Page 24 of Rafferty's Rules
And I’m done, face fixed in a smile so as not to hint at the rest. I just can’t. It’s too embarrassing to admit that I have about as much carnal knowledge of men as a convent-educated nun. Not quite true. I have some carnal knowledge of William. A selected carnal knowledge of a few personal acts and a lot more fumbles we’d built into our relationship. And it’s not like we hadn’t consummated our relationship on my account, so it was a shock to find out I was the only one keeping to our original plan. Chaste is great, my ass.
Anyway, Rafferty doesn’t need to know this kind of stuff. He’s not that kind of friend.Yet.
‘Not sure there are any male brothels in town.’ He looks contemplative as he adds, ‘Not that I’ve looked.’
‘No need to on my account,’ I reply witheringly.
‘How do you feel now? About everything?’
‘It’s hard to process. The past few months has been wedding, wedding, wedding. And then I got the phone call to say William had been arrested, and I think my brain must have short-circuited. I just went a little crazy.’
‘Whatever you did wasn’t punishment enough, if you ask me.’ His expression clouds, but somehow, I don’t think it’s on my account.
‘But it wasn’t about hurting him. It was a reaction to being hurt. I was lashing out.’
‘If you ask me, he needs a good lashing.’
‘You’re pretty good at this friend thing,’ I say quite suddenly.
He narrows his gaze yet doesn’t move his hand. ‘Next thing you know, I’ll be plastering my face with pink gunk with some Cameron Diaz chick flick playing in the background while you paint your toes.’
‘Like a sleepover?’ I ask, pretending to be excited.Maybe about ten percent pretend.‘What a pity I haven’t packed my pyjamas.’
‘Naked sleepovers are the best kind of sleepovers,’ he responds with a speculative gleam this time.
‘A good friend but a shameless flirt.’
‘A good friend with rusty seductions skills,’ he replies, moving his hand from mine before scraping a finger along his jawline.
We chuckle, then fall silent, but it’s a comfortable kind of peace until something hits the window—just a tap—pulling our attention. The tap immediately becomes the pitter-pat of rain, the volley increasing almost instantly in intensity as, with a crack of lightning, the rain begins to fall in seemingly biblical proportions.
‘Damn,’ I whisper, cupping my chin, my elbow now against the tabletop. ‘I am so screwed.’ The window is open a little, and the air in the room seems to change immediately, giving off a scent of freshness and ozone. When I glance back at Rafferty, his expression is almost quizzical. ‘It’s really coming down.’
‘Are you one of those girls who don’t like their hair to get wet?’
‘Sure, I’m all about that life in my jeans and your shirt.’ I shake my head a little scornfully. ‘It’s just, I have to go find somewhere to stay inthat.’ I don’t have an umbrella or a jacket, and I won’t be cabbing it anywhere, not with my finances. Plus, I can’t use Uber as my credit card has now been cancelled.
‘So stay,’ he answers evenly as he leans back against his chair. I quirk a brow rather than answer, a dozen things running through my head. Does he mean stay-stay? Like with him? Did his earlier blanket/naked comments mean anything?‘Your virtue was safe with me last night,’ he adds with a smirk that should come with a PG-13 rating.
‘I doubt drunken, puking girls are your thing.’
‘If you like, just to be sure, you can get drunk again tonight.’ A whole shiver wracks my body completely involuntarily, accompanied by the sensory memory of tequila rushing through my gullet.The wrong way.
‘Urgh.’ I hold up both hands to ward off his suggestion. ‘I’m good. I wasn’t much of a drinker before. Last night hasn’t made me anymore so.’
‘You can’t come to Australia without trying our excellent wines.’
‘I’m beginning to think you work for the tourist board. You sure this place isn’t some kind of hostel?’
‘You’re the only waif and stray here. Though my brother usually turns up when I’m in town. Mainly at mealtimes.’
‘So you cook?’
‘No, love. I barbecue. Speaking of which, I’m gonna go fire up.’ Why does “fire up the barbie” sound so much more fun than “heat up the grill”? Must be the accent. Or maybe the man. ‘Fancy steak?’
‘We just ate,’ I protest.I guess barbecue isn’t the same out here. No argument over shoulder or whole hog—everything but the squeal—Lexington-style or Eastern-style, depending on which side of U.S. 1 you’re on.Of course, Lexington style is the only way to eat barbecue. But when in Rome, or Sydney, barbecue is just a cookout.
‘You ate breakfast at three, which was what? A few bites of bagel? And now it’s after six. You’re telling me you’re not hungry?’ I shrug. Am I hungry? Maybe? Feeling isn’t my strong point at the minute. ‘Well, I am,’ he adds. ‘Yesterday, I was on the other side of the world, and my stomach is still stuck in that time zone. Basically, my belly thinks my throat has been cut.’
