Page 20 of Playing for Keeps

“Shame,” she said, unrepentant. “You would probably look great together.”

Dad cleared his throat. “She said he’s gay.”

“Details,” Mum said, waving him off. “I can still imagine.”

I closed the laptop before she could spin her fantasies into something outrageous.

The play had been good – better than good even. It had been electric. Simon and I left the theatre with the rest of the crowd. October was definitely getting colder every night.

“Wasn’t it brilliant?” Simon said, tugging his scarf tighter. “The way they staged the second act made me want to cry. Almost. I don’t cry in public.”

“It was amazing,” I agreed. “The intimacy of it. The way they made you feel as though you were invading their privacy.”

We walked a little, our footsteps in perfect rhythm. He shot me a sideways look. “Drinks?”

“Absolutely.”

The bar was dim and warm, full of low voices and clinking glasses. We grabbed a corner table and ordered wine.

Simon was still excited about the play, his hands moving animatedly as he talked. “And the chemistry! Did you feel it? I mean – feel it? I nearly jumped out of my chair in that second act. They were practically vibrating.”

I smiled into my glass. “I did. It was… intoxicating.”

He wagged his finger at me. “See? You felt it. That’s what I want. That fizzing, sparking thing that makes you sit up straight without even realizing it.”

“Looking for something?” I asked.

“Someone,” he corrected, grinning. “Nothing serious, not yet. God, not marriage. Just… I don’t know. Something. At least enough to make me want to text them the next day.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is,” he said firmly. “Chemistry, attraction, a decent cocktail. Honestly, Emma, you overthink it.”

“I do not.”

“You do.” He leaned forward, eyes dancing. “You think of it like one of your books. Structure, rising action, payoff. But love isn’t a novel – it’s improv. You jump in and hope you don’t trip over the furniture.”

“That sounds disastrous,” I said dryly.

“And fun,” he countered, sipping his wine. “So, what about you? Love life?”

I hesitated, swirling the glass in my hand. “Non-existent.”

“By choice?”

“By circumstance. Every time I start a new book, I move. New city, new atmosphere. It’s what keeps me writing, but it doesn’t exactly help when it comes to relationships.”

Simon tilted his head.

“And I’m not interested in flings,” I said. “Or one-night stands. They end before you even learn how someone takes their coffee. Or tea in my case. So, yes, maybe I overthink it. But I’d rather overthink than waste my time.”

He studied me for a moment, then smiled softly. “Fair enough. Still, maybe one day you’ll meet someone who makes you want to stay.”

His words pulled Max Finnegan back into focus, sharp and unwanted. Tall and broad, with dark brown hair and warm brown eyes, smiling with that annoying cockiness. Max Finnegan. I had tried to resist googling him, really tried, and I had almost succeeded… if you don’t count looking at one of his pictures twice. Okay, maybe five times. Such a cliché, finding a hockey player attractive.

“Maybe,” I said quietly, then took a quick sip of wine. “By the way, I still can’t believe you’re not coming to the Literature Foundation gala. I was counting on you to roll your eyes at all the speeches.”

Simon groaned. “Please, don’t remind me. I’ve been roped into family obligations that night. My cousin will disown me if I skip.”