Page 35 of The Player

I sigh. I’m never going to know that because the truth is that it was through David that Con met me, and no matter how close I am to him, it will always be through my dead husband.

I look back at the two men. Jimmy has moved closer to Con while I’ve been mired in thought. He’s now practically in Con’s lap, and it’s my turn to frown at the flirtatious twink as he laughs up at Con. Con is watching him, his eyes wickedly amused, and I feel rage run through me. Con chuckles at something Jimmy says, and I’ve abruptly had enough.

“You might want to sit down, Jimmy,” I snap. “We can’t have you straining any more muscles, can we?”

Con looks up at me with a jerk, examining my face intently. Jimmy eyes me and looks puzzled, so I try a smile. Unfortunately, it’s more strained than I’d like. “If you don’t mind, you should sit in your own chair,” I say in what is considered my most charming voice. Unfortunately, it appears to alarm Jimmy, who sits back as quickly as if Con is hosting the Black Death.

My eyes snap to Con, and I blink. All his previous bad temper is gone, and instead, he’s grinning widely. It’s like the sun coming out after all the months of thunderclouds on his face.

I look at him and shake my head in consternation.I will never understand men,I think sadly.

chapter

seven

It’s latewhen we draw up to the car park of the hotel that Joan booked for us. I unfasten my seat belt and stretch.

“I am so fucking glad this day is nearly over,” I say fervently.

Con snorts. “Oh, dear, the plight of being the teenage pop star’s pin-up.”

His good humour has carried on through my extricating us from the pop twink’s clutches that were rather like a little blond octopus.

“That is not a thing at all. Besides, he soon forgot me when you unveiled your musical master plan.”

He sighs tiredly. “If you can’t beat them, you should just give in and fucking join them. Maybe I should forget about musical artistry.”

“Or maybe stop referring to it as musical artistry, you snob.”

He laughs and climbs out of his truck, stretching, and I hastily drag my eyes away from the width of his chest and the length of his legs. They’re shown off to great effect in a pair of old jeans that cling to him and a faded blue T-shirt. It’s so typical of Con, I think affectionately. He has no idea what impact he has on people.

I dismiss my thoughts and grab my bag and follow him into the reception of the hotel. The place is an old coaching inn, and the owners have kept the exposed brick walls in the reception area and mingled it with a lot of tartan furniture for some odd reason. It’s also completely deserted. After a few minutes, I crane my head over the desk.

“What are you looking for?” Con asks.

“Some sort of bell to say we’re here.”

I lean further and then feel him grab my belt and drag me backwards.

“Are you trying to give me a wedgie?” I gasp.

“If I were trying, I’d manage it.”

I regain my feet. “Just so you know, big-headedness isn’t hot.”

He smiles at me. It’s slow, sensual, and so completely unlike the Con I’ve known for years that I gape at him. He bops me on the nose. “So why are you drooling?”

“I am not,” I say crossly. Then, footsteps sound, and a receptionist appears. As Con turns to her, I wipe my mouth to double-check.

I suddenly become aware that Con and the woman have stopped talking, and they’re both staring at me.

“What?” I say.

The woman seems worried, but Con just looks as if he’s trying not to laugh. “We have a little problem,” he says.

“There are antibiotics for that,” I mutter.

“Sorry?” the receptionist says.

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