Her gaze flickers to mine, and she smiles slowly. “You know,” she says. “That was a long time ago. You should start dating again. Before you get old and lose all your hair.”
“Charming, Layla.”
My heart thuds as she laughs, sliding a little closer. My eyes widen as she tilts her face towards me.
She’s going to kiss me.
I thought I was making up all of the little flickers of attraction I saw in her, but maybe I wasn’t, after all. She’s actually going to kiss me.
And I’m going to let her.
Suddenly, a shout goes through the bar. I look up to see a footballer on one of the TV screens lift up his shirt and do a victory lap on the field, bellowing in triumph after shooting a goal. Layla swears as the guy next to her throws up his pint, sloshing beer down her front. “Jesus!” She shouts, turning to face him. “What is wrong with you?”
He turns to her, grinning sloppily. “Whas’ the matter, honey?” He slurs.
She scowls at her wet shirt. “You’ve soaked me, you utter moron.”
“Oooh, have I?” He throws his head back and laughs. “Smile, princess. S’just a shirt.”
Layla opens her mouth to argue, and I wrap my arm around her shoulder, yanking her into my side. She immediately goes quiet. “Go,” I tell the man.
His face creases. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he says.
“Go,” I repeat. “You’re a public nuisance. Get out of our way.”
Even after all these years, I am very good at getting people to do what I tell them to. Zack says it’s a leftover from my time as a teacher; whenever I raise my voice at someone, they automatically feel like they’re about to get into trouble. The man wavers, and I arch an eyebrow. “Now, please.”
“Whatever,” the guy mutters, standing and shuffling out of the booth.
I wait until he’s out of sight, then turn to Layla. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” I pick up a napkin and start trying to wipe off the front of her thin shirt.
She looks up at me with huge, dilated eyes. Her cheeks are pink. She swallows and nods, slipping out from under my arm and standing. “I… I’m gonna dry off in the bathroom. You want another drink?” She looks flustered.
I frown. “Layla, I can get it. It’s no bother.”
She fixes me with a look. “Why? Are you trying to impress me, Mr Martins?”
“Of course not,” I say. “But—”
She smiles. “Then I’ll buy the next round. Gimme ten minutes.” She turns on her heel and heads to the toilets without another word.
THIRTY
LAYLA
My head is spinning as I step out of the bathroom and head to the bar. Even after five minutes under the hand-drier, my damp top still clings to my chest as I slip into a barstool and order two more drinks.
I don’t mind. I feel hot and flushed and flustered. I could use something to cool me down. As I wait for my drinks, I glance back at our dark booth in the corner of the room. Luke has pulled a paperback out from somewhere and is reading it, completely ignoring the chaos around him. My stomach flips.
I almost kissed him.
I don’t know what came over me. We were sitting so close, shouting over the noise of the bar, and it felt like there were magnets in my skin, dragging me into him. I remember the way his dark eyes fixed on my mouth as I talked. The light graze of his fingertips against my cheek.
For a second, I thought maybe he wanted to kiss me, too.
I shake my head at myself. I’m being stupid. I need to get over this ridiculous crush.
The teenage bartend comes back with my drinks, and I pull my card out of my wallet. As I hold it against the reader, I vaguely recognise the sound of the bathroom door getting slammed open behind me. The reader bleeps, and I take back my card just as a deep voice booms through the pub.
“TWO-POUND THOMPSON! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
I freeze, all of the blood draining out of my face as my ex-boyfriend, Donny Pritchard, swaggers up to the bar.
Okay, so I lied when I told the guys that I’ve never had a boyfriend. I have had one. But the fact that I ever dated Donny — even though it was just for a week in high school — is so incredibly embarrassing that I refuse to own up to it.
He looks no different than he did ten years ago. He’s still tall, broad-shouldered and handsome. He still has the same cleft chin and pretty green eyes, although right now they’re bloodshot from drinking. He smirks at me, slumping down in the barstool next to me.
“Layla. Babe,” he booms. I try to edge away from him as his hot, yeasty breath fans over my face. “What the Hell are you doing here? Doesn’t seem like your kind of place.” He waves down the bartend. “Gimme a beer, man. Best stuff you got on tap.” He slaps his card down onto the bar, then grins at me, leaning back in his stool and crossing his arms behind his head.