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‘You? Are you really convinced of that? You poor, poor girl. You’ve seen none of the joys of life. Pah! A new job, a new car, a new dress? Is that what makes you happy? That’s just palliative care for a dying soul. Society’s blinkers. You might be comfortable, wedged in as you are in your little life, but are you happy? Or just convincing yourself that you are, just so you don’t blow your brains out? Or does even the smallest part of you resent your fiancé for keeping you back, for not sharing even your silliest, most insignificant little joys? For not making up to you what life has taken away from you.
‘He hasn’t given you what that little girl wanted. If anything, you’re having to work harder than you thought at merely being content, for want of a better word. There’s no being content, Emmie. Not from a man who’s put himself at the centre of your life so that there’s no room left for you.
‘People like that don’t even care that you might not love them as much as you used to. They simply want you to feel obligated just enough so that you actually stay in the web they’ve weaved for you. They just want a victim to feed on for as long as they need.’
And just like that, he’s touched my very core. Grazed my thinnest veneer of self-acceptance and pulled the skin off my very bones.
‘Why does everything have to be so dramatic with you? Why are you black and white? And in any case, look who’s talking. Areyouhappy, Mr Bloody Miserable Boat Fixer-upper? Because if you want to talk about the truth,you’rethe one who isn’t living. Half the village hates you. The other half fear you for God knows what you did. And how do you react but with that constant fake ‘who gives a crap’ smirk, while deep inside something is seriously bothering you.’
He grins. ‘I knew you wouldn’t appreciate me stripping you down to the bone. You’re not used to being so exposed. Hurts, doesn’t it?’
I shrug. ‘Not really.’
‘How about a truce of sorts?’
I eye him. ‘A truce?’
‘Yeah,’ he assures with a smile. ‘How about we don’t let money get in the way of becoming… friends.’
‘You… want to be friends?’
‘Sure.’
Hmm. ‘What do you mean, exactly, by friends?’ Just so I know.
He shrugs. ‘People who chat. Who have coffee together. Who don’t tear each other apart every time they meet.’
I shrug back. ‘OK…’
‘OK!’
‘Good,’ I conclude.
‘Good indeed.’
*
‘Oh my God, hesowants to get into your pants!’ Maisie squeals as I’m letting myself into Bend or Bump.
I roll my eyes. ‘He does not…’
‘Trust me – all the signs are there. This is going to be one hell of a rollercoaster ride.’
I certainly hope not. I’ve got too much on my plate.
‘My only goal is getting this whole inheritance thing sorted. I wouldn’t put it past him trying to chat me up just for that,’ I snap, knowing how crude, and wrong, that sounds.
There are a million men like that, of course, but somehow Jago Moon, despite his claim against my inheritance, isn’t like that. He is upfront and honest. He wouldn’t go behind my back. I do understand that he wants what’s his. Only no one is willing to tell mewhyhe thinks it’s his in the first place.
As I’m bustling down the central aisle, I catch sight of Jago emerging from the back room.
‘Speak of the devil, gotta go,’ I whisper into my phone and hang up.
‘Hey,’ he greets me. He looks quite chipper, today. Perhaps this could work to my advantage.
‘Hey,’ I say back. ‘So, uhm, after all your talk about being adventurous, would you agree to be adventurous yourself?’
‘Meaning?’
