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Yes,he’dalso said, “Join us.” That was the only thing youcouldsay in situations like this. He hadn’t meant it!
Martin said, “Let me check with Ezra,” and disappeared, the waitress came over with menus and a water pitcher, Janey and Alexis started talking about which hamburger they wanted and Troy started explaining how he wanted aplainhamburger, “with no pickles and no cheese, because I don’t like how it’s all smooth and slippery and orange,” and Beckett thought,You’re delusional, mate. There was no universe in which this was going to be romantic.
He looked across Troy at Quinn. She was already looking at him, he discovered with a jolt of … something.
Of heat, that was what.
She said, “I’m regretting that. The invitation. Not that it won’t be fun, but …”
“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.” And felt better.
Ezra, it turned out, was the vet who’d castrated Bacon. When the kids realized it, the conversation took a turn. Dog illnesses. Dog breeds. Dog behavior. Sock-chewing. The extreme charms of Bacon.
Martin, who was sitting on Beckett’s left, said, “Too bad we can’t sit at the grown-ups’ table and leave Ezra here to entertain. Not that your kids aren’t excellent specimens. Polite. Attractive. Intelligent. And so forth. Parent-flattering expectations met, I hope. But still—I want to hear the story.”
Beckett said, “Hang on.” He turned, feeling like he was in a play, and asked Troy, “Do you want to switch places with Quinn so you can hear more about dogs?”
“Yes, please,” Troy said, and Beckett touched Quinn on the shoulder—how could a woman in a tracksuit appeal to him that much?—and said, “Switch places with Troy, would you? He wants to hear about dogs.”
She did, and the food came, which quieted the conversation a fair bit. When everybody was getting stuck in, Martin said, “So. Story, please.”
Quinn pointed at her mouth, because she was chewing, and Martin told Beckett, “All right, I don’t know you, except that you’re Beckett Hughes, and you’ve caused a stir amongst the ladies, with the accent and the attitude and all, but if you’re Brett Hunter’s construction manager, you’re probably a decent observer. So tell.”
“Cheers for that,” Beckett said. His arm brushed Quinn’s as he reached for his beer, and she jumped a bit. As for him? Let’s say he felt it. “Not much to tell. The bloke was an over-explainer.”
“An over-explainer?” Martin asked, with a quizzical look on his face.
“You get electricians like that,” Beckett said. “Some plumbers and carpenters, too, but mostly electricians. They’re teaching, which is all good, but they assume the other fella’s a fool and explain too much. The other bloke stops listening, and hey presto, you’ve got an industrial accident. Explaining too much is as bad as explaining too little.”
“Because it’s annoying,” Quinn said.
“So he was a little arrogant,” Martin said. “A little mansplainy.”
“No,” Quinn said, “he was alotarrogant and alotmansplainy. Until I fell off my paddleboard better than him.”
“I thought you were having dinner,” Martin said. “I envisioned this date around dinner.”
“I know,” Quinn said. “So did I. I’m still wearing my fancy bra and underwear—never mind, Beckett’s seen them—but notice the sweats? That’s because the orthodontist called me a half-hour before the date and told me to wash off my silly makeup and take off my padded shapewear so he could get an ‘unvarnished look.’”
“Wanker,” Beckett muttered.
“I work for Rafe Blackstone,” Martin informed him. “I know that word.”
Wait. RafeBlackstone?As in the film star? “We’re in small-town Montana,” Beckett said. “What do you do for him, give him riding lessons?”
“That would be funny, if you knew,” Martin said. “No. I am not a cowboy. I’m his personal assistant, and he lives here when he’s not working. Or not in Australia, of course. He’s on a break right now, which means I don’t have enough to do, other than help in his wife’s shop—lingerie shop, hence the gorgeous underclothing which you have somehowseen—and set up blind dates.”
“Hope you’re a better assistant than you are a matchmaker,” Beckett said, “because that was rubbish.”
“Rub it in,” Martin said. “He tried to condescend to you about athletics, Quinn.” He started to laugh. “Did he evenlookat you?”
“Yes,” she said. “He thinks my breasts are too small.”
“Hesaidthat?” Martin asked.
“He didn’t have to,” she said. Which could have made Beckett sweat, as much as he’d stared at her body, but didn’t.Hedidn’t think her breasts were too small, and he appreciated the hell out of the rest of her, too.
He clearly wasn’t ready for a relationship yet, but it was good to feel alive again, right? It wasn’t a betrayal.
