Page 7 of Rocking the Receiver
Tim and Claire are soon pulled away by another relative, leaving me with the two sisters. They start talking, switching seamlessly between French and English for my benefit. I nod along, getting bits and pieces, but my attention keeps drifting back to Elliot.
“Would you like to dance?” Camille asks, her voice breaking through my thoughts.
“Sure, why not?” I set my drink on a nearby table and take her hand. We make our way to the makeshift dance floor where other couples are swaying to the music. Somehow, my eyes spot Tim’s younger brother, Elliot, studying the crowd from afar. Nope, not the crowd; he’s watching me intently, his gaze unwavering. Taking a look around, I realize that everyone else is so engrossed in the party that they couldn’t care less. There’ssomething about his stare that sends a shiver down my spine. As much as it concerns me, I embrace the feeling—slowly but surely—and berate myself for reveling in it a little too much.
He’s just a kid, I remind myself. Maybe my behavior yesterday upset him, and he’s just pissed at me, unable to get over it. That has to be it.
Last time I saw him, he was what? Six or seven. I remember him vividly because it’s not every day that two unrelated redheads live under the same roof, even for a short period of time. The kid was begging for attention back then, just as he is now. Elliot is the only child born from the union of Philippe and Victoria. A late one at that. He’s the youngest of seven siblings in a family where he’s the only one with fair hair and freckles. The only one with a not-so-typical French name. The only one with a different physique from his father. The only one who chose American Football over rugby. My buddy, Nathan, would probably have a field trip with Elliot’s backstory; he loves a unique story, especially when it involves karma and oddities, and the Lefevre kid definitely strikes me as odd. Shaking my buzzed head, I push my inner debate aside, focusing on the task at hand.
The Beatles version ofTwist and Shoutpropels me to the present, and I push my inner debate aside and focus on Camille. Tim takes the stage with Claire, and I show off my best moves while telling my dance partner how I love the song, which reminds me ofFerris Bueller’s Day Off, an 80’s movie that I used to watch with my mom.
I still feel the weight of Elliot’s stare on my back. I can’t help but glance over my shoulder. It’s swift, but as our eyes briefly meet, his expression is unreadable. Then he averts his gaze, and I turn mine back to Camille.
I feel self-conscious. It frustrates me that I can't quite put my finger on what pulls me towards Elliot. Well, strike that. I hate that the kid figured me out when the rest of the world believes in my love story with Sally and assumed straight orientation.
“Is everything alright?” Camille, who can’t see him, inquires, noticing my distraction.
“Yeah, just... taking it all in.” I’ve perfected my fake smile to a T, so she mustn’t read my unease. Dancing to a French song that Camille says is a major hit at the moment, I manage to whirl around in order to face Elliot. The more I try to decipher the younger brother’s intense scrutiny, the more intrigued I feel. What’s his deal?
As the song ends, I excuse myself and escape to the bathroom, where I splash water on my face, hoping to break my trance. Then, I spot the waiter and make a beeline towards the bar. After discreetly polite and professional small talk, he hands me my Chateldon sparkling water along with a napkin with his digits on it. Later tonight…
That was so easy. Almost too easy, but why bother overthinking things when two consenting adults are on board?
Thoughtful, I make my way back to the edge of the terrace to collect myself. I feel a presence beside me and turn to see Elliot standing there, his gaze finally meeting mine.
“Enjoying the party?” His voice is low, tinged with a hint of sarcasm.
“Yeah, it’s wonderful.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I study him. “Your brother’s very lucky.”
Elliot’s eyes don’t leave mine. “So am I.”
“Oh, yeah?” There’s a tension between us that I can’t ignore, an unspoken connection that makes my heart race. I’m drawn to him, but I know that I can’t act on it. Not here. Not now. Not ever. That hot waiter is a much safer bet. He opens his mouth to speak, but I interject, “Why do you keep staring at me?” I challenge, unable to hold back any longer.
Elliot shrugs, a faint smirk playing on his plump lips that I shouldn’t be lusting after. “Just trying to figure you out,” he blurts out, his tone teasing but his eyes piercing.
“Well, good luck with that.” I force a chuckle. “I’ve been working on that for twenty-eight years, and I remain unsure what the answer is.” I’m not even lying. Reminding him of my age helps put things into perspective. I’m not gonna lie, the kid is hot as fuck, too hot for his own good probably, and the energy he exudes is appealing. In another lifetime, he’d totally be my type.
He laughs softly, the tension easing just a bit. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He swallows. “Don’t think I buy your act, though.” My eyes widen as he turns to walk away, but changes his mind, glancing back at me. He threads his long fingers through his luscious mane of strawberry blond hair. My fingers twitch, aching to join his. Fuck! “By the way, don’t forget you owe me one.” With that, he leaves me hanging. Mind racing. Mouth parched.
Guilt spiking.
CHAPTER 5
JUST A KISS
Elliot
I immediately spothim from a comfortable distance on the opposite side of a tree-shaded street. Readjusting my baseball cap, I purse my lips, discreetly stealing glimpses of my obsession without being seen. Today is a gorgeous, sunny day, just like yesterday’s engagement party. The late afternoon dry heat is more bearable thanks to the light breeze.
Sitting outside, he has his back to me, but is angled in such a way that I see him checking his phone while having a draft beer.
Impatient, much? I’m only two minutes late.
I chose this quaint café located in a small neighboring town where the narrow pedestrian streets are made of cobblestone, lending a French vibe. It’s easy enough to reach by bike since I don’t drive. As for him, he either took an Uber here or borrowed a car, not that I actually give a shit. I also selected this location to avoid crossing paths with any acquaintances, at least on my part. I wonder what excuse Rupert made up to ditch them. Again, not my problem… All that matters is that he’s here as planned.
I’m glad that there’s enough space between tables to grant privacy.
Why are you overthinking this? Who cares if people overhear our conversation?
