two years—not that long in the scheme of a whole life, I suppose, but two years. We started a business together and were talking about moving in together, and yet he always said to me, from the first date, ‘I’m not the marrying kind.’ And I accepted that, I got used to it, because I wasn’t even sure if I was the marrying kind—so why would I die on that hill?
And then we got more serious and our friends started getting married and I had this vision of our future, and suddenly it seemed strange to say we’d never get married.
Stranger still when he broke up with me. Ugh. I try to push that memory way, way back in my mind. The words he used I’ll never forget.
‘I love you, Gracie, but just not enough. Not in the way a guy should love a woman. I’m sorry.’
And he cried, because he’s a good person and I think he felt like absolute shit to be pulling the rug out from under me.
‘Everyone says they want to stay friends, but I mean it, Grace. Look at what we did together.’
He waved his hand around our office, and my stomach twisted because so much of who we were was in that place.
I agreed with him—we couldn’t let anything destroy the business our blood, sweat and tears had turned into a multimillion-dollar real estate agency specialising in high-end property. Sydney was a tight market but we’d forced our way in and never looked back. We owed it to ourselves, each other, our clients and our reputation to get over this speed bump.
That seemed a lot easier to do before he hit me with ‘part two’ of the break-up.
‘I’ve met someone.’
Those words! God, I’d heard them in movies and read them in books and they’re just an innocuous collection of syllables, but when they were spoken to me I felt like my ears had been jammed with crickets. Everything hummed and buzzed and suddenly the guy I’d spent two years with, who’d seemed happy and content, was a part of someone else, something else, and I was on the outside of him and that, strangely adrift, as though whatever had anchored me to my place in this life no longer existed.
‘His name—’ Penny pushes a drink across the tabletop to me ‘—is Jagger.’ She rolls the ‘r’ like a tiger, and I laugh.
‘Of course it is.’
‘He’s only in town for tonight,’ she continues, sliding in beside me. ‘And he’d like to meet you.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ I roll my eyes, sure now that she’s making it up, and look towards the bar. But he’s facing us and my heart jolts in my chest. His elbows are lifted onto the bar so that he can recline casually, and he’s watching me with a curiosity that sparks flames in my blood.
My lips part involuntarily and, even though I desperately want to look away, to blink, to anything, it’s weirdly impossible. I am staring at him and he’s watching me and no one else in the bar seems to exist.
His eyes are green, with thick black lashes, and he’s tanned, a deep caramel colour, as though he’s spent a heap of time at the beach lately. I wonder if he’s brown all over? My eyes drift downwards and, holy crap, he’s got a very, very nice body. Pecs clearly defined by that white shirt, toned forearms, lean hips.
Shit.
Pants that show a promising bulge. His hands are what really grab my attention, though. I like nice hands and his are...perfect. Neat nails, long-fingered with coarse hair on the knuckles, tanned, and he wears a scuffed gold ring on his middle finger and some loose leather strings around his wrist. He’s a sort of devil-may-care surfer kind of guy. He’s very, very easy on the eyes.
Heat stains my cheeks and now I jerk my gaze back to Penny, my expression one of mutiny. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘That you’re looking to be distracted for the night,’ she grins impishly.
‘Penny!’ I reach for the drink, taking a gulp to cool my flaming insides. ‘How do you know he’s not...?’
‘What?’ She leans towards me conspiratorially. ‘It’s a one-night stand, Gracie. What do you care about, beyond the fact he’s hotter than Hades and undoubtedly great in bed?’
‘Okay, for a start, how can you possibly know that?’
‘I can tell. I’m good at this.’
‘What, like some kind of sexual psychic?’
‘Exactly.’
I purse my lips. ‘Pen,’ I sigh softly. ‘He could be God’s every gift to women and I still wouldn’t knee-jerk my way into his bed.’
‘That’s a shame because, like I said, he’s interested.’
Against my will, my eyes drag back to him. He’s finishing his drink, but his eyes are still on Penny and me. My pulse ratchets up a gear and out of nowhere I imagine him naked, that shirt thrown across some hotel room somewhere.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ she purrs. ‘I’m going to go talk to that guy.’ She jacks her thumb towards a group of men further down the bar and I can guess which one she means. Silver fox at the head of the group—Penny’s got a thing for older guys, always has. Our take-it-to-the-grave secret is the fact she slept with our high school science teacher on grad night.
‘And I’ll come back in twenty minutes to check on you.’
‘Pennyyyy...’ I groan, shaking my head in exasperation.
‘Six months ago, the bottom dropped out of your world. Gareth fell in love with someone else while you were busy building your business and planning a future with him. He went and fucked some bar girl.’
My heart spins at this frank assessment of our break-up. ‘Yeah?’
‘So at least have a drink with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Take a step towards remembering who you are. The you you were before Gareth, the you who built a multimillion-dollar business and is smart and funny and curious and loves to meet new people. He’s from overseas; just chat to him. Have fun. I beg you!’
And not because she’s right, and he’s hot in a way you never see outside of Hollywood, but because she’s my best friend and has never once steered me wrong, just as I have never counselled her badly. The science teacher would never have happened if I’d known about it in advance. I trust her. I believe she’s right and somehow the timing of this, of at least opening myself up to the possibility of flirting with another guy on the eve of Gareth’s marriage, would be strangely meaningful and important and...cathartic.
She’s right. Pre-Gareth, I used to have fun, I used to flirt with guys, hook up. I’m in my twenties—why am I acting like someone’s grandma?
I expel a breath and look towards him once more. He’s turned away and if I have any doubt about whether or not I want to talk to him, the surge of disappointment to see his back answers that.
I stare at his tattooed spine with a frown on my face, but a second later he’s spun back around, two drinks in his hands, and our eyes lock and certainty locks in my chest.
‘That’s
