“Xavier,” I supply. “It’s very nice to meet you, too. I’ll tell Reuben you said hello.”
“Tell him there’s a quiz at the pub next week.” He pauses. “He can bring you along if you like.”
I’ve been invited to the Met Gala and numerous other highly fashionable events, yet none of those has touched like this diffident invitation. Maybe it’s the implication that I could be a part of this community. Maybe it’s the way he links Reuben and me so easily.
“Thank you,” I say finally.
He tips his hat and moves on, hailing a woman loudly on the other side of the street.
I stand still for a moment, looking at the bright buildings and the glittering sea. The thing is, Icansee myself here. I can see myself going to that quiz and meeting more of Reuben’s friends. But that’s not logical, is it? He’s rooted, and I’m not. He’s foundhis place and where he fits, and I still have no idea about where I fit in life.
He’s said he’s saved a place for me, that I’ll always be welcome. But Reuben deserves peace and happiness, and when have I ever brought him that?
This week together has been a place out of time where Reuben’s been making amends for past wrongs. Now his conscience is clear, and he can move on and find someone who actually fits his life. I had the old Reuben—the restless nomad addicted to danger and thrills. Some other bloke will get this Reuben. Life is so fucking ironic.
An annoyed huff recalls me to my surroundings. A lady is waiting to pass me. I mutter an apology and step into a shop doorway to let her go by. Bernard rises to his back legs and puts his paws on my hips. Reuben is right. He’s going to be fucking huge.
“Shall we go and get a coffee?” I ask him, and his only answer is a groan as I scratch his ears. “You’re such agoodboy,” I croon.
I become aware of hammering and the smell of paint and sawdust just as I hear a bang and some vicious cursing. Turning, I peer through the half-open door. It’s a small shop that’s obviously being gutted. Half the floorboards are missing, and the walls are stripped back to bare plaster. The cursing continues and grows admirably inventive.
“Everything okay?” I call. No one answers, and I step through the door, dragging Bernard with me. “Hello?” I call.
The cursing stops, and a man appears from the back of the shop. “Who are you?”
I blink. “Xavier. Who are you?”
He’s easily six foot five and lean, his arms covered in tattoos that stretch up to his neck. His hair is long and dark and pulled back into a ponytail, and his eyes are a warm brown. Something about him seems familiar.
“Rhys.” He offers a hand, and we both look at the cloth he’s holding on it, which is rapidly turning red.
“I don’t think I’ll bother,” I say finally.
“Good call.”
“That looks bad. What did you do?”
“Hit it with a claw hammer.”
“Ouch. Aren’t you supposed to hit nails with that?”
He snorts. “Ah,that’swhere I went wrong.” He runs his uninjured hand through his hair, knocking the ponytail even more askew, so strands fall around his face. “I’m a better tattooist than I am a handyman.”
I brighten. “You’re a tattooist?” The penny suddenly drops, and I stare at him. “Oh, mygod.”
He blinks. “Are you having some sort of religious conversion?”
I wave my hand excitedly. “You’re Rhys Johnson. I saw you in the Master of Ink. You were very rude to the contestant in the watercolour section last season,” I add, unable to hide the reverent tone in my voice at the thought of his biting sarcasm.
“Well, he deserved it. A cow could have done that tattoo better, despite not having opposable thumbs.” He gives me a quick glance, his mouth twitching. “And you’re Xavier Conway.”
“You know me?”
“Maybe I’ve seen your face all over the magazines in the shop.”
I eye him dubiously. “You haveVogueandEllehere?”
“You’ve got me. I’m actually friends with Reuben.”
