Page 83 of Glitterland
“I’m a freelance web designer, and, err, I have OCD actually.”
“What a relief we can’t breed together.”
He gave a startled laugh. “It’s not so bad. It’s not crippling or anything. Just really annoying for whoever I’m dating.”
“I’m not looking for a relationship, David.” Well, that was blunt. I winced. The man had barely said hello.
But he was, if anything, even more embarrassed than I was. He slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh, shit. That sounded like I was coming on way too strong.” He gave a lopsided smile, far too sheepish for a man who looked like a walking wet dream. One of his front teeth was slightly crooked. Before I’d met Darian, I would never have noticed. “Bunny-boiling comments aside,” he said, “I’m not necessarily looking for a relationship either.”
His eyes lingered on my mine, his smile curving suggestively.
I re-checked my libido for signs of life. There was nothing. I thought about going with him anyway.
But I didn’t want to.
Fuck. Did this mean I’d grown as a person?
“I’m probably going to regret this for the rest of my life,” I said, “because you are seriously the most gorgeous man who has ever failed to pull me, but…I don’t think I’m looking for that either.”
To his credit, he didn’t drop me like a plastic carrier bag. “Just out of something?”
“I wasn’t even in it.”
“Oh, those are the worst kind.” He slipped gracefully onto the barstool next to me, moved the menu into alignment with the beer mats, and then hastily disarranged them again.
“I can’t even bring myself to rebound,” I said, pretending I hadn’t noticed. “I’m just sort of stuck.”
“What happened?”
“Bloody hell, I’ve turned into one of those wounded men who sit around in bars and whinge on about their broken hearts to hotties they should be fucking.”
“It’s fine. Really. I think one chat-up per night, maybe per year, is about my limit.”
So I told him. Or, at least, I started. But then Niall flopped down onto the other free seat and interrupted by yelling at me. “What the hell was that? Where was my rescue? He could have been psycho.”
“Was he?”
“No, just another closeted stockbroker with submission fantasies.”
“I thought you liked him.” I shrugged. “You usually flick your hair about when you fancy someone.”
“I do not!” He tried to lean casually past me so he could see David. Subtle, Niall, subtle. “So, what were you two talking about?”
I tried to sound casual. “Oh, nothing much.”
“Nothing much? I know what that means. Can you please stop moping about Darian?”
I hung my head. “I can’t help it, I’m sorry.”
“For God’s sake, why don’t you just apologise?”
“Because…because…I can’t. Because then it’ll be over.”
Niall pulled over my Coke and took a gulp. “It’s already over. You’re not with him, are you? And look at it this way: if he feels about you even a little bit of the way you feel about him, he’ll understand. And if he doesn’t, you owe the poor bastard an apology anyway. Because you were a shitbag.”
“What did you do?” asked David, wide-eyed.
Before I could explain, Niall jumped in. “You know that bit in the Bible when they’re all like, ‘Hey Peter, do you know this Jesus bloke?’ and he’s like, ‘Hell, no.’ It was like that, but even worse.”
