“Aren’t you going to ask where I’m going?” Sam demanded. “What I’m doing? Have you no concern for your boss’s health and/or safety, Newcomb?”
“You’re going to get a drink with your old neighbor,” Noah said, not looking up. “Text me if you need me to close the shop.”
Sam felt herself blush. She brought this on herself by teasing him, but still. “It’s not like that. It’s not a date. He wants to talk about dad.”
“Sure.”
Sam glared at him. His tone conveyed a little too much amusement for her liking. “It’s not a fucking date. I told you, we used to hate each other.”
Noah raised a big hand, both dismissing her and saying goodbye without a word.
Sam was irritated, but knew better than to try and argue semantics with Noah. She grabbed her jacket and headed back outside. Scott Sanderson was waiting in the exact spot where she’d left him, smiling with the easy patience of a man whose life wasn’t being churned up in a shit cyclone. Must be nice.
“Shall we go to The Cornish?” Scott asked, as though he still lived here and that was their regular pub.
“Sounds good.”
The Cornish wasn’t one of her regular places and that suited her just fine. The last thing she needed was any of her mates quizzing her about the pretty boy she was drinking with.
She and Scott fell into step as they headed for the pub. They were silent, but it wasn’t awkward, more as though they’d agreed to hit pause until they got to their destination. Sam studied him out of the corner of her eye, trying to get over the trippiness of a familiar face that was ten years older. The young Scott had hunched a little, awkward about his height or, as Sam often thought, reluctant to straighten in front of his asshole father. Adult-Scott had a purposeful stride, straight backed, yet oddly graceful. Creating movement within still images was one of her specialties as a tattoo artist and Scott was a delight to watch. She imagined him as a bare-chested ballerina, flexing at a wooden barre, all gleaming muscles and groin in flesh-colored tights. His eyes would glow like hot coals as he made the presumed feminine look so masculine, it hurt. Her hands itched for a pencil and paper.
“So, business aside, how have you been?”
“Fine,” Sam lied. “How have things been in London? I assume you were living in London?”
Scott inclined his head. “Cambridge, then London. And it’s good, I live fairly close to mum’s family and there’s always plenty going on.”
God, he was lovely. His voice, his face. Sam wished she’d had the foresight of getting laid before she’d agreed to this drink. “Cool. Uh, what do you do these days?”
“I’m in finance.”
This was a strong contender for the most typical thing of all time. Her fancy, number-loving neighbor was now a hot banker. Sam bit back a smile. “And that involves…what exactly?”
The discussion of Scott’s job took them all the way to the Cornish Arms where Sam steered him to one of the tables out the back. The only other patrons were a couple of middle-aged blondes, too caught up in intense conversation to pay them any mind.
“Do you still smoke?”
Sam laughed because the idea was so foreign to her now. “No. I stopped as soon as it was legal, pretty much. What about you? British people are all chimneys, or so I hear.”
“Not me,” he said, sitting across from her.
Of course.Too much of a good boy.
Because hewasstill a good boy, that much was obvious. Galahad. He’d always suited that name in more ways than one. Even when he was pranking her and her sisters, there had been an apologetic air about it. A ‘let’s call a truce and never speak of this again.’ Yet he was capable of some ugly things—the mean letter he’d written when her mother left, the missing photographs that had almost ruined Nicole’s life, the strawberry pie smashed across the back lawn.
Don’t think about that.
Upon realising there was no table service, Scott went up to the bar and ordered them a couple of pints. Sam watched him—noting his high perfect ass and broad shoulders. When he returned, offering her the drink, she noted his long, lean fingers. They looked like they belonged to another man, a painter or a piano player. She imagined them sliding down the front of her jeans and rubbing her, his skin cold and damp from the beer. She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them again, willing the illusion to disappear.
“So, have you got a girlfriend in Yea Olde London Towne?”
Scott screwed up his face. “Yes. I mean no.”
“Unsure?”
“We just broke up.”
Sam ignored the sizzle of excitement that ran through her. “Ah, well that explains why you’re in Melbourne. Break ups are a good time to go on spontaneous plane trips. Both my sisters moved interstate after break ups.”