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“How long have you known?” God, her eyes, beautiful green eyes, and those freckles. Gemma Taylor was truly beautiful.
“Only since yesterday. I saw you interviewed on TV. Thought you were in the bloody pub with me, stupid hey?”
“I didn’t think you liked football.”
“I don’t. I was out on a forced mission to reintroduce Chelsea to daylight. She’s been having a shitty time since she made up all that crap for the papers. But you know all about that, don’t you?” She smiled, but there was a sadness in it. “I really thought you were a trucker. I was so wrong.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
She gestured in my direction, her dainty little fingers dancing in the air. “Like you could ever disappoint. Look at you. Jesus, Jason, you’re fucking gorgeous. You’re a football star. A fucking pin-up.”
“And a man, Gemma. My shit still stinks like the rest, you said so yourself, remember? On the phone? You said my shit would still stink, and it does. I bleed, and shit, and breathe and fuck, same as anyone else.”
“You don’t fuck like anyone else.” Her beautiful cheeks bloomed. “I can’t believe I jabbered on about Chelsea and all that crap and you didn’t say a word. My idiot friend did that to you and I had absolutely no idea. I must have seemed a right moron.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“I feel one now.”
My heart kept on thumping, but this time it wasn’t nerves. It was dread. “You aren’t a moron, Gemma.” I ditched the stupid flowers on the draining board. “This really isn’t how I imagined things.”
“Are those for me?”
“I didn’t know if you liked flowers or not.”
“Nobody’s ever given me flowers. They don’t usually know where I live.”
I smiled. “Of course, Miss Anti-domesticity. I should’ve left them in the car.”
“InSteve’scar, you mean. Roses are nice. It was a nice thought.” She turned her back to make the coffee, then slammed her hands on the worktop. “Shit, I’m sorry. This is all coming out wrong.”
I closed the distance, put my hands on the hips I’d come to know so well, breathing in her hair. She tensed. Shoulders tight. “It’s ok, dirty girl. There isn’t a rulebook. We’re well off script here.”
She coughed and sidestepped, busying herself with sugar and milk. I took mine black. She took hers with three sugars and about a gallon of milk. So many little details to learn about the girl, it seemed a good place to start. I assigned it to memory.
She scooted past me to take a seat on the sofa. “I looked you up on the internet.”
“I bet that was enlightening.” I sat down, not too close.
“I saw your wife. I bought her single, you know, when I was younger.”
“Good for you, I bet she looked so fucking happy, didn’t she? Smiling away for the cameras?”
“You told me you couldn’t stand the sight of each other.”
I fought back a scowl. “I wasn’t lying. I haven’t lied, Gemma. Just omitted details. We both did, it was the game.”
“You don’t look like you can’t stand the sight of each other.”
“And there’s the beauty of the media for you. We smile. We go to dinner. We donate money to all the right charities. That’s the life. It doesn’t mean shit.”
“You weren’t joking about the house, were you?” She risked a smile. “It’s quite impressive.”
“Quite fucking expensive.”
“The rumours about the call girls, are they true?”
I took a sip of my coffee, then opted for honesty. “Some of them.”
