Cross My Hart

‘Not for long, and not in Sydney.’ I sip my drink thoughtfully. ‘I would have loved to move to New York. I used to think I would.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

I pull a face. ‘It’s not that easy. Life...can get in the way sometimes.’

‘Sure it can.’

I appraise him, my heart racing, blood pounding through my body. ‘Penny says you’re only here for a night?’

He nods. ‘Yeah. Had meetings today and I fly out tomorrow.’

I nod slowly.

‘And you live here?’

‘I moved here for uni,’ I agree. ‘But I grew up farther north.’

‘How far north?’ he asks with curiosity.

‘A little town in Queensland. You know, the kind of place where everyone knows everything about one another, with one main street and not much to do at any time, even less when you’re a teenager.’

‘Sounds like heaven.’ He grins.

‘Yeah, it kind of does.’

‘Your friend says you’re looking for someone to distract you for the night,’ he murmurs, taking a slug of his beer, his eyes holding mine over the bottle.

I nod slowly. ‘I guess I am.’

‘Why?’

I didn’t expect the question, even though it makes perfect, absolute sense. Only a monkey wouldn’t ask. ‘My ex—who happens to be my business partner as well—is getting married tomorrow.’ Somehow, saying those words feels cathartic. So I say more. ‘It was sudden. He’s in love.’ I spit the word with some distaste, earning a wry smile from my companion.

His teeth are so white, his face stubbled in a way that makes me imagine running my fingers over it.

‘And you still love him?’

The question is a good one, one I haven’t asked myself. I shake my head slowly from side to side. It feels good to admit that. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then you don’t believe in love?’

I gnaw on my lower lip. ‘No. I mean yes, I do.’

‘You sounded angry a moment ago.’

‘Did I?’

He nods slowly. ‘You sounded like someone who wants to fuck someone else out of their mind.’

‘He’s not on my mind,’ I say, determined on this point. I’m not turning my first one-night stand in for ever into petty revenge sex. This wouldn’t be about hurting Gareth so much as rediscovering myself, my agency, my right to think of myself as ‘single,’ just like he did—only we were together.

‘It’s...symbolic,’ I say finally. ‘Like a way to mark the date or something.’ I shrug. And then, with bald honesty, ‘Also, I don’t particularly like the idea of him being the last guy I slept with when he’s off on his honeymoon.’

He lifts a brow at my truthfulness. ‘That’s valid.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘I’m not sure it’s not a little bit fucked up.’

Beneath the table, his hand curves over my knee. ‘It’s not.’ Desire jolts directly up to my thighs, and higher still. Heat pulses between my legs.

‘Really? Speaking from experience?’

His expression is guarded. ‘You could say that.’ His fingers trace a little higher, to the flesh of my thighs. I grab my breath, hold it in my lungs a second, waiting for it to infiltrate my body.

‘How long were you together?’

I can hardly think straight. His fingers creep a little higher and I stare at him beseechingly. It’s not late enough in the night for this—people are still having civilised conversations at nearby tables. I am beyond grateful for the tablecloth that offers some discretion, but if he moves his hand any higher I think I’m going to make some kind of noise to show exactly what he’s doing to me.

He moves his body closer and the arm around the back of the booth curves over my shoulders. Holy crap, this feels good. Better than good. Ah-mazing.

His hand stops mid-thigh.

He’s waiting for me to answer.

‘Two years.’

He nods.

‘And you broke up when?’

‘Six months ago.’

He lets out a low whistle.

‘So this wedding—whirlwind? Or was he with her the whole time he was seeing you?’

‘No!’ I shake my head, the idea sharper and harder than the truth. ‘Just at the end. He met her a week before he broke up with me. Love at first sight.’ Again, my words are derisive.

‘Love at first sight is a juvenile concept.’

I agree with him completely. I hate that I do, that the girl who stared her sensible, conservative parents in the face and told them she’d rather be penniless and happy, chasing her dreams, than to give up on them because they seemed so unobtainable—that girl would never condemn ‘love at first sight’ as juvenile.

But he’s right.

Love at first sight is a construct. Maybe love is in general. Desire isn’t, though. It’s real and it’s flooding my limbs, bringing parts of me I didn’t realise were dormant back to life.

I drop my hand to his beneath the table and I fix him with a determined stare. ‘You know what?’

He moves his head closer. ‘What, Grace?’