No Ordinary Gentleman

I don’t really mean that.

I don’t want him to see me like this.

I shouldn’t want him to see me at all.

“Where are you running off to?” This time, the deep voice is playful. Not so much is the large hand that curls around my shoulder because that means business. The business of stopping me.

My heart is beating out of my chest as I stop, trying hard to keep my back straight and my chin high. Fate is certainly entertaining herself tonight; to bump into him now while I’m not wearing my regular armour feels cruel. But what feels so much more punishing is that for two months, I’ve been telling myself that he wasn’t as special as my memories made him out to be. That I’d imagined his brilliance, gilded the experience, as my life in London was flushed down the pan. I’ve had a tough couple of months, and yes, I’ve thought of him often as one of the last good things to happen to me this spring. But more lately, I’d begun to persuade myself that the memories weren’t true. That as my life turned shittier, I’d somehow rolled him in glitter and made him more than he is. I can’t tell you how crushing it is to find that’s not true.

So, I do the only thing I can do. I turn, and I fix on a polite smile as my mind scans for reasons to explain my presence here.

I had such an awesome time in London, I decided to move here.

Too random.

The uniform? Oh, I’m just helping a friend.

Ack! What if he asks which friend?

Ich bin nicht Holly. Ich bin Helga?

What if he knows more than the half dozen words of German I know?

“Hell—Oh.” My fixed-on smile slips.

“I can’t remember the last time I ran after a woman.” His tone goes from playful to silky smooth but that’s not what’s important because, as I look up, I realise that sly smile does not belong to Alexander. I swing from panicked resignation to disappointment quicker than you can say ich bin Helga. And my words, when I find them, are borderline rude.

“Hey, how are you . . .?” Who are you, again?

“Argh!” The kind of cute-not Alexander clenches a fist over the dark lapel of his dark suit jacket. “She doesn’t even remember me.”

“No, I do,” I say on the breath of a laugh. God knows I could do with all the laughs I can get. “You’re, erm . . .” His face is kind of familiar, but that’s all I’ve got.

“Griffin,” he replies with no little astonishment. “We met at Martine and Ed’s.” My stomach gives a little twist at the mention of my former employer’s names, my former friend’s names, even though I’ve mentally renamed the pair Judith and Judas Iscariot. “You sat next to me at dinner?” A tiny crease forms between his eyes. It seems someone’s ego is feeling a little burned. “One of their kids sat on the other side of me?” he adds, tapping a finger to his lips. “The one without the braces and the lisp.”

I roll my lips inward so as not to laugh. “Amalie.”

“Right! We talked about . . . well, who knows what the hell we talked about, but I remember you.”

“I remember you, too.” At least, I remember him now. In particular, I remember how Amalie had developed a little crush on the guy. You know, like twelve-year-olds do. And in her haste to be included in the conversation, her braces did make her a little lisp-y. Something else I remember is that I found him a little too fond of his own voice and lot flirty. “You’re a lawyer, right?”

“Barrister, actually,” he answers with a faint smile. A smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as his hands cup my elbows, moving me from my position in the doorway.

“Cheers,” Mo, the supervisor, says by way of thanks as she passes from behind, hefting the large box in her hands higher. “Grab the other one from the van, would you, love? It’s still open.”

“Sure.” I mean, I was running away, though there seems little point now. Alexander didn’t recognise me. Or maybe he didn’t see me. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Whatever the reason, I’ll still do pretty much anything else (catering-wise) to keep myself from being upstairs in that house tonight.

Even if I have thought of him nonstop.

Even if that man bent my body and my mind in ways I’m still recovering from.

“So, what are you doing here?” Griffin says as he follows me out into the garden.

“Working.” I throw the word over my shoulder in the tone of well, duh! Real mature, I know.

“Moonlighting?” Griffin pulls up alongside me, my hurried steps no match for his long strides. “Come on, I won’t tell.” As my gaze flicks his way, I see he looks kind of pleased with himself as he slides his hands into his pockets and shoots me a playful look.