Page 2 of Storm in a Teacup
She peers at me out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, sure,” an American accent answers me. “Just saw someone I was not expecting to see, so now I’m sitting on a bench staring at him like a stalker.”
My eyes follow the direction of hers, landing on a group of blokes having a laugh in front of the pub cattycorner to our bench. There are pints in each of their hands with the light overhead shining down like a spotlight.
That explains the choice of bench.
“An ex?” I guess.
“Ex-fiancé,” she confirms with a click of her tongue. “Ex-fiancé who lives in London with his new fancy finance job. New fancy finance job that was supposed tokeep himin London.” She crosses her arms and mutters, “Edinburgh is mine.”
If I were an arsehole, I’d point out that one cannot claim ownership over a city, but I don’t say that. She’s an upset woman sat on a bench on a dark street in Edinburgh watching her ex-fiancé without his knowledge. She can claim whatever she wants, in my opinion.
Instead, I choose to ask, “Why are we watching him, then?”
Another sharp exhale. “Great question.”
“You could walk away,” I offer.
“I could, but I don’t know how to walk away while he’s there having a grand old time when I’m still—” She cuts herself off.
I consider her. “You want him back?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Are you planning to speak to him?”
“Absolutely not,” she repeats. Her eyes don’t leave the pub.
“Suit yourself.” I mimic her crossed arms and watch the group of men as well. I’ve no idea which of the five is the object of observation, so I give them all a general glare. Probably all wankers, anyhow.
A chorus of laughter erupts from them, causing the woman to swear and duck toward me. With the breeze, I catch a whiff of citrus I assume is her. It’s nice.
“Is he looking over here?” she whispers.
I assess the group of men. One does seem to glance our way, but not for long enough to assume he’s taken any notice of us. “Which one is he?”
“Brown hair, beard…baby-blue eyes.”
I snort. “Can’t see those orbs from here, love.”
She glares. “Don’t call them ‘orbs.’” With a cautious turn back to the lads, she notes that none are looking at us, so she leans back into the bench with a grumble of, “Red shirt.”
Ah. The tall one. He stands about five inches taller than the other men with him.
We continue to watch him in silence. I’d say I feel like a creep, but I am so grateful for the distraction that the option to feel weird about surveilling this man doesn’t even occur to me.
Then, his head snaps toward us.
“Shit,” the woman hisses, ducking into me again.
This time, he does spot her. His eyes linger as he fixes on herin the dark, trying to determine if she is who he thinks she is. He seems to decide the affirmative as his mouth presses into a line.
“We’ve been compromised,” I comment.
She sucks her teeth. “Would you mind compromising me again, then?”
“Pardon?”
“Kiss me.” Then, she adds as an afterthought, “Please?”
