Page 11 of Romantic Hero
‘Now, you listen to me,’ the cowboy says in a low, growly voice, green eyes darkening into hard onyx. ‘You damn well better—’
‘I will cut you!’ I yell out frantically. ‘Believe you me, if you take one step closer to me I will … I will …endyou.’
End youfeels like an overshoot, but one thing I learned from books, films and growing up on the mean streets ofFinchingfield village is that half the battle in these situations is to act like you know what you’re doing. While I’m not a naturally confident person Ididcomplete a whole summer acting camp with Josie. We performed the musicalChicago, both of us playing murderesses in the Cook County jail. I narrow my eyes and lift my chin, murderess style. ‘I mean it! I will do it!’
River’s jaw tightens. And then, so quickly that I have no chance to stop what’s happening, he grabs my wrist with his big calloused hand, yanking it towards him so that my palm opens uselessly and the knife drops onto the floor with a tinny clatter.
‘Ow,’ I moan, even though it didn’t actually hurt. I search immediately for another weapon. Aha! There’s the vegetable knife! I pick it up, wondering briefly if I have lost the plot and this is like that scene inFight Clubwhen Edward Norton is beating himself up. Am I talking to thin air right now? Am I waving a vegetable knife at … nothing? Do I need to call a doctor?
‘You planning to zucchini me to death, sweetheart?’ River asks with barely concealed scorn. ‘Put the damn apple cutter down.’ And then, voice a smidge softer, ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you.’
At a loss for what else to do, I place the vegetable knife back onto the kitchen countertop.
I flinch as River reaches out and takes hold of my wrist once more. ‘Easy now,’ he murmurs. ‘I ain’t gonna hurt you.’ He lightly touches his thumb over the bone. ‘Painful?’
I shake my head.
He swirls my wrist in a slow circular motion. ‘And this?’
‘No.’
‘Then I suspect you’ll make it through.’
Taking a step back he loops his thumbs into the belt of his jeans and exhales slowly, mouth a perfect O. ‘Now. Seems we’ve gotten ourselves into some sort of a tangle. You don’t want me here and I sure as hell don’t want to be here. So how about you just give me the keys to my truck. All right? Then I can be on my way. And if you don’t have the keys, then for the love of God would you tell me exactly where I am? I’d check my current location on my phone but I do not appear to have my phone. All I’ve got with me is a bag full of denim and my daddy’s harmonica.’
I glance at the harmonica discarded in front of the TV. His daddy’s harmonica? Hmm. Big Chip Oakley never had a harmonica … I never wrote that …
I almost jump out of my skin at a sudden almighty banging on the front door. I move to answer it, but before I can, River strides ahead of me, a single step of his matching four of my own short-legged ones. ‘That better be Buddy McGinty with my keys,’ he hisses. ‘This whole thing is beyond the damn pale.’
The knock comes again, even more insistent now.
‘Gertie? Gertie! Are you okay in there?’ Mrs Casablancas calls through the keyhole. ‘I heard a ruckus! Gertie! It’s me, Mrs Casablancas! Gertie? What was the ruckus I heard? Open your door to me!’
With an irritable grunt, River yanks open the door. I half expect Mrs Casablancas to walk right through him, like he’sa ghost, because some part of me still believes that this man, claiming to be a character from one of my books, is nothing more than a figment of my imagination.
But no. Instead Mrs Casablancas leans idly against the door frame, eyes unabashedly roaming the torso, which … I get.
‘What in the Matthew McConaughey is all this then?’ she breathes, raising both eyebrows and tracing a slow hand across her collarbone. Her gaze slides across to me. ‘Well, well, well … Gertie Bickerstaff. Good. For. You.’
‘You can see him?’ I blurt out.
At this, the pair of them gawk at me like I’m crazy, which I clearly am.
Suddenly, from across the hall, with a speed the likes of which I have never seen from him, Squish bolts into my flat and starts to scramble up River’s denim-covered leg. River tries to shake him off, but Squish won’t let up.
‘Squish, no!’ I command. ‘Sit! Heel! Reuben sandwich!’
With a cluck, Mrs Casablancas scoops Squish up and plops him right into a startled River’s arms. ‘He just wants to say hi. We all do. Hi!’
Squish immediately licks River’s face, his thirst audible. As his tongue darts for River’s earhole he makes the ecstatic snorting sound he usually only makes when he’s eating the premium-brand kibble.
‘This ain’t a real dog,’ River growls, holding Squish out in front of him and inspecting him through narrowed eyes. ‘This is … a tiny cartoon dog.’
‘Awwww, look at that!’ Mrs Casablancas croons. ‘Lookhow much he likes you! He’s not usually so affectionate with new people! He must sense a pure heart.’
With visible distaste, River hands Squish back to Mrs. Casablancas.
Struggling to contain a madly wiggling Squish, Mrs Casablancas peers at River, then at me and then back to River. She grins so widely it makes her eyes scrunch right up. ‘Gertie, I am glad you have taken my advice. Iknewsowing your oats would be a good idea—’
