Page 12 of The Last Kiss

“Oh really?” His eyebrow lifts again. Most people’s eyebrows are just furniture on their face. Not his. He uses it as a method of communication, I’m sure of it. “That sounds very…” he rolls his hand, “dramatic.”

Shaking my head, I rub at my cheek—tears by the Thames seems an age ago, but I’ve just realised my makeup would have washed away in salt water. “I had an…” I go to point in the direction of the hospital, but then stop myself. “Do you know what? Doesn’t matter. Liv, Olivia, my sister, she thinks she has to mother me all the time, when the truth is she can’t help me right now. I don’t think anyone can.” Unless they have a spare heart just lying around in a cooler box waiting to be inserted into my chest cavity. Said chest cavity gives a little boombababoom, just to remind me off the current issue at hand.

“No?” His head tilts to the side, all teasing evaporating from his face. Instead of the smirk, a beautifully carved relief of concern settles on his features. “Most things are important, no, and it must be important if she wants to take care of it for you?”

“What’s important to you?” I ignore the water I should drink and pick up my Pinot.

He shrugs. “Various things.”

“Like?” I take another sip, drowning myself into the deep sea of his eyes. My toes can’t touch the sand and I know I should start treading water.

“People.” He nods to my bag with the endless phone ringing. “Siblings.”

“Why are you here by yourself?” This man I’m pretty sure isn’t alone often. Even if he wants to be, women probably herd around him like cattle around a trough.

I’ve just realised I’m the cattle in this scenario. Suddenly, I have a wild urge to moo.

The smirk creeps back across the soft upturn of his mouth. “Business.” His sigh mellows my bones. It’s a sigh that says—I don’t want to talk.

“What do you do?”

The dark-blue gaze twinkles. “I sell cheese.”

Unfortunately for me I’ve taken a large gulp of reconstituting wine.

At least it’s not my standard Shiraz because that would have made a spectacular mess across the white cotton of his shirt. As it is the ejected droplets absorb and spread.

“Oh my, fuck.” My cheeks burn with the heat of the earth’s core as I leap from my seat, napkin in hand and start to press the tissue against his chest.

Wow. What a chest.

I keep patting and it has nothing to do with clearing up my mess.

He clasps his long fingers around my wrist, holding it still, turning so his lips are just millimetres from where my face is lowered towards his pecs. “Please, no need.”

My legs wobble.

“I am so sorry,” I say with needy little pants. My hand is on his chest. His face is near my lips, his breath on my skin.

He gives a small shake of his head, but his hand still holds mine. “So… cheese,” I fluster, as he turns those luscious lips up at the edges in response.

“It doesn’t normally have such spectacular reactions, ma petite.”

I narrow my gaze, standing up to my full five foot two. “You just called me little.” Thank you Madame Schmidt for GCSE French. I make a mental note to tell Olivia all was not wasted at school.

He shrugs and lets go of my wrist. “A statement of fact, no?”

Ugh. French. Every answer is a question.

“Sometimes stating facts isn’t polite,” I grind out.

He shrugs again. “But still, there they are.”

So actually, beautiful Man Mountain might be rude. I should probably leave.

I glance out of the window at the dark January night. What am I going home to? Homemade Pot Noodle for one and a farting cat? Or worse, a quick detour via my sister’s place to break her heart.

Giving it some sassy hip swing, I stomp back for my seat and flop back down. His smirk grows.