Читать книгу: «Portia MacIntosh Book 11», страница 3
As I walk between the parked cars, I can’t help but look over my shoulder every now and then. It feels so lonely out here, with no sign of life anywhere. The only sound I can hear is from the stones crunching under my feet as I walk – at least I’d be able to hear footsteps, if someone were to try and creep up behind me.
I remind myself to keep my imagination in check, but it doesn’t matter. Something distracts me. I’m almost at the hotel entrance when something catches my eye: a red sports car. It’s not the same one that sped past me, is it? I hover a hand over the car and feel heat radiating from its hot body. And then there’s that number plate, that tosser private plate that makes me hate this guy already.
Maybe it’s because I’m all frazzled over this wedding business or maybe it is because he genuinely scared me, but I do something completely out of character from me. I take a pen and a piece of paper from my bag, and I write a note.
I’m not usually the kind of girl to write: ‘no one is impressed by your driving or your car’ on the back of a receipt before placing it under the windscreen wiper. In fact, it’s so unlike me to do something like this that I quickly grab my bags and retreat to the safety of the hotel, before anyone sees me.
As I check in, I notice a little sign on the counter advertising homemade red velvet cake. That’s exactly what I need to take the edge of a rubbish evening.
‘Is it too late to get some cake?’ I ask the receptionist.
‘There might be some left,’ she replies. ‘If you ask in the bar.’
The receptionist points to a small, empty looking bar in an adjoining room.
Another thing that is out of character for me is hanging out in bars on my own, but I can’t really face going to my room just yet, and some cake would be lovely. I might even have a drink too. A quick nightcap, just to relax me little. Then I’ll go to my room, climb into my bed, and get a nice early night in preparation for the big day tomorrow. I do have a tendency to be late, but I absolutely cannot do that tomorrow – I want my friends to think at least one thing changed since the last time they saw me.
Chapter 2
I pitch up at the empty bar, like some kind of downbeat film noir detective.
When a barman appears, I order a slice of red velvet cake and a Disaronno and coke, with all the enthusiasm and cheer of a death row inmate ordering their last meal.
‘Cheer up,’ he says brightly. ‘It might never happen.’
Half the problem is that it never happened – nothing has ever happened, and it feels like nothing will ever happen. I’m not the sort of girl things happen to, and, at 31 years of age, I’m not even sure I qualify as a girl anymore.
I mentally pinch myself, and tick myself off for being so melodramatic. My life is not that bad, it just seems it when I compare it to my friends’ lives. Well, it’s not that it seems bad … it’s just … uneventful.
‘This might put a smile on your face,’ the barman says, setting down an extra-large slice of cake in front of me. ‘This is all that was left. It wasn’t enough to cut into two slices, and we only would’ve thrown the smaller bit away.’
‘Wow,’ I blurt. It is huge. ‘Thanks.’
I laugh to myself as I rotate the plate, viewing the giant slice from all angles. There’s no way I’ll eat this – I’d be ashamed of myself if I could – but I’ll certainly give it my best shot.
‘Jack and coke please,’ I hear a man say next to me. The fact that someone else is in the bar gifts me a little comfort. Drinking here alone, I was dangerously close to becoming a cliché. ‘And a slice of red velvet cake, please. Just saw the ad for it at reception.’
‘Sorry, sir. This lady just bought the last piece,’ the bar man replies, pointing towards me.
I look up, to see whose day I’ve ruined.
The man looks down at my giant slice of cake, and back up at me. Suddenly, I feel like a pig. Not just because he’s a handsome guy, but because I look like I’m about to take down this huge slice all on my own.
‘Do you want to share it?’ I ask him. ‘This is way more than I can eat.’
‘Really?’ he replies with a smile.
‘Sure,’ I reply.
‘Can I get you another drink, to say thanks?’ he asks me.
‘That would be great, thanks.’
‘Top my new friend up too,’ the man replies, handing over his card. ‘And another fork please.’
‘Thanks,’ I say again, quickly straightening my back, smoothing out my outfit, and subtly tszujing my hair.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replies. ‘I’m Pete.’
‘I’m Luca,’ I say, shaking the hand he’s offering me. ‘It’s nice to have some company.’
‘You here alone?’ he asks, eagerly plunging his fork into the cake.
‘I am,’ I reply. ‘My friends are getting married tomorrow.’
‘Same.’
‘You’re here alone or you’re here for a wedding?’ I ask.
‘Both,’ he says. ‘Matt and Kat?’
‘Yes,’ I squeak excitedly. ‘You know them?’
‘I do, I lived with Kat at uni, actually. We shared a house.’
I laugh at the unbelievable coincidence.
‘Same. I lived with Matt during third year.’
He laughs. ‘That’s weird.’
For a moment, I can’t help but examine my new friend. He must be about my age, if he went to uni with Kat.
Pete is not a bad-looking man. He has blond hair that I don’t think is too long, but he has it pulled into a man bun on the back of his head. It’s a man bun and not a topknot – the two are most definitely very different looks. On a topknot’s Instagram he’ll be posing for photos with sedated tigers on holiday, and capturing his latest Nando’s acquisition before he wolfs it down. A man bun though, he’s the kind of guy to have pictures of him wearing cardigans, snuggled up to golden retriever puppies.
Pete has chiselled good looks, like maybe Michelangelo carved him after he practised on David. But while his features may be almost razor sharp, he’s got this warmth about him. A real kindness in his cool blue eyes.
