Page 26 of The Story of Us
“Of course I don’t, I’d be fucking bankrupt if I bought every bird that walked through the door a bottle of Moet.”
“So why me?”
“Because I want to, you always look so sad and that first time, when I gave the bottle to your friend, the loud one, Ashley, who works here, when you were drinking it, you smiled at me, then you laughed and spilt your drink on your chin and for a split second, you looked happy and I just wanted to see that spark in your eye again.”
I don’t want him to know it was him that I was thinking about that night, that I smiled because I was thinking about how good looking I thought he was, and Jimmie read my mind and stated my exact thoughts out loud, I don’t want to hear this, I don’t want him to be nice, I don’t want him to care, I want him to be a complete arsehole but he’s not, not at all.
“Why do you care whether I’m happy or sad, what difference does it make to you?”
“Because I own the bar and I like my patrons to be happy, now are you gonna come for a fucking drink with me or not?” He sounds harsh but the look on his face is anything but, he raises his eyebrows and leans away from the till point where I’m wrapping his purchases.
“Come on, you know you wanna.” I do, I really do, dare I?
“One drink Georgia, one drink and lots of talk.” I raise my eyebrows at him.
“Or no talking, one drink and no talking, if that’s what you’d prefer.” He’s so nice and so fucking sexy; I swore I wouldn’t get involved with someone that stirred those old but familiar sensations inside me. I had enjoyed a few snogs lately with completely random blokes, I’d even let one of them touch my tits as we kissed waiting for my taxi to arrive, Rick or Nick I think his name was, but I felt nothing, it stirred nothing but just standing here, in a shop, with a counter between us, was doing things to my insides and I really wasn’t sure what to do about it, but for some reason, my big fat gob went into action before it engaged my brain.
“One drink, I have my car out the back, but I’ll need to drive it around, I’m not walking back here later on my own.”
He has the biggest smile on his face; it makes him look so much younger… Aaaaand off goes my mouth again. “How old are you?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Where are your keys Georgia, I’ll pull your car around the front while you lock up.”
I fold my arms across my chest as I look him up and down, knowing full well I’m not going to get an answer. Shaking my head, I bend down under the counter and get my keys out of my bag and throw them to him, wait till he sees what he’ll be driving, I nod towards the back of the shop. “Through there, turn left onto the back ally, it’s one way.”
I follow him to the back doors. Hilda, my burnt orange and black Triumph Herald is parked right outside, I watch him as he swings the keys around his fingers, stops dead in his tracks and shakes his head. This is obviously a habit of his, I expect him to turn around and say something to me, but he keeps walking towards my car. I lock the back door behind him, set the alarms and head out the front of the shop, where he’s already waiting at the curb, looking like a giant as he leans against my little car with his long legs crossed in front of him, his hands once again in his pockets. As I walk toward him, it suddenly occurs to me that I don’t even know his name, well he hasn’t offered and I’m not going to make him think I’m interested by asking. He silently opens the passenger door, lets me in, and then closes it behind me. My car now smells of a mixture of me and of him and I don’t like it, it unnerves me for some reason.
We drive in silence for the two or three minutes it takes to get to the wine bar, he parks next to a Mercedes Sports car in a spot marked reserved and is out and around at my door before I’ve even got my seatbelt off. He pulls my door open and holds out his hand to help me out, I ignore it and climb out unaided, holding my hands out for the keys as I do, I lock my car and he takes my hand in his as we walk into the bar. Once again it’s pretty busy for a Thursday night; we walk over to the bar, where one of the bar staff immediately comes over to him, he hands over his bags containing the gifts for his sister and asks the barman who he calls Steve, to go and put them in his office and to make sure it’s locked up. He then goes around the bar and proceeds to pour himself a Jack Daniels over ice and without even asking, makes me a Southern Comfort and lemonade, I want to tell him I want a vodka, just to be awkward but I manage to stay quiet.
He comes around the bar with our drinks, talking to one of the bar staff and saying hello to customers as he does, he nods to an empty spot over in the corner and I follow him. We sit ourselves on the stools that face the ledge around the wall and once I’m settled he turns my stoolso that I’m facing him and pulls it closer, so close that my knees are touching his stool, in between his legs, which are open and straddling mine, he looks at me, as though he’s daring me to object, so I say nothing.
Steve appears with the keys to the office and a pile of papers. “You have a pile of messages Cam, most of them from Tamara but there are a couple that are business and one from Tory”
He takes them from him, puts the keys in his pocket and looks through his messages, shakes his head and shoves them all in his pocket. “Sorry about that.”
I shrug. “Not a problem, business is business.”
“Sure is,” he says with a smile.
He swirls his drink over the ice in his glass and says, “Well Georgia, you dragged me here, are you going to talk to me or what?”
I smile inwardly at his cheek but again say anything; I don’t want him to know I’m amused. “What would you like to know, Cam?”
He raises his eyebrows, obviously surprised that I know his name. “I’d like to know about you Georgia. Where were you born? Where did you grow up? How long have you been manager of the shop over the road?”
I correct him. “I’m not the manager of the shop over the road.”
“Oh sorry, I just thought the way you spoke to the girls, you were their boss.”
“I am.” I reply. “I own the business that owns the shop, over the road.”
He leans back on his stool, studies me for a moment and then knocks back all of his drink and puts it down a little too hard on the ledge. What’s his problem I wonder?
“I thought Frankie Layton’s Misses owned that place.” How does he know that?
“She does, I’m her business partner.” His frown disappears. What! Did he seriously think that I was married to Frank, to my Dad? “And I’m her daughter.”
His mouth actually drops open, oh fuck, this news doesnotplease him. “You’re Frank’s daughter?”
