Had he needed this as much as I did?
Going from no-Stephen to my senses flooded with the heat and scent and shape of him, was surreal and heavenly. The only thing that made me loosen my hold was the fact I wanted to examine his face. My worry for him eased as I took in his smile; wide and genuine. I don’t think we’d ever been this close, this openly affectionate with no attempt from either of us to hide how much we liked it. Then he put his hand on the back of my neck and gave it a light squeeze and every feminist sensibility fled my body.
‘How are your neck and shoulders doing?’
‘F-fine.’ My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. ‘You already asked me that earlier. Is that why you’re here; the doctor needed to check on the patient in person?’
‘I wouldn’t want them to take away my fake medical degree. And my boss finally decided she could bear to part with me.’
‘Can’t blame her for the reluctance. You do improve the aesthetics of a place.’ In my defence, I was being overwhelmed by the evidence that he was flawless in any lighting. Glaring sun, neon fairground, bursts of firework, and now these seductive shadows. His eyes were so dark, I couldn’t make out the pupils of them anymore and it was utterly mesmerising.
Oh well. It wasn’t like I’d made it a secret that I found him pretty to look at — I just tended to say it with resentment rather than appreciation.
‘And yet it never comes up at my performance reviews,’ he quipped and moved back to coast a look over my face, his smile turning speculative. ‘I do believe you’re a little bit drunk.’
‘Moi?’ I pointed to my chest and then held up my hand and pinched my index finger and thumb together. ‘Just a teensy bit. But I’m celebrating.’
He held up his hands. ‘I am not judging you in the slightest. Just feel like I should catch up. On the subject of judgement though, how exactly is an Irish pub a cliché for writers?’
‘There are literary themed cocktails,’ I imparted with a theatrical whisper that, of course, forced me to have to lean closer to him again.
He nodded, biting his bottom lip briefly as his eyes carried on their warm assessment. ‘Oh. And how does that even work? Drinks that are mentioned in the books, writers favourite tipples, or…?’
‘It’s just vibes, mainly,’ Keisha interrupted loudly from behind me. Oh yeah, there were people — my friends — watching us. ‘Just thought I would butt in to remind Elle she needs to share you with the group. I know we’ve met once before but weren’t properly introduced.’ She stood and put an arm around my waist. I wondered whether I looked like I was going to fall down. My kneeswereworryingly weak. ‘I’m Keisha and I know you’re Stephen. You stepped in when that idiot wasn’t taking no for an answer back at the bar on Fifth Avenue.’
‘Lovely to officially meet you, especially under better circumstances. You might be glad to know that idiot has been off work with a stomach virus.’
‘Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person.’ She laughed and turned towards the table, moving me so Stephen had an unobstructed view. ‘That’s my husband Boyd, and the lovely Caitlin.’
Stephen greeted them all and offered to buy the next round. I restrained myself from springing up to help him and Boyd went with him instead. When I sat down with Keisha and Caitlin, they looked at each other and then at me.
‘You don’t need to say it. I know. That was not cool.’
Caitlin rested her chin on her hand, her bobbed hair swinging forward to frame her face. ‘I wonder about cool people — do you think they are happy? Must take up a lot of energy repressing all the messiness of being human.’
‘Speak for yourself. Some of us are just born like it,’ Keisha announced.
I scoffed. ‘I really don’t think your obsession with Poirot supports that claim.’
‘You got me into it!’
‘I know. I never saidIwas cool.’
We collapsed into laughter. God, I reallywasa bit drunk. But I had finished my book, and I was proud of it, and I was here with my friends, and Stephen, and with any luck the night was holding more delights in its pockets, yet to be discovered.
Chapter Forty-Five
Elle
Stephen and Boyd came back to the group with drinks and just like I was used to seeing, he joined in effortlessly with the conversation, even if sometimes, when he was just listening, I noticed that preoccupied look creeping over him. The transition he made to smiling and charming conversationalist should be studied though. There was barely the span of a heartbeat after he sensed someone’s attention on him, before he rallied and deployed his abundant charm.
He chatted to Keisha about British history and his colleague Patrick, whose wife was expecting, and she gave him details of the hypnotherapist she’d used to help with her anxiety in the latter stages of pregnancy and the labour. He bonded with Boyd over a love for the sitcom Superstore, since Boyd was a regional manager of a chain store and Stephen had a weekend job in a supermarket as a teenager. He asked about the places Caitlin had been travelling to and they segued into whether it inspired her writing.
‘So, thisisnormal behaviour for writers?’ Stephen laughed, after Caitlin explained that she was trying to convince her agent to let her write an MM romance featuring swing dancers, but it was really just an excuse for her to binge watch TikToks about it.
‘I toldyou, most of us are like this.’ I gave him a faux stern look from across the wooden table.
He was sitting kitty-corner to me, and when he turned his attention my way, folding his arms on the table, broad shoulders hunching, biceps pulling at his shirt, my mind unravelled. ‘And here I thought you were special, Noelle Kingston.’
