Page 24 of Strawberry Kisses

Patrick’s family chatted happily while his mum passed around a plate of cake and offered drinks. Usually I’d be all up for coffee, but since I felt so on the spot, I was terrified of spilling it all down myself, and that wouldn’t make a good impression.

“So, Connor,” Cara started, “Patrick said you’re a dancer?”

“Yeah,” I nodded and swallowed. Patrick squeezed my hand. “I’m a qualified ballet teacher, but I also teach a few other things like jazz and modern, and I do a lot of pole dancing too. I compete as well.”

“Can you do those things where you hang upside down by, like, your knee?” Mary asked.

“Of course.” I smiled and picked at my cake. It was good, but not quite as good as Patrick’s.

“That’s insane!” Mary turned to Patrick. “You never wanted to try?”

“No, I definitely don’t have the strength to do that.”

“You’d be good,” I said. “And besides, it’s not about strength when you start. Pole is for everyone.”

“Maybe one day,” Patrick said softly and gave me a little smile. It made my chest ache. God, I wanted that smile to be real.

“So you two met at The Pear Tree?” Aoife asked. “Do you still work there?”

I shook my head. “My friend Levi—he’s actually Ben’s brother—opened a dance studio, and now I teach there full-time.”

“You just wanted to escape Aaron before he threw something at you,” Patrick teased.

“He’s just not used to my charm.”

“Yeah, charm… that’s what it is.”

I laughed and nudged him playfully, the tightness inside me starting to loosen. Things started to feel a little easier, and the awkward, stilted questions slowly dissolved into easy conversation. It was hard to have a single conversation with six people without it feeling like an interview or an interrogation. Soon I found myself chatting to Aoife and Mary about pole. They were both fascinated, and I was pretty sure I’d be able to convince them to give it a try. I knew one incredible poler in her mid-sixties, who’d taken it up in her forties after her divorce. Although I wasn’t sure Patrick would forgive me if I introduced his mother to pole dancing, especially after his reaction to her even suggesting sex. Patrick’s relationship with his mum was very different than my relationship with my own mum, who’d sat me down at fifteen when I’d gotten my first proper boyfriend and given me a very thorough talk on gay sex that included a clip from some gay porn she’d borrowed from a friend.

“How’re you doing?” Patrick asked during a lull in the conversation. It was so sweet that he was checking up on me, and it made my stomach squirm in delight. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Good.” He’d been chatting to John and Cara about something to do with the yard. I’d heard the words horses and racing and slightly tuned out. “I need to do the cake in a minute. Want to give me a hand?”

“Sure. But I can’t guarantee I’ll be anything more than a pretty face,” I said, giving him a cheeky grin.

“It is a very pretty face though.” Patrick’s lips brushed against my cheek again. Warmth coursed through me, making my skin prickle and flush.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” My voice was low and hoarse, not quite the teasing I’d been going for. But there was something about Patrick’s sweetness that caught me off guard and sent me spinning, like I was riding the Waltzers at Goose Fair.

Patrick’s eyed widened and his face turned noticeably pink. He was so cute when he blushed.

“You two okay?” Cara asked, wearing her family’s customary wry smile.

“Yeah,” Patrick said. He sounded calmer than he looked. “I was just telling Connor that I need to go and get the cake done before dinner. It needs to be iced tonight so it’s got time to chill before tomorrow. I can add the final touches then.”

“Go ahead.” Aoife waved her hands. “I made a giant lasagne for dinner earlier, so if you’re okay with me putting the oven on, it can just reheat gently. I’ve got garlic bread and salad to go with it. Nice and simple and out of your way.”

“That’s fine. My kitchen’s a lot hotter. I keep asking Ben for proper air conditioning, and he keeps telling me it’s on the list.”

“So until then, pastry in the chiller?” I asked, remembering how I’d often found Patrick working with pastry on the lid of the chest freezer near the chillers, or even in the chiller itself so the butter didn’t melt.

“Pastry in the chiller,” Patrick said with a nod.

As I looked up, I noticed Mary watching us with a look on her face I couldn’t quite place. The word that came to mind was shrewd, but that didn’t make sense. I didn’t think she’d be able to guess we were faking. In my opinion we were doing a fucking good job. Patrick was more affectionate than some of the guys I’d actually dated.

Fuck, my standards were apparently non-existent.

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