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We haven’t said a word since we left the Retreat. The conflicting emotions he brings out in me and the fact that I’m not getting Plot Perfect the Second clogging my throat too much to do much more than breathe.
“Yes. A restaurant.” I wait for the inevitable snort of disbelief. Thewhat do you know about restaurants?
“Nice.” He nods an impressed downward tilt to his mouth. “Is she going to sell?”
I shake my head at his easy acceptance of my plans. No buts, no hows, no whys. My teeth sink into the inside of my bottom lip as I peer at the side of his face, still half expecting him to question my abilities. “I didn’t ask. Couldn’t.”
“I don’t understand.” He rests one hand on the gear stick and glances at me, catching me watching him. “She looked interested from where I was standing.”
“I’m surprised you noticed from beneath all that grade A retiree cooing.” I try to stop my lips from curling up at the sides. It doesn’t work. “Who knew you were a hit with women of all ages?”
His bark of laughter fills the small space of the pickup’s cab, eyes crinkling and everything as he concentrates on the winding road. “But seriously. That’s too bad.” His forearms tense and cord beneath the black and gray pocket watch designs as he pulls the steering wheel round to take a bend in the road. “Tell me about it.”
“The restaurant?” I narrow my eyes at the side of his face, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He nods, glancing my way. “Why a restaurant?”
I shrug a shoulder. Unwind the string around the little metal clasp of my folder, then rewind it closed again, trying to unite the belief Lola showed in my business proposal with the knowledge that I’m firmly back at square one—jobless with nothing but big dreams. “When we were little, we used to spend most of the summer with my Gran in Santa Barbara. And when I was old enough, I’d help out in her restaurant. I loved watching her. Loved the easy way she had with every customer, old or new. Loved the bustle of the kitchen and seeing the people leave with their bellies full and a smile on their faces because of her. She used to do this Cluan spiced fish dish. I still have all of her recipes. It was… I just… I loved it.”
He scratches his square jaw through his beard, and my gaze fixes on his massive hand, my thoughts randomly scattering, then refocusing. Thick fingers with tidy nails. I’ve never paid much attention to hands before… but his… suddenly every touch, innocent or not, decides to flip through my mind.
“Zi?”
I blink and shake my brain back from its meandering. What is wrong with me? I clear my throat. “Sorry?”
The skin around his eyes creases deeply when he returns his attention back to the road indicating to turn down the road to our apartment block. “I can see you having a place like that.”
“Thank you.” A smile tries to force its way onto my face. “Plan C has yet to be decided, but I’ll come up with one.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
I glance up at the seriousness to his gravel-filled voice. “Mylo, thank you. I know we’re not… whatever… I just… Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” He pulls smoothly into his parking space, cuts the engine, then turns, his elbow resting on the steering wheel like he’s in no rush to get on with his day.
Seconds tick by, but neither of us look away. His face sobers, and so does mine. Questions battle for space on my tongue. Why be nice now? How can he look at me like that, but have it mean absolutely zero? How can he tell somebody I’m nobody and then spend a whole morning helping me?
His cell rings before any of them get a chance to make it past my lips.
His shoulders drop when he reaches for his phone from the center console between us.
Cara. Again.
“You should get that.” I sigh and lean down to grab my purse from the footwell, the feelings from this morning returning ten-fold, and one question wins out over all the rest. “Who’s Cara?”
“Nobody.” He swipes the screen closed and tosses the phone back onto the console.
Hurt and confusion and all sorts of pissed tighten the back of my neck. For me,and for her.“FYI…” I reach for the door handle.“From another of your apparently long list ofnobodies—it’s a shitty title only a shitty person would use to describe a woman.”
Whatever positivity left from my meeting with Lola has well and truly faded two days later when I’m still no closer to finding a new plot that feels as right as the last. I’ve trailed the island, stalked the estate agents.
I shove the heavy door to the lobby of my apartment block open with my bum, reading the email I’ve just received from Mrs. Tristan at the council on my cell about scheduling another appointment.
I’m gnawing on the inside of my cheek, my flip-flops slapping against the marble floors as I make my way over to the wall of brass post boxes.
I pull out the A4 brown envelope from the box frowning at my name scrawled across it in unfamiliar swirling script. No postage stamp. Weird.
Swiping my screen closed, I tuck my cell in the back pocket of my denim shorts and slide my thumb under the sealed flap.
