Page 43 of Forget

He interlaced his fingers through hers and squeezed, ducking down to murmur in her ear, ‘You look beautiful and I’m sorry it took me this long to say it.’

Hating the lump of emotion that swelled in her throat, she swallowed and aimed for flippant. ‘I’ll make you pay later by insisting you dance with me.’

‘Like hell,’ he said, his laughter warming her.

Tonight would be okay. She would get through this, and later, the two of them could get back to having fun under their original agreement: a short-term fling with no complications.

Jayda’sinitial irritation at Brock not giving her a heads-up about having to pick up the tickets faded when they reached the hospital and she realised she had a golden opportunity to learn more about this enigmatic man.

She could meet his parents.

‘If I could avoid this, I would,’ he muttered, his expression tortured as they paused outside his father’s hospital door. ‘You didn’t have to come in—’

She laid a fingertip to his lips. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘But I do,’ he said, anger lighting his eyes. ‘You should’ve waited in the car like I suggested.’

‘And miss the opportunity of watching you squirm?’ She cocked a hip in provocation. ‘Are you crazy?’

The tension lines bracketing his mouth eased. ‘This isn’t funny. You don’t know what they’re like.’

‘Yet I’m about to find out.’ She slipped her hand into his, surprised to find his sweaty. ‘Considering what my folks have been up to, yours can’t be any worse.’

She heard his murmured, ‘Want to make a bet?’ before he knocked twice and opened the door.

Resisting the urge to smooth her black satin cocktail dress, she squeezed Brock’s hand in silent support and entered the room a step behind him.

‘Mum, Dad, this is Jayda. She helped me out by putting the finishing touches on the awards night and arranging everything.’

A sliver of hurt lodged beneath her bright smile. Of course he didn’t introduce her as his girlfriend, because she wasn’t, and he certainly couldn’t label her his short-term fuck buddy. Being introduced should be enough because regardless of whathappened when this fling petered out she hoped they would remain friends.

He tugged her hand gently, bringing her to stand by his side, where she caught her first glimpse of the people who had brought this inscrutable man into the world.

They were surprisingly young, late forties or early fifties at the most, but with the haggard expressions of people who’d done it tough their entire lives. His father had a grey receding hairline and a plethora of lines on his face, and his mum had faded blonde hair, a stack of wrinkles that no amount of moisturiser could fix, and eyes that had seen too much.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ She stepped forward and held out her free hand, surprised when Brock didn’t release the other.

‘Call me George,’ his father said, shaking her hand firmly. ‘And this is Bette.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ Bette waved, her smile friendly.

Brock took another step into the room. ‘How’s everything going here?’

‘Bloody awful.’ George grimaced and pointed at his hip. ‘I can’t wait to get out of this prison.’

‘You’ll be in rehab before you know it,’ Bette said, rolling her eyes. ‘Stop your bellyaching.’

George screwed up his nose. ‘It’s the food I hate the most. Tasteless slop.’ He shot a fond glance at Bette. ‘Nothing like your meatloaf and gravy, or your pasta carbonara.’

Bette practically preened under her husband’s praise. ‘If you think flattery will get me to bring you in another serve, you better keep it up, old man.’

‘Who are you calling old, chook?’

They chuckled together and only then did Jayda realise Brock was squeezing her hand so tight it hurt. She glanced up at him to see him staring at his parents in amazement, as if he’d never seen them talk to each other. Weird. She wiggledher fingers so he’d ease off the pressure; he released her hand completely and stepped forward as if in a daze.

‘Do you have those tickets, Mum? We need to get going.’

‘Always in a hurry,’ Bette said, fishing in her handbag before pulling out two gaudy silver tickets losing glitter at a rate of knots. ‘I hope you don’t rush your lovely girlfriend everywhere you go.’

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