Page 62 of Crazy Spooky Love
“You can’t sit there,” I say.
He crosses his long legs and peers into my popcorn. “Because?”
“Because my date is due to arrive any minute. Pick someone else to harass.”
“Your date?” He grins. “I don’t think so.”
I’m incensed. It doesn’t matter that I’m lying, the fact that he instantly assumes I don’t have a date pisses me off.
“You won’t be saying that when he arrives.” I take a sip of wine and he just laughs and fills his face with popcorn.
He looks me over, assessing. “You have one glass, Billy-no-mates popcorn for one, a stain on your jeans, and I doubt you’ve even brushed your hair. No way are you on a date.”
“It’s bloody windy out there!” I protest, stung by the reference to my hair as I rub at the wet wine-splash on my leg.
He shrugs. “I didn’t say it looked a mess. The just-tumbled-out-of-bed look is good on you.”
I dig a hair band out of the pocket of my jeans and pull my hair back into a low bun, silenced by the compliment-and-insult sandwich.
“So if you’re not here on a date, why are you here?”
I could be truthful and tell him that I’m hiding out from my mother’s dinner party, but I don’t want to bring up the subject of my family because he’ll probably insult them and then I’ll throw my wine in his face and we’ll both likely be banned from The Regal. I like The Regal enough not to riskit.
“I love romantic movies.” God, that lie actually hurt as it left my mouth. It was that or express a special interest in Scarlett Johansson, which I’m sure would only amuse him even more.
“Now, that surprises me,” he drawls. “I’d have had you down as a blood-and-guts action movie girl.”
Oh, how I want to say yes, that’s exactly what I am. Throw in a superhero and I’m practically orgasmic, but I just shake my headdemurely and then down half of my glass of wine. This lying thing isn’t working out well for me today.
As the movie begins, I try really hard to concentrate on the plot, but Fletch is next to me making the odd note in his pocket book as he watches it and he’s distracting me. I mean, he could use his phone like a normal person, but he goes old school, and I find it kind of sexy. I don’t get what’s happening between us. I don’t like him at all, but I react to him like a daisy, spreading my petals in delight when the sun comes out. I recognize the warm leather and spice smell of him before I see him, and he sparks off a swarm of fireflies in my stomach. He detests everything about the life I lead, yet still he kissed me and bought me a pooper-scooper.
I mean, I know what this is. We live in a small town and pickings are slim. We’re physically attracted to each other, and sometimes only another actual human will do, but why this particular human? I can well imagine my mother’s face tomorrow if I tell her I spent the evening with Fletcher Gunn. She’ll wish she hadn’t been so sniffy about Marina’s Sicilian cousin then, won’t she? Not that I’m spending the evening with Fletch. He just happens to be in the same place at the same time and in the seat next to mine, even though the cinema is practically empty. It’s not the same as spending the evening together. The movie is about halfway through and I’m about the same distance through my bottle of wine when things up onscreen take a sudden turn toward sexy. Scarlett is all tearful and wobbly lipped and Fletch scrawls something in his notebook and then shows it tome.
She’s probably just won an onion-chopping competition.
I laugh under my breath as Scarlett’s leading man wipes her tears away with his fingertips, then I take Fletch’s pad and pen and write my reply.
He’s probably bought her a shit gift to cheer herup.
Fletch takes the book back and reads my reply, and onscreen, Scarlett’s beau draws her into his arms and kisses her tenderly.
I watch them, and horribly, it makes me want Fletch to do the same.
Should I snog your face off now?
I look from his words to the screen and see the guy unbuttoning Scarlett’s blouse.
Leave it to the professionals. He looks like he knows what he’s doing.
Fletch reads it then puts his pocket book down, props his feet on the chair in front of him, and flings his arm along the back of my seat. We watch in silence as they make out on the screen and I make headway on my third glass of wine. At around the point where Scarlett’s bra hits the floor I become aware that Fletch’s fingertips are resting on the back of my neck, so barely-there and casual that it means nothing, but for one tiny second it means everything. It is literally all I can think about. Up there on the screen Scarlett is sighing and rolling around with pleasure while I am perfectly still and silent in my seat, yet still, I think,I win.
It’s after 10:00 p.m. anddarkness has fallen by the time we step outside into the rain. It wasn’t a bad movie, as it turned out, but as is the tradition with all good rom-coms, the girl got her guy and they lived happily ever after in the end. She didn’t get squiffy on cheap rosé, wonder if the local reporter was stroking her neck or not, and then go home to bed alone.
“Well, good night,” I say as I turn to him on the pavement, doing an awkward half smile. He looks as if he’s going to walk with me, so I add, “You really don’t need to walk me home.”
“I wasn’t going to. My car’s on the car park at the other end of High Street. I can walk ten paces behind you if you’d rather though.”
Now who feels like a prize cock? Me, that’s who. I flail for a smart answer and come up with zilch. I’m forced to settle for a snarky scowl and start walking, my umbrella held out to shield myself from the pouring rain.
