Page 8 of The Writer
“Okay, let's screw that conversation off then, shall we? How about your family?”
He looks back at me. “Mine?”
“Yes. Tell me all the gritty details. I want all the gossip.”
“Gossip?”
“Mother, Father. Siblings? I suppose you already know I have three because I’m a Broderick. My brother is an arsehole most of the time. One sister now lives in Paris. The other one is … doing something covert.” I drain the last of my beer and signal the waiter myself, ordering two more. “She’s a bit of a mystery, always has been, which I’m trying not to look into.” He grins and leans back, casually watching me talk. Two dimples. A hard jaw, cut like ice regardless of the light scruff of stubble. “I mean, finding out things is my thing. I don’t really know why, but it is. What’s yours?”
“Photography.”
“Why?”
“Do you want some food?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Anything. Why Photography?”
He orders some food and looks back at me. “You like probing.”
“Depends what sort. I’m not an arse girl.”
A laugh rips out of him, making me smile in response. I watch, fascinated with the way he seems so cool all the time. Unhurried. Even out there in that desert, with men and machines and bullets, there was hardly a hair out of place or any sense of panic on his features. “That’s not what I was suggesting, Ivy.”
“Why not? You should be by now.”
“What?”
“Well, I’m assuming you’ve got me out here because you think you’ve got a chance. You have, by the way, considering your saviour activities, but I’m not seeing much flirtation here.”
He shakes his head and takes a swig of beer, then sighs at something. “I’m not one to flirt.”
“Try.”
He nods and looks as a selection of small bowls of food are brought over to us, picking up his next beer. “Tell me about yourself.”
“I have. Try the other tack. We might get to a hotel room quicker if you do.” His eyes widen, another smile creeping across his lips.
“Having never met a woman like you before, I’m finding the forward momentum unnerving.”
I laugh and grab at a piece of bread, dipping it into the rich tomato sauce. “He says, having taken me through a situation like last night.”
Another frown drops on his features, once again proving he’s not comfortable with any conversation about war. I sit back and grab some more bread, bemused by this hero who seems so defensive when it comes to the very thing he’s done with his life. Most men who’ve been in The Forces are proud of their achievements, but he seems quietly dismissive of it.
I watch as he eats, unsure where to go from here. I’m happy enough to get my rocks off, but if he doesn’t start making some attempt at kicking through the gears, I’m more than likely going to simply objectify him as a demigod who didn’t quite cut the mustard. Shame. If anyone deserves what could be tonight’s adventures, it’s him. Having said that, I could happily watch him do nothing but eat and just be. He’s honestly one of the most potent men I’ve ever seen. Strong everything. Solid. Rigid. I might even say hostile in a throwaway comment, certainly with this self-protective attitude, that’s actually fascinating.
I lick my lips at the thought, amused by my own reaction to his presence.
“How about we finish this then and head back to my room?” he mutters, suddenly.
My eyebrow cocks, as I look at his hand going to his mouth again. That’s more like it. He takes a bite of whatever we’re eating, slowly grinding the food between his teeth, and then licks the sauce off his fingers. “I wouldn’t want to let a lady down.”
“What’s in your room?”
“A bed. And some other things I’m happy to talk about.”
