“And what would that be?” She waved a waiter over and they ordered while the argument hung around on the sidelines waiting for the all clear whistle. If it wasn’t for Toni, he’d have said more butch, but there was nothing un-girly about Toni, so that wasn’t it.
“The aggressive type.” She was so tiny, but she’d gone for him across the table yesterday like she didn’t know he was the tree and she was the twig.
“There are different types of aggression.”
“Sure.”
He barely got the word out and she was all over him. “But you don’t think I’ve got it in me to be aggressive on the sports field?”
All that bewildered quality about her was rubbing off; the serrated edge was back in her voice. Yeah, there were different types of aggression; hers was the type to cut a guy in half for being honest finally. “Chicks who play a contact sport don’t have to run around in the shower to get wet.”
“God, you’re so superior.”
“Look, it doesn’t matter what I think.”
“You’re right.”
“I just needed to understand you’re bruised because you, well you’re okay about being bruised. I don’t need to know the details.”
“You’re on a roll now.”
“So, look me in the eye, Bree. Tell me you’re not being hurt by anyone, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
And she did. She jerked her chin up, fixed her honey brown eyes on him and they didn’t waver, not for second. It was so belligerent in its way, the waiter hesitated to approach. She said, “Thanks,” addressing the guy, without breaking eye contact with Ant and the waiter put their cups down and scarpered.
When she spoke her voice was formal, cool. “Thank you for your concern, Ant. I appreciate it. I do. It probably took a lot for you to do this. But there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m bruised because I play sport and sometimes I get hurt. Not often, and not badly. I’m good at what I do. You don’t need to worry.”
He took a sip. He didn’t believe her. She was the girl most unlikely to play a sport where you’d get knocked around and injured, it wasn’t just her lack of bulk, it was her pedigree. A woman like Bree went to plays and gallery openings. She’d play tennis or golf, maybe ran. He figured a boxing class at the gym was the closest she’d get to a contact sport. Yet that’s not what she was telling him. And she’d done what he asked so he had nowhere to go with this. “If something changes and...”
“It won’t. I’m not in any trouble.”
He shook his head. “I want to believe you, but...”
“Ant. You’ve done your bit, but we’re good to go back to ignoring each other.”
“We are.” The problem was he didn’t want to be back there. Not only because he didn’t trust her story, but because the more he saw of her the more interesting she was.
She left him in the cafe and for the rest of the fortnight they ignored each other, but it was ignorance with a difference. Now instead of sliding eye contact, there were nods of acknowledgement and the occasional smile. There was even an accidental conversation or two, once about how slow the lift was, and once about traffic. Unremarkable, except pretty much all of their previous accidental conversations featured the study of each other’s footwear. So this was progress. Though it felt more like treading water. And if Bree sported any new bruises she kept them well hidden.
And every day they shared a “Gosh, it’s hot outside,” or a “Have a good evening,” they were one day closer to the announcement of the winner of the fake share portfolio competition. Ant might have graduated from looking at her stilettos to her eyes but he wasn’t rolling over to let her pat his tummy. The competition was his.
Doug decided a team dinner was in order to celebrate, so Friday night they converged on Pinetti at the ultra trendy Vine. The place was packed with the cities best and brightest, the rooftop pool sparkled, the drinks flowed, and the mating game was in full force by the time Ant arrived. He hated this place. It was all about the gloss and glamour. It shit all over Son of a Beach Bar in terms of facilities, hell, even in terms of basic cleanliness, but it was so deeply superficial it made his head spin. And this from a guy who specifically cultivated superficial in his love life. Maybe he was getting old.
The rest of the team, except Doug who was somewhere behind him in the crowd, were seated when he dragged his arse in. If it weren’t for the meal being on Doug and the announcement of the winner, he’d have made an excuse and gone for a surf. Better to battle grommets than the in-crowd.
Instead he surfed a crowd of big-noters and Friday night heroes, wingmen and Barbie dolls to reach their table. Before he even got there he faced a choice. Two empty seats: one on the left of Bree, one at the other end of the table. She made the decision for him by looking up and smiling. Had she been drinking? Because that smile was different. It had teeth and cheekbone; it had bright eyes and a magnetic quality. There was nowhere else to sit except beside her. He skirted the table, put his hands on the back of the chair to her left and a sudden wave of insecurity hit him with such force he almost swam against the tidal pull around to the other available seat. She can’t have been smiling at him like that.
She looked up and did it again. “I won’t bite.”
He sat down with all the grace of a bloke whose knees were ruined by years of jogging on cement. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
“Holding back isn’t my thing.”
He grunted. “I’ve noticed.”