‘I’ve promised you nothing.’ My voice has a strength I don’t really feel.
He nods, his fingers falling away before he pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘No, but in time, you’ll give it all to me.’
31
Rose
‘Alerte chaudasse.’
For the second time today, I hear this phrase—hottie alert—though this time from Charles. I don’t lift my head, stabbing my fork into my takeaway container instead. I can’t even feign interest, my mind preoccupied with what happened in Remy’s office earlier. Was the mention of children a cruel ploy? Was he upping his game, or could it be that he’s serious about me?
I can take your anger but not your apathy. Why the heck does that sound sexy?
‘Coucou!’ Charles sings, impersonating a cuckoo in an attempt to get my attention. ‘Rose? Did you hear?’
‘No boy talk,’ I say, flicking him a look. ‘Not today.’ The grass tickles my legs as I point my toes, stretch out, the slight breeze plastering an errant wisp of my hair against my lips.
‘Oh, but you’ll want to see this one.’ Fee’s words sound delivered through a smile.
I slide the strands behind my ear before chasing the remnants of my couscous salad with my fork. I thought her joining us for lunch today might give me a break from Charles. I’m thinking of getting him a T-shirt with Team Remy printed on it because whatever was said during Remy’s I love Rose confession, it has plucked at the strings of “’is ’heart,” to quote my so-called friend.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, look!’ Fee nudges me so hard, the much-chased grains fall off my fork and onto the picnic rug. A picnic rug for a picnic lunch on a tiny square of lawn at the rear of the hotel and tower complex. There are a dozen or so Wolf Industry employees with the same idea, some sitting on a picnic bench, others lounging under the shade of trees.
‘Okay, what? Where is this unmissable Adonis?’ As I look up, I become aware of the powerful roar of a motorcycle, a beast of a machine all revs and no speed. ‘Do you think motorcycle riders look sexy because of the way they’re bowed over the machine?’ There’s something about it reminiscent of the bedroom.
‘Because of all that power between the legs.’
That’s not exactly what I mean, but yeah, I suppose.
The beast pulls up against the curb, the engine cutting out. A man is clearly in charge of the thing, though he’s not really dressed for it. A tailored suit jacket hugs to his broad shoulders and powerful thighs as a jet-coloured helmet covers his head, the visor glinting in the sun.
‘Men and machines aren’t really my thing. Besides, he might look like Shrek under all that.’ I guess some girls, or boys even, might make him keep the helmet on in that case because the picture he creates is pretty hot. For me, motorcycles conjure up images of denim and leather, beards and tattoos, not bespoke tailoring and shiny black shoes. Who knew these would be a good combination.
‘What’s wrong with men who ride?’ If it were anyone else other than Fee asking, I’d accuse them of having a dirty mind.
‘Nothing. If you like grease monkeys, I suppose.’ The words almost dry on my tongue as the driver dismounts, his hands rising to his helmet almost in slo-mo.
That’s right, daddy.
Change my perception.
You take that thing off slowly . . . make it last.
‘He knows how to play to an audience, am I . . . right?’ The latter leaves my mouth as a squeak, the dark helmet exposing my very own personal Adonis. I mean, not exposing him—his fly isn’t open or anything. Not that it matters because I’m still hit with the insane urge to make those around us avert their eyes because, Christ on a cracker, the suit, and the mighty beast combo looks so hot on him.
He places the helmet down on the bike, pulling wayfarer sunglasses from his inside jacket pocket; a must when you live somewhere that is sunny three hundred days a year. His shades hide his intentions as his purposeful stride in all his suit-porn glory heads our way.
‘What is he doing here?’ I protest while trying to compose myself. Placing the container down, I pluck at my skirt, shimmying it down my thighs. I was trying to catch a little sun, but now I’m just nervous. Nervous and a little excited at the prospect he’s sought me out. Anxious that it might not be the case. Maybe he’ll just pass me with a casual smile, or even a studied disinterest. Add in a little fear of the strength of my feelings and a little more loathing that I can’t help myself, and what I am right now, sitting on a patch of grass is emotional soup.