‘That bad, huh?’ Rowan arched an eyebrow, turned to look in the mirror and laughed. ‘Oh, yuk! I look like orange icing.’
Seb laughed. ‘I think the proper shade is cosmic carrot. Take it off, please, and we’ll burn it!’
‘Not a bad idea,’ Rowan agreed.
Seb watched as the gown got thrown out towards the chest and imagined her next to naked behind that screen. It took all his will-power to stay where he was, and the front of his jeans was growing tighter by the second.
The next three dresses were all black, sexy and sophisticated. Seb used the orange monstrosity for a pillow and spread out on the floor, lazy in the diffused sunlight that drifted through the skylights. He could think of worse ways to spend a lazy late afternoon than watching a sexy woman model slinky dresses for him.
‘This is it,’ Rowan declared. ‘If this one isn’t suitable, then I give up. I want a glass of wine.’
‘Let’s see it.’
Seb turned his head and his heart bumped in his chest. He slowly sat up and looked at Rowan, who was looking at herself in the mirror. The dress was a colour somewhere between blue and silver, low-cut, and a concoction of lace and fine ruffles. He could see glimpses of her fine skin through the lace and his saliva disappeared.
He remembered that dress—remembered his mother wearing it to a party some time shortly before she’d left for good. She’d grabbed him as she walked out through the door, pulling his reluctant twelve-year-old self into a hug that he’d professed to hate and secretly adored.
Mostly because her hugs had been so rare and infrequent. Laura had not been affectionate or spontaneous, and gestures like those were imprinted on his memory. She’d smelled of vanilla and she’d worn her blonde hair piled up onto her head.
Two weeks after wearing that dress out she’d been gone. For ever.
‘I love this...love the lace...’ Rowan bubbled, turning in front of the mirror.
When he didn’t respond, she turned to look at him. She crouched down in front of him, her cool hands on his face.
‘Seb? What’s wrong?’
Seb tried to shake off his sadness. The hurt that he normally kept so deeply buried was frying his soul. He attempted a smile but knew that it didn’t come close.
‘Please, please talk to me,’ Rowan begged.
Seb reached out and touched the fabric that draped her knees. ‘This was my mum’s.’
‘Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry.’ Rowan rested her head on his. ‘I’ll take it off, find something else to wear.’
‘Actually, it’s a happy memory. I remember her wearing it just before she left. She hugged me, called me her computer geek, said something about...’ He tried to recall her exact words but they were lost in time. ‘Um, how someone like her had managed to produce someone as bright as me. Or something like that.’
‘I remember her vaguely.’
‘So does Callie. You were—what?—seven when she left?’
‘I was seven. Cal was six.’ Rowan pulled the dress above her knees and sat down on the blanket next to Seb.
‘I still feel crap that Callie didn’t have a mother growing up.’
‘Neither did you, Seb. Cal didn’t feel the effects of her leaving as much as you did, sweetie. She had Yas...we both had Yas. My mother was so involved in Peter’s life and his studies and her music that she didn’t have much energy or time left over for me. So when we needed a hug, comfort, or to talk to someone we turned to each other or to Yas. Grumpy, spinsterish, with a tongue that can slice metal. It’s strange without her here in Awelfor.’
Seb ran his hand down her calf, knowing that she was trying to lighten his mood. ‘If she was here you wouldn’t be sleeping in my bed.’
Rowan laughed and quoted one of Yasmeen’s favourite expressions. ‘“You want the milk, buy the cow!”’
Seb grinned, and then his smile faded as he looked at the dress again. He was silent for a long time before stating quietly, ‘She’s in Brazil, in Salvador. Low on funds. She was in the hospital a couple of months ago with a burst appendix.’
Why had he told her that? Why did he want her to know? This wasn’t like him, Seb thought, regretting the words that he’d let fly out of his mouth. He didn’t have this type of conversation with the women he was sleeping with—didn’t have this type of conversation at all.
What was it about Rowan that made him want to open up to her? To let her see behind the steel-plated armour he’d so carefully constructed? Was it because he’d always known her? Because she was Callie’s friend and now his too? Was it those deep black sympathetic eyes that held understanding but no pity?