Page 21 of Saving Ren
I turn slowly to see Alysa standing there.
“Hoooooleeeeey shit!” Zac whisper shouts loud enough for me and most of the bar to hear.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Lauren says with a wink. “Thanks for the drink,” she adds before turning and walking away.
Chapter 7
Lauren
“What the fuckwas that all about?” I snap at Jo when I reach where the girls are standing.
“Oh, do be quiet. I’m just helping you get back in the game.”
“I don’t want to be back in the game. I’m not even out of the game yet. I’m still in the game, just a different game.”
“He’s cute,” Lou slurs. “Just use him to practise on.”
“Lou!” I shake my head in horror at her suggestion. “He’s someone’s son. Imagine if someone talked about one of your boys like that one day?”
She shrugs.
“It’s all good, Lauren, it’s all good. . .tune,” she shouts before bouncing on her toes and fist-pumping the air as she sings along to ‘Living on a Prayer’.
“I should go home,” I tell Jo and Jemma who are both watching me.
“No, you shouldn’t.” Jem throws her arm over my shoulder and says, “Ol’ blue eyes is on his way over here, and what you’re gonna do is let him buy you drinks, have a little flirt, then go home later and go to bed feeling a million times better than what you did last night.”
“Sorry about that, Lauren. I meant to give you my card, just in case. . .” He trails off, shrugging awkwardly while his mouth opens and closes. I wonder if it’s because I got upset earlier at the mention of finding somewhere to live, and he maybe doesn’t want to bear witness to another one of my mini meltdowns.
I notice the girls slope off and join Lou on the dance floor, once again leaving me alone with this man. We stand facing each other in another awkward silence, I use the moment to take in his gorgeous face. His dark hair, brows, lashes, and stubble make the blue of his eyes pop. The dark circle around his irises highlighting the colour even more. He’s tall, I mean at a little under five-two, everyone is tall to me, but he must be over six foot. Muscled, but not bulky. His limbs long and lean like an athlete. Dark chest hairs escape the T-shirt he’s wearing, pooling in the divot at the base of his throat.
Those blue eyes apparently have a direct line to my clit, and I shift, embarrassed at the effect he’s having on me.
Aware that I’m studying him, he smiles. It’s not a big smile, just a small one. But with his head tilted to the side and the way it lights up his eyes, it’s truly, heart-stoppingly magnificent.
My hand involuntarily begins to rise. I catch it, dropping the offending appendage to my side before it commits the ultimate flirting move and touches my hair. Really? This is what I’ve become? A horny, desperate, middle-aged woman, reacting to the slightest attention thrown my way. Could I be any more obvious?
He leans in and says huskily into my ear, “So, do you want it, Lauren?” Hot breath fans my cheek and neck setting my skin on fire. . . or that could be the alcohol or menopause. Both are possibilities.
“W-what?” I stammer.
“My card, do you want it?”
Desire is also right up there as a cause of the scorch travelling from my toes to my scalp. I haven’t had sex in months. Not with an actual person at least. Since my husband stopped paying me therightkind of attention, I’ve turned more and more to battery-operated options. But there’s only so much pleasure a girl can get from a kinky romance novel and a BOB. It’s intimacy I crave, a kiss, a cuddle, skin on skin. I realise this is all running through my mind as I stare blankly athim. Gabe, Gabriel Wild, even his name oozes sex.
“Yes. Yes please. That would be great, but like I said before, I’m not in a position to be able to afford rent just yet. I have some shit going on, and I need to get back to work.”
I’m rambling, unsure of why I’m explaining all of this tohim, this man, this stranger.
“What is it you do, for work, I mean?”
“I’m an interior designer, but I’ve let life get in the way of work over the past few years and I need to rebuild my client base again, get my name back out there.”
He nods, his eyes on mine the entire time I speak. I’m shaking inside and I’m not sure why. If my marriage wasn’t falling apart, this would just be me having a polite conversation with a friend of a friend. One I’d quite possibly go home and tell my husband about, ‘oh, I got chatting to Gabe Wild in the pub tonight. Do you know him? His family has a construction company too.’ But that’s not how my life is anymore. I no longer have those kinds of conversations with my husband, and my brain is going off on tangents, and I’m totally overthinking all of this.
“Have you got a card? We’re about to start work on a brand new shopping and apartment building at the end of Main Street, we’ll be looking for someone to set up the show apartments when they’re ready to sell, and we’re always looking for someone to dress the show homes in our other developments, either to sell or for photos.”
My heart rate picks up further at the prospect of maybe finding some work, at the same time the reality of my situation is hitting me. I need to get a job and find somewhere to live because I’m leaving my husband. Life as I know it is over. My legs feel like they’re full of jelly and barely holding me up, my arms like lead weights.
