Page 21 of Just One Look
Not Exactly a Threesome
Luka wasat least ten minutes early for his date. No worries. Always better not to leave the lady sitting alone, with all the uneasiness that could bring. He drank his single beer, enjoying every sip of it, on the pavement in front of the Ponsonby Road Bistro. He also enjoyed having his neck not hurt, not to mention the skiving-off-school feeling of missing trainingandmissing rehab.
You didn’t want to be in a position to havethat feeling, because it meant that you were one day less fit. If you were going to get that day anyway, though, you might as well enjoy it. He had another year or two to play rugby and a whole lifetime afterwards to rest, but he was still going to enjoy this.
His favorite restaurant, too, and not just because it was a five-minute walk from his front door. Because they knew how to do a steak, they knew how to do lamb chops, and the mains came out in the way God intended, as a meal for one person served on one plate, without any rubbish about sharing your tiny, perfect bites of unidentifiable something-or-other with somebody else.
Had he mentioned that the place was a five-minute walk from his house? Always useful, if the evening ended well.
A voice from behind him said, “Luka.”
He turned, and the smile died on his lips. He put it back on there, stood up, and said, “Hi, Francesca.” He kissed her cheek. Her skin was still perfect, and she was still fragrant, too. Francesca changed her scent every day, and it was always something special. Part of what had attracted him in the first place. “How ya goin’?” he asked.
“Going well.” She let go of his arms, stepped back, shook her head a little so her hair settled into place, then tipped her beautifully shaped head to study him.
Still blonde. Still a stunner. Her eyes were a wicked-cat green and tilted up at the corners, and she had a way of giving you a look out of the corner of those eyes that would get any man’s heart racing. “Got over you, anyway,” she told him. “After I got tired of waiting for you. I’m on to bigger and better things.”
“Yeh? That’s good, then.” He should invite her to sit down, but if sitting alone waiting for a bloke could hurt a girl’s confidence, what would finding Francesca sitting with him do?
She sat down. He sat himself and said, getting his sense of humor back, “You know… I’m meeting somebody. You could be a bit intimidating for the poor girl.”
“Good,” she said. “That’ll give me a chance to warn her off.” And laughed at the look on his face. “No worries. I’ll slink away when she turns up. Could give you a reference first, though. You may not be good for much, but you’re entertaining. Would that be helpful?”
“No,” he said, and she smiled some more.
“Or maybe,” she said, “you could have dinner with both of us.”
He smiled, but it was a bit of an effort. “Cheers for that, but not tonight. I’m meant to be taking it easy on my neck.” Also, he wasn’t exactly in the mood, which had been happening a fair amount lately. He could have told Francesca that, but he wasn’t about to do it. Especially because it had been four months since they’d broken up. Shewouldsuggest dinner with both of them if she knew that, and probably more, because she’d assume it was because she’d been too good. Or that he was pining. Or both. She’d think she knew how to fix it, too.
You may not be good for much, but you’re entertaining.
The waiter, a young fella from France named Jean who was keen as mustard on rugby, turned up like he’d been summoned, or like he’d been watching, and Francesca said, “Would you be a darling and bring me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc? Put it on Luka’s tab.”
Luka said, “Seriously …”
She gave him that sidelong look, that knowing smile. “What? I’ll move to another table when she arrives. I could want to watch, though. What’s her name? Is she as good as me?”
“Not going to answer that,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Gentleman, and all that.”
She paid no attention. She was looking over his shoulder and down the hill, saying, “Oh, myGod.Look at that.”
Whoever she was talking about, it probably wasn’t Mona, the eager young fitness trainer he was meeting tonight. She was pretty—a ginger, which was nice—but she wasn’t “Oh, myGod”territory. Just as well, probably, because he didn’t need to be exhausted. He needed some normal, that was his problem. Mona had runghimafter they’d met last week, though, and had sounded as casual as you like about it, which was perfect.
That was one good thing about younger women. They weren’t necessarily looking for a future. Which was fortunate, because he didn’t have a future to offer.
He turned around and saw what Francesca had been looking at. Oh. No, that definitely wasn’t Mona. This woman’s hair was falling out of its short, ragged ponytail, three enormous circles of sweat darkened her T-shirt under her arms and around her neckline, and her face was beetroot red. Her open mouth was hauling in air like she’d just survived a near-drowning, and she looked nearly as wet as if shehadfallen into the harbor.
He guessed you could say she was running, in the way a zombie might do it, or somebody in a film who’d been on the run from the baddies for days now and was reduced to staggering. Still trying to get somewhere, but barely able to put one foot in front of the other anymore.
And out in front, pulling her up the hill, surging ahead as if his one wish in the world was to have a cart so he could pull her better, was the big black dog.
He said, “One minute,” to Francesca, and stood.
She said, “Do youknowher?”
“Yeh,” he said. “She’s my neurosurgeon.”
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