Of course she would invite Niall to the pub. He’s a new colleague, recently arrived in town, and the perfect project for her and Alex to take on. If he’s anything like he used to be—arty and charismatic—they’ll have both fallen in love with him.
It’s so easy to do.
Somehow I manage to propel myself across the room. I lean down and hug Lara, trying not to feel resentful, reminding myself she has no idea that Niall is the guy who twisted my world until I ended up a wet dishrag. Of course she knows what happened—she’s one of the few I’ve confided in—but I don’t think I ever actually said his name. So why should I feel angry at her for inviting him?
I haven’t felt this mixed up in a very long time.
“Here, have this.” Niall stands up and offers me his seat. For some reason his chivalry grates.
“It’s fine; I’ll go and grab a stool.” I look feebly around. The pub is full to bursting. There isn’t a spare seat to be seen.
He won’t take no for an answer, standing up and lifting my bag from my hands. It’s big and heavy—containing clothes and toiletries for my night at Lara’s. He places it down next to his now-vacant seat. I swallow the irritation and sit down, squeezing myself onto the edge of the chair.
“I can share.” I point down at the half of the seat that’s empty, offering it to him.
He shakes his head. “I’m happy to stand.”
“Oh come on, my bum’s not that big.” As soon as I say it, Lara shouts out a laugh. Niall grins and shakes his head again, but this time more in amusement than denial. He gracefully sits next to me, reaching his left arm along the back of the chair, stretching out his right leg to brace himself against the floor. He’s sitting close. So close our hips are touching, and our thighs are pressed together. I can smell his aftershave and the faint tang of beer that wafts from his lips. The heat of his body radiates through the thin material of his t-shirt.
It makes my own body do strange things. My heart is still racing and my mouth has dried up. The hairs on my forearms stand on end. I’ve shared seats before—I’m small so I’m always the first to have to squash up—but this is different.
I try to take control. “How are you?”
“I’m good. You?” He moves his arm, and his fingers accidentally brush against the back of my neck. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Because it is. I can do this. I’m older, married. No longer that girl who fell head over heels for the beautiful art student. “There’s not a lot of room here.”
Alex passes me a bottle of Peroni, and I notice his brow rise up when he spots me sitting so close to Niall. I reach out to take it with my left hand, my right being held captive by Niall’s body, albeit unintentionally. As I curl my fingers around the bottle, I feel him shift next to me.
“You got married. Nice ring.” It isn’t a question, but it answers a lot of mine. The way he says it, the intonation in his voice, tells me he remembers me. Though it’s hard to believe anybody can forget what happened that summer. I know I can’t.
“I’ve been married for two years.”
“Where’s your husband?” He’s doing that narrow-eyed stare thing again. It pulls at his forehead, wrinkling into a frown. Horizontal lines furrow in his skin.
I feel myself start to blush. I hate that I’m almost embarrassed to tell him about Simon. To admit I married an older man. “He’s away.” I’m not saying he’s gone grouse shooting. I’m not. Maybe I should be proud about who he is, who we both are, but the clash be
tween my past and present is making everything awkward.
“That’s a shame.”
I nod. “It is.”
“Is he nice?”
I start to laugh, because this one is easy. “Clearly. Otherwise I wouldn’t have married him. Anyway, you met him at the gallery.”
Niall scrunches his face up in an effort to recall. I watch him for a moment, taking in the sharp jaw and heavy brow. If it’s possible, he’s only grown more glorious with age.
He’s still silent, and I take pity on him. “Simon’s Elise Gordon’s dad. He owns her gallery.” I try to ignore the way his thick brows rise up. I feel as though he’s judging me. I start to babble to fill in the awkwardness. “We met at a fundraiser for the clinic. You’d like him, I think.” What a crock of shit. I don’t even know this guy sitting next to me. Not anymore. What right do I have to say whether he’d like my husband or not?
“Does he make you happy?”
It’s the strangest question. Said softly, in a way that caresses my skin. His accent hasn’t diminished in the years since I last saw him. I can recall the way he used to whisper in my ear. The memory makes me want to sigh.
“He takes care of me.” It’s not a lie. Simon is fond of me. He looks after me. I am content.
“I’m glad.”