“You make it sound like I’m being irrational,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee. When I don’t respond, she huffs. “I’mnotbeing irrational.”
“Whatever you say, Blondie.”
She looks at me for a long minute. I could drown in those strange, almost colourless eyes—they’re beautiful and different and a little unnerving. It’s like being picked apart, layer by layer.
“My name is Drew.”
“Is that your real name?” Call me cynical, but I feel like I can’t take her first answer as the truth.
“Sort of.” Her lips quirk up.
In other words, no. Maybe it’s a nickname or perhaps it’s a short form of her real name, but whatever the reason...she’s not letting me in. “Do you want to know my name?”
“No. I think Mr. Suit is a good fit. It keeps you very sexy and mysterious in my mind.”
I shake my head, but decide to drop it. She’s set her boundaries and that’s her prerogative. It’s not like I didn’t know she had walls up. But despite the clash in our desires to get to know one another—ornot, in her case—I’m enjoying her company.
She eats her breakfast, quietly sipping her coffee and watching me as if waiting for my next move. No deep and meaningful conversations, no commitments and no follow-up calls.
Before I’ve figured out how to handle this morning-after situation, there’s noise outside. A knock. Must be the building manager coming to unlock Drew’s door. Before I have the chance to say anything, she stands and grabs her coffee.
“Thanks for breakfast.” She makes her way to the door as I watch, dumbstruck. Sure enough, she leaves my apartment still wearing my bedsheet and the second the door slams shut I burst out laughing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Drew
IHAVEBEENthinking about Mr. Suit for days. Thinking about the incredible night we spent together, about how sweet and yet blunt he was the next morning. Who would have thoughtthatwas an appealing combination? Not me.
In the early days of dating my ex, he’d done similar things—coffee and pastries in bed. He’d even cooked for me one time. On reflection, I see those actions as a means to the “goal” he was trying to achieve. Wowing me enough so I’d keep fucking him, even though he undermined me in so many ways. I think he got off on that—making me fall for him while disrespecting me. I’m ashamed I didn’t see it sooner. It makes me feel...vulnerable. Dumb.
Used.
But there’s an honesty in Mr. Suit’s actions. It wasn’t for an outcome or for manipulation. It was something he did without thinking. And I know there was a level of trust there...because I told him my name is Drew. Not Melanie, my legal, for-official-purposes-only name. Drew. The name I’ve gone by with my closest friends and family. Therealme.
“She’s gone off in fairy-land again,” Presley announces as she waves a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Drew. Now,whathas gotten you so distracted?”
We’re sitting at the kitchen table in the house we grew up in. It’s cramped and well-loved, as I remember. The round table is tucked into a corner and we’ve got mugs of steaming Earl Grey in front of us. There’s Iced VoVos and Tim Tams, as well. All the things I love about being home.
“I’ve got a lot on my plate, you know. It’s not easy being ‘project managed’ by Sherilee all the time.” I take a Tim Tam and dip it into my tea until the chocolate starts to melt and then I take a glorious bite. “She’s like a pretty drill sergeant.”
Presley laughs. Today she’s dressed down—happy to officially be off from work until after her honeymoon—wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt that says “I like my puns intended.”I’m also dressed for comfort—no makeup and shredded jeans with a black hoodie. I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the glass door that leads out to the backyard. Without our usual “outside world” armour on, we’re mirror images of one another. Same pale blond hair and light silvery blue eyes, same fair skin. We’ve even got dimples in exactly the same spots on our left cheeks.
It’s been so long since we were home together.
“I’ve missed you,” I say suddenly. The words leap out without getting my brain’s permission, and Presley immediately tears up. She gets up and throws her arms around me.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
It’s like being squeezed to death by a Care Bear.
“You don’t have to go back to London, do you?” she asks as Mum comes to the table, a tray of mini meat pies steaming in her hands. “You quit your job. Why not stay here?”
I wait for my mother to chime in, but she doesn’t. She’s never once objected to my life of travel and being away from home—not like I imagine she would if Presley did the same thing. They’re close—always have been ever since Presley got sick when we were little. I was left to fend for myself a lot and that made me a little rebellious. A little difficult in my unmet demands for attention.
I became convinced at one point that my mother only had enough love for one child—and I drew the short straw.
“I’ve done this country,” I say flippantly. “I need something new.”