Page 5 of Duke It Out
He sits opposite me. “Both have their merits.”
As he stretches his legs out, he brushes my thigh with his knee, and I suck in a breath, trying to steady myself by pressing my hand on the wooden table.
“More champagne?” He picks up the menu.
“Oh god, no.” I shake my head vigorously. “I hate it.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed.” His brows lift slightly.
“That’s not an American accent.”
“It’s not.”
It’s Scottish, like mine, but where mine has faded from a decade of living in London, his is the soft burr from the Highlands.
“Well, I could definitely do with a drink.” He lifts the menu and scans it briefly. “Shall we get you something that’snotchampagne?”
“Please.”
Fortunately, a waitress appears a second later, saving me from launching into another mildly tipsy torrent of unadulterated bollocks. I order a white wine, and he orders an IPA. He’s very still and calm, like a lion surveying his kingdom. I, on the other hand, drop my phone, then knock the menu off the table.
“So,” I begin again, sitting back in my chair and trying to appear slightly less chaotic. “Do you do a lot of these Barnes and Noble book events?”
“I am very happy to say I don’t.” He gives a brief laugh. “My idea of hell. But needs must. And so here we are.”
Our drinks arrive, accompanied by a bowl of potato chips.He passes me my wine and tips his beer bottle towards my glass.
“Slainte.” For a moment, he sits back, closing his eyes as he savours his first sip of beer, and I size him up quickly. He’s around my age – mid-thirties, maybe a little older? The shadows under his eyes suggest he’s been burning the candle at both ends or working too hard. Dark hairs show at the collar of his shirt where he’s loosened the top couple of buttons and at the cuffs of his sleeves. His eyes snap open and he looks at me intently.
“So, what brought you to the book launch?”
“I—” I twirl the stem of my glass, stalling for a moment, feeling the cool drips of condensation running over my fingertips.
I’m here because seeing my words in print might be the closest I ever get to being a published author – which, let’s be honest, sounds pretty bloody tragic.I think of Annabel telling me to have an adventure. I’m a storyteller, so fuck it, he can have a story.
“I’m here for some research. I’m… an investigative journalist.”
I’m sure Anna won’t mind me borrowing her job for the evening. I’ve spent the last five years writing other people’s words. Tonight, I’m going off-script.
He stills for a moment. It’s barely noticeable. Then just as quickly he recovers and takes a drink.
I nod, and now, I’m fully committed. “Big piece. A look behind the scenes of the book world.”
He lets out a quiet exhale that might be amusement or something else.
“The book world,” he says. “Okay, now I’m intrigued.”
Saying I write for Super Pets Insurance has never quite had the same impact on men.
I take a drink. “Oh, it’s a job, you know.”
“Go on.” He leans in slightly, resting an elbow on the table.
“It’s a cut-throat business.”
His lips curve slightly. “And you’re uncovering the truth at any cost?”
I take a sip of ice-cold wine and nod. “Absolutely.”
