Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
He contemplates me for a beat longer before agreeing, “Sure. That would be nice.”
Strange, but I don’t feel the sense of relief I was expecting.
18
Roman
PRESENT
SORRY NOT SORRY
I round the tall hedge and wonder if I should hop up the back steps or go around to the front of the house, like a proper guest, when a light flicks on, illuminating the back of the small house. The screen swings open, and I mutter a curse, my brows knotting as a man steps out. Medium build, sandy hair, his smile is kind of friendly looking. But something tells me he’s not a friend, not the way he looks at the woman framed by the doorway. Arms folded across her chest, Kennedy doesn’t seem quite so cheerful but not exactly unhappy, either. It could be that she’s unimpressed by the whole khakis and a chequered button-down outfit. Dude looks like a pharmacist. On second glance, she seems uncomfortable, almost like she’s making herself smaller.
The tension in my neck eases as I note she isn’t exactly dressed for seduction. Denim cut-offs and a wide-necked T-shirt. It’s all good, I tell myself. She wouldn’t have dressed up for me, so whoever he is, I guess me and him are on even ground in that sense. But the question remains: who is he? Because, according to the old dears next door, Kennedy doesn’t date or entertain “gentlemen callers”, and I’m inclined to believe them for a couple of reasons:
They look like they don’t miss a trick.
Because this whole setup doesn’t seem like the end of a hot date. She doesn’t have a hair out of place.
As a kid, when I was ill, my old mum used to press her lips to my head to see if I was running a temperature. Pretty sure that’s not what is happening here as he begins to bend from the waist.
Fuck that noise, I think, as I begin to move again.
I’m coming for your back door, if you don’t mind me saying so.
I take the wooden steps two at a time, my guts no longer full of piss and vinegar but glee as, at the last minute, Kennedy turns her head, and his lips glance off her cheek. But I pack all that away as I reach the top and assume a mask of casualness.
“G’day, little love.” Striding across the veranda, I lean in past the pharmacy schmuck’s cloudy expression and press a kiss to Kennedy’s hairline, total stealth mode. If she doesn’t see it coming, she can’t avoid it, can she? “How are ya?” I add, offering him my hand.
“I’m good,” he responds by rote rather than by choice, but then he takes the measure of me. Go on, fella. Take a good look. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”
You’re not sorry. Not yet at least. But you will be.
“Roman.” I give him a megawatt smile, the same one you’ll see on billboards worldwide, particularly in Japan. I’m big in Japan. Literally. I take his reluctant hand in mine and begin to shake it like it’s a possum I’m trying to strangle. “Good to meet ya . . .” Fill in the blanks, arsehole.
“Drew,” he replies, resisting the urge to shake out his crushed hand.
Kennedy’s gaze narrows, total stink eye. Which is fine and easier to ignore than the moths circling the light overhead.
“Drew was here for dinner,” she says tartly.
“Ripper!” Pretty sure I haven’t used that expression since I was twelve. I slide my arm around her stiff shoulders. “Got any leftovers? I’m starvin’.”
“You weren’t invited,” she mutters, shrugging off my arm.
“Kennedy?” So many questions in her name, Drewy boy. So I help out. Friendly, like.
“Where are my manners?” I ask, all head slapping, aw shucks. “I’m Kennedy’s husband.”
Cue a lot of spluttering and red-cheeked indignation, and that’s just from him.
“We are not married,” Kennedy mutters, sounding totally aggro.
“Have you bumped your head?” I dip my knees, bringing my eyes in line with hers. “Want me to go grab the certificate?”
“You still have the certificate?” she says softly, then seems to shake herself. Her attention swings to Drew, her words a little desperate. “We’re separated.”
Fuck off! No way she’s serious about him. He looks like someone drew him with a broken crayon. Or finger paint. Honestly? She deserves better. And yes, of course I mean me. No one ever accused me of being modest.
“I suppose we are kind of separated.” My gaze swings to the yard and back. “But it’s only a hedge.”
“What does he mean, Dede?”
“Dede?” I bend forward as though I’m trying not to piss myself laughing. “Were you a fan of Dexter’s Laboratory?”
“What?”
“The little cartoon fella? Omelette du Fromage?”
He shakes his head, his turn to be confused. I have that effect on people sometimes.
“Look, I’m just gonna leave you two to sort this out,” I say, taking advantage of their bewilderment, stepping into the house as though I’ve been here a thousand times. Drew falls back as I pass as though my brand of crazy is catching—you wish, sucker—and I clasp the screen door with my hand.