Page 27 of Falling for You
‘Like, a bit of an idiot.’
He smiles. ‘I know what “dick” means.’
I laugh again. ‘Look at me,’ I gesture down to my costume. ‘What was I thinking?’
‘I think you look great,’ he says, his face serious.
That warm feeling in my chest glows a bit brighter.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s have this drink. If anyone is looking at you, it’s only because they’re jealous.’
I take the glass, feeling myself relax. We both sit backdown on the sofa. ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ I reply, gesturing to his suit with my glass.
He looks down at himself. ‘Me?’
‘What’s scary about your costume?’ I continue. ‘Who are you meant to be?’
He takes a better look at his suit. His shirt is a crisp white and unbuttoned at the top and his blazer is now draped over the back of the sofa. I can see the outline of his muscular arms under his shirt.
‘Ah, well, I am dressed as “man who won’t go to therapy and blames his issues on other people”. If anything, I’m much scarier than you.’
I laugh into my drink. ‘Okay, that’s scary. Is it based on true experiences?’
He shakes his head, taking a swig of his beer. ‘God, no.’
I smile and lean forward, my wings jutting out against the sofa.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Not really,’ I huff. ‘These wings are a pain in the arse. I didn’t think about what would happen when I tried to sit down.’
‘You should complain to the person who made them.’
‘Well, I do love to complain about myself,’ I say, pushing a wing under my arm and clamping it down the best I can. ‘There, that will do for now.’
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Yourself? Did you make your costume?’
I smile, the pride that was fuelled by vodka returning. ‘I did. I make my own costume every year. I made it beforeI realised we were coming here,’ I add, nodding towards a group of girls who glide past us in ballgowns.
‘That’s incredible.’
I smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘Is that your job, then? You’re a costume maker?’
I take a sip of my drink. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I just do costumes on the side. What do you do?’
I notice him fiddling with a ring that he’s taken off his pinkie. It’s a gold band with a small green stone on it.
‘That’s nice,’ I say, glancing down at the ring.
He looks down at it, caught off guard. ‘Ah. It’s my mom’s. I’m a writer.’
‘Are you here on holiday?’
‘Nope.’ He pushes his lips together. ‘I decided to throw it all in and spend a few months living in the bright lights of London.’
I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘There aren’t many bright lights here.’
