Page 2 of The Rebound
“I can call you a taxi,” she continues when I don’t respond.
A taxi. I’d laugh if I didn’t want to hit something. The one credit card I have left still worked when I checked it at the airport, but I doubt the local taxi company will take it and there’s nowhere open to exchange money. I can only imagine the look on Louise’s face when I show up at her door asking for cash. “How much will it cost?”
The girl shrugs.
“Well, can you go and check?”
Her lips part in indignation, but when it’s clear I’m not budging she scowls. “Sure,” she mutters, storming into her little hut as I check my phone again. Two percent battery. I’m doomed.
“Do you need a lift?”
I almost jump at the deep voice behind me. I’d forgotten the man was there.
“I’m fine.”
“There’s a match down in Hollybrook, so you’ll be waiting awhile,” he continues, ignoring me trying to ignore him. “They’ll hear that American accent and double the price.”
“I don’t have an accent. I’m from here.”
“Okay.” He sounds amused. “But I’m going that way now if you’re stuck.”
“I’m not stuck. I just need your girlfriend to do her job.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Whatever. But I’m still—”
Fine.
I don’t get the last word out; it dies on my lips along with my annoyance as soon as I turn around.
He’s older than I thought. Early thirties maybe? And handsome. Very handsome. His hair is cut short, almost shorn on his head with a face that’s blessed with, and let’s be real here, some outstanding genetic luck.
His eyes are green. I know his eyes are green because I’m staring into them as he stares into mine.
We look at each other in silence, neither of us saying anything, and I realize with supreme embarrassment that my mouth is hanging open. I shut it and stick out my hand.
“Abby,” I say. “I’m Abby.”
He doesn’t respond at first, an odd expression flickering across his face, and I instantly regret the handshake thing. Years in the corporate world have made me formal. But before I become too self-conscious, he thankfully returns it, his palm large and dry against mine.
“Cold hands,” he says.
“Oh, sorry.”
His grip slackens and I force myself to let go. “Bad circulation,” I babble. “But you know, warm heart and all that. Mam always said I’d make an excellent pastry chef.”
“A pastry chef?”
“Because you have to keep the dough cold.”
He blinks at me. “Right.”
Because you have to keep the dough cold. Jesus Christ, Abby.
“So you’re heading home?”
“Who said it’s home?” I hedge but he only smiles.
