Page 8 of Wilder at Heart
Anyway.
‘Hi.’ (Can you tell I have a degree in English?)
There’s nothing to take the wind out of your sails like the love of your life kissing you on the cheeks, for Pete’s sake.
‘Nora,’ he says in a careful voice, as if I’m some sort of loose cannon, ‘this is Lucy. Lucy, I’d like you to meet Nora.’
He’s smart enough not to give us handles.Nora, Lucy is my shiny new girlfriend with a limited intellect-slash-vocabulary and a porn-star-level chest. Lucy, Nora is my foolish, long-suffering and totally fucking myopic ex who didn’t see you coming until I had to spell it out for her.
Lucy and I eye each other up in a passive-aggressive fashion, both of us resorting to a mumbledhow do you doin sync. You’ve got to love the Brits.
Jonathan’s vast shoulders sink in relief that I haven’t whipped off a shoe and poked Lucy in the eye with a stiletto heel.We’re fifteen seconds into the most awkward introduction of all time, and nobody is bleeding from their eyeball.
Yet.
Again, thank you, British culture.
Though what Jonathan mistakes for acceptance on my part is really just my respect for Miles and Saoirse. There’s no way I’d make a scene at their beautiful party.
And there’s no way I’d ever give these two the satisfaction of showing the merest glimpse of jealousy. Ofvulnerability. I shudder. Dear God, no.
‘Congratulations on landing this gig, Nor.’ Jonathan gestures at the happy couple. ‘I was thrilled for you when Miles told me.’
‘Thank you. That’s so kind. I hope your new role is going well.’
Note: that’s a statement, not a question. And my smile is fixed andscary. I may be able to resort to good manners when need be, but Jonathan’s nervous glance at Lucy tells me he can interpret my subtext.
And my subtext is:Don’t fuckingdaremake small talk with me in front of Dolly Parton here.
‘Excuse me,’ I say in my fake voice before Jonathan thinks about anything so ill-advised as answering my non-question. ‘I must confer with the server about the timings of the canapes.’
‘Of course.’ Jonathan takes a step back and pushes his fine blonde hair off his forehead. My blue-eyed, golden-haired boy.
I’m so far from ready to drop that possessive pronoun.
I have alotof fight in me yet.
I sweep imperiously away, my chin held high, my glorious Emilia Wickstead armour helping in that superficial but fabulous way that only a great dress can.
I just hope I got away from them before they saw my chin wobble.
CHAPTER 3
Theo
Not even Saoirse’s mates can save this party. Miles and our parents ensured that when they invited along every turgid motherfucker they do business with. And my ambitions to charm my way back into Mum and Dad’s good books and into a cushy job in the firm do not extend to making small talk with their pale, male and stale business associates and their predatory wives (though I don’t blame the wives for hitting on me. Not when they’ve got to get into bed with those guys later).
Worse, most of the younger guests at the party saw me immortalised in all my glory with Trixie and Dixie and are treating me like some kind of novelty. I escape one handsy fifty-something and make for the bar. And just like that, my evening gets better.
There’s a woman alone at the bar, her back to me. Her brown hair is a glossy mane pulled over one shoulder. She’s in a stunning pale blue dress that skims her curves to perfection. It’s classy but feminine, and best of all, the neck dips at the back, exposing an enticing V of creamy skin. I run my eyes down her body. Killer legs. Sexy AF heels.
And best of all, she’s alone. Her evening’s about to get better, too.
I rake my hair back, tug on the lapels of my blazer and slide in beside her. But the beginnings of a chat-up line die on my lips when she senses my presence and turns to face me.
Fuck me. It’s my cousin Elle’s mate, Nora.
I recover quickly. ‘Hi, Belle.’
