Page 18 of Best Man
I continue questioning him when we get back in the car.
“This is likeMastermind,” he grumbles, starting the engine.
I try not to stare at those big hands on the steering wheel and the veins on the back of them. However, by not staring at them I am now focusing on the scent of oranges and sandalwood. I love the smell. It’s warm and rich, and underneath is the scent of his skin that makes my mouth water.
I’m beginning to think this trip might be a bad idea, mainly because he seems allergic to the slightest hint of a fib which is richly ironic as he hired me to play a part with him. However, it’s a certainty that the crush I’ve always had on Zeb is in danger of becoming magnified the more time I spend with him.
He simply does it for me. I know he’s older, but I like that. I like the way he’s sure of himself and quietly confident. I like the huskiness of his voice and the way one eyebrow raises whenever he listens to me. I like how funny he is and how he can talk on any subject. He’s funny and wise and more interesting than any man I’ve ever met, and, when I talk, he listens to me as if there’s no one else worth listening to.
I’m not stupid. I know he’s dismissed me over the last few years as a kid. He put me in that box the day I came for an interview, and looking back, I can see how young I was. But he doesn’t seem to see me as I am now. Although why would he? I think of the funeral fight and sigh.
“You okay?”
I look up to find him watching me with a hint of concern in those bright blue eyes.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say quickly.
“You sure? We can turn round.”
“You’d go back to London for me?”
“Erm, no. I’d drop you off at the station.”
For some reason that makes me laugh hard, and he stares at me quizzically, that one eyebrow raised as I chortle and snort.
Sobering, I straighten up. “Well, there’s no need to test my potential hitchhiking skills.” I look at him and gesture down my body. “All of this says no to thumbing a lift.”
He shakes his head and starts off. “Okay, what else do you need to know? Inside leg measurement?”
“Dick size?” I say, laughing as the car swerves slightly. “Only kidding. Surely no one is likely to question me about that.” I tap my nail against my tooth thoughtfully. “Okay, we’ve covered how we met and how long we’ve been together. Music tastes and books. Coffee or tea?”
He looks blank. “Tea, of course.”
I dramatically slump back in the seat. “Phew, I don’t need to tuck and roll out of a moving vehicle. All will be well. We can settle down and have ten children now without me worrying.”
“That’s your yardstick for worrying? Hmm.”
I laugh and he looks at me for a second before returning his serious gaze back to the road. It’s empty but he still drives as if expecting a major disaster to happen any second. It’s oddly endearing.
“We haven’t spoken about family,” he says. “That’s the number one question amongst the set of people we’re about to be sharing a hotel with. Would they know your family?”
“Unlikely,” I say lightly. “Well, not unless they’ve attended Evensong at St Mary’s Church in Dunsford.”
He jerks. “Your father’s in the church?”
“That makes him sound like a squatter. He is a vicar, but nice sexism,” I say sternly. “It might have been my mum.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says earnestly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
I laugh. “If you knew my family, you’d be spot on. There is no way my mum could have been a vicar. She’s far too impatient.”
“So, your father is a vicar?” He seems oddly enthralled by this piece of information.
“Yes, you seem slightly disbelieving,” I say, nudging him gently.
He scratches his chin, the intimate sound of the scrape of his stubble seeming to hit me in the back of my teeth and making my mouth water.
“Well, that’s because I am,” he says baldly, startling a laugh out of me. “You don’t seem like a vicar’s son.”
