‘But what?’
‘Well, you’re what? Thirty?’
‘Thirty-three’
‘Right. And single. So? You never met anyone you wanted to turn into the next lady of the manor?’
‘Countess,’ I correct automatically. ‘And nope.’
‘Why not?’
I frown. ‘I don’t know. I’ve dated a heap of great women.’ She spoons some food into her mouth, nodding, waiting for me to continue. ‘But I suppose my parents have set me up with some unrealistic expectations. I want a relationship that’s perfect.’
‘No relationship is perfect.’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘But close to. I’m always open to where something might go, but I am usually disappointed.’ I lift my shoulders. ‘One day I’ll meet someone and I figure I’ll just know.’
‘Like in the movies?’ she teases.
‘Yeah, just like that.’ I grin, something sparking in the centre of my chest cavity.
‘Being alone is really not so bad, you know.’ She drinks her wine. ‘You get used to it.’
‘What about you?’ I push past her statement. ‘Do you do this often?’
She lifts her brows. ‘I can honestly say I’ve never done this in my life.’
‘Eaten takeaway with a guy?’
‘Slept with a guy multiple times over the course of a week and shared meals with him too. This is the closest thing to dating I’ve ever done. And, just in case you’re reading into that—it doesn’t mean anything to me except that you’re crazy persistent and really good in bed.’
I feel a dozen and one things at that. Annoyance, irritation, amusement and, unmistakably, the hot blade of jealousy thrusting through me. ‘So you pick up random men, what? Every night? Every second night?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘No judgement, right?’ She rolls her eyes and I gather she gets judged a lot.
‘No judgement.’ I put my hand over hers, drawing her gaze so she can see honesty in my eyes.
‘I like sex too,’ she says simply. It’s on the tip of my tongue to make some kind of smart retort like, Tell me something I don’t know, but I don’t because it would be stupid and exactly the kind of judgemental ass comment she’s warned me against making.
‘The truth?’
I brace myself. ‘Sure.’
‘I don’t do this often at all.’ She eats a little more dinner and I’m ashamed of the unmitigated pleasure that’s leaping through me. ‘Maybe a few times a year, when I get an itch that needs scratching and I can’t quite reach it myself.’ She winks and great. Now I have an image of Avery getting herself off and my cock is growing hard in my very insufficient boxers, the cotton shifting perceptibly.
‘The night we met was my birthday. It’s kind of a tradition I have.’
More feelings assault me. Sorrow and sympathy, that she chose to spend her birthday in that way.
‘Oh? Since when?’ I cover those feelings carefully, keeping my voice bland, almost bordering on disinterested. I have her measure now—she scares easily if she thinks my questions are getting too intense. Gently, gently.
‘Since I turned fifteen.’ She lifts her shoulders. ‘It was a few weeks after Mom died. I’d just been placed with Jenny and Dave. I was pretty fucking miserable.’ Her laugh is hollow. ‘They were really kind, in hindsight, throwing me a birthday party with their family, getting me a cake, balloons, a phone. I was furious. I felt like they were trying to become my parents, to replace my mom—’ Her voice cracks; she covers it by clearing her throat. ‘I sneaked out, went to a bar.’
‘And lost your virginity to...?’