“I’mnottalking about that,” I say, unable to keep the harsh note from my voice.
“Please, Reuben. Can’t you just say no to Jez? It’s not difficult. It’s one word. You don’t even need to break out multiple syllables to make your point.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“You should have that engraved on your gravestone.”
“I don’t think so. They charge by the word, you know. Just carve it withReuben Langley Lives Here.”
Half my attention is on the young man who’s attempting to order a beer from the barman, who’s looking at him doubtfully.
“I’ve got to go, Grey,” I say.
“Ring me before you leave.”
“Of course I will. I live to hear your voice, and I don’t want to go anywhere without giving you the chance to compose another lecture.”
“You lie.”
“Yes, of course.”
I click to end the call, his laughter making me smile. Then I turn to the event happening next to me.
“Iamover eighteen,” the boy insists. His voice is low and lovely, with an undercurrent of amusement mixed with indignation. “I have all my own pubic hair, and I even remember when the last episode of SKAM France aired.”
“I don’t think that either of those things stands as a guarantor, but well done on the sole ownership of the pubes,” the barman says, his lips twitching.
I chuckle. “Get him an orange juice, and I’ll have another beer, please.”
He nods and moves away. The boy huffs and turns to me. “I am actually nineteen, you know. I even have the wrinkles to prove it.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. “Show me.”
He leans closer, his manner endearingly flirtatious, and pulls his hair away from his face. “There. Can you see them?”
I whistle. “Wow, you were right.”
“I know. I often am.”
“You have more age lines than Mick Jagger.”
“Who’s he?” When I blink, he shoves my arm. “Joking. I know who he is.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, of course. Everyone knows the prime minister.”
“The country would indeed be a strange place if that were the case. And we’d probably be fiscally a lot better if we had less satisfaction.” I smile.
He returns it with a cheeky dimple showing briefly in his cheek. “I can see you don’t believe in my wrinkles,” he says in a mock-sad voice. “Which is terribly tragic.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive.”
The barman sets our glasses down, and I smile my thanks before turning back to this gloriously flirty boy. I already feel lighter from this exchange than I have all year. He’s gorgeous and way too young for me, but I’m still enjoying it.
I tap my glass against his. “Chin chin.”
He pouts. “Shame it isn’t gin.”
