fallen into our regular pace like nothing happened.

“I love her so much.” He shakes his head, acting a fool. But I know his words are as sincere as my feelings are mutual.

The Wash—the old girl, established in 1865—is like the side chick we both share, which is so fucking ironic at this exact point in time it’s not even funny. She’s a classy broad with her row of second-story lamps, angled in to illuminate her petrol-blue street-level exterior. Hanging pots that in the warmer months overflow with wildflowers swing back and forth in the wind. And unsurprisingly, the few tables that scatter the footpath are empty.

It took virtually no time at all for the staff to know us by name, and Kai’s even been known to drink here on his own—just chilling with the locals—when I’m stuck back at the College library. And knowing he has this place, and that Saxon and Andy are only six tube stops away, makes those late nights so much easier.

Over the pelican crossing that runs diagonally from the opposite side of the street, we walk until Kai pushes open her main entrance door and we’re both simultaneously hugged and kissed by warm, slightly smokey, air.

Our first stop is the coat rack by the bookshelf. Outer layers off, Kai presses his hand to my lower back and pulls me close. The heat permeating from it is no weaker than the first time he did it back in Vistas staff kitchen.

“Same as usual?” he asks, resting his forehead against mine. Breathing me in before stepping away, not bothering to wait for an answer because it’s always the same.

I watch Kai walk several steps before making my way to a round wooden table at the right of the bar, and receive a nod of welcome from Johnny—the publican—before I sit down.

The fire is roaring in the corner, heating the oil from the giant Norwegian Spruce beside it, filling the space and blanketing the usual underlying aroma of over a century of alcohol stained timber.

“What time did you tell her?” Kai asks, setting our pints in the center of the table before laying down two cardboard coasters and relocating our stouts to sit on them.

“Half-seven.” I check my phone. “It’s twenty minutes to eight.” Pushing my lips to the side of my face, I run my fingers up and down my pint glass, making lines in the condensation.

“That’s London for ya. No one’s ever on fucking time.”

“Or she isn’t coming.”

Kai lowers his chin and looks at me through his eyelashes with an expression that says, seriously? You saw how many responses we got. There’s no way she’s not coming.

I nudge him with my elbow. “She’s got till eight, then I’m ordering food.”

“Don’t think you’ll be waiting long.” As he takes a sip from his Guinness, I follow the line of Kai’s eyes.

With the door still swinging behind her, and with features as striking as that, this has to be June.

She looks even more rattled than I feel. And I may be finding it a little too endearing that she’s turned her back to the room like she’s giving herself a little pep talk.

Several seconds pass before she turns back around and grips onto the strap of her handbag for dear life as her eyes scan the room. Her hair is the most stunning natural auburn—long and wavy, and her almost porcelain skin tinges pink and her shoulders rise the second our eyes meet.

“She looks better than her picture.” I lean into Kai as she strides towards us.

“She’s no you, Pretty.” He grips my thigh beneath the table.

When she’s a few steps away, we both stand to meet her. Kai moves first, wrapping a loose but friendly arm around her waist and delivering a traditional British—kiss on both cheeks—greeting. “I’m Kai,” he says, then gesturing towards me. “This is Jesse.”

Changing the direction of her focus, we exchange the same greeting.

“Um… I’m June,” she giggles awkwardly. Her thick Irish accent sets off a flurry of back-and-forth glances between Kai and I as we return to our seats.

With our asses back on wood, we watch June unravel the scarf from her neck. The top buttons of her blouse are undone, and as she slides her jacket off her arms, her tits are pushed forward. Jacket on the back of the chair, she tugs at the sides of her pencil skirt, straightening it out over her wider-than-average hips, and swipes her hands across the front of the fabric as if she’s readying herself to be delivered to us.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she atones, finally taking her seat.

“No worries.” Kai takes another sip of his beer and wraps his foot around my leg.

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