better mouth. It’s ripe, juicy, and I’m beguiled by it. My eyes drift slowly away to meet a salacious stare. Alec is amused, and I want to smack that smirk off his face.
“Can I help you with something?” he asks, revelling in my humiliation.
“So what’s your story, James Bond? Born in London?” I query, trying to divert my chagrin, stooping to condescending him, instead.
“I’m from Wales, actually, but yes, I’ve lived in London.” Alec attempts half a smile and finishes his wine. “And I have family drama, too.”
I make an understanding nod and decide to pour wine into the empty glass that’s still in his hand.
“Thank you, Caroline.” His voice is barely audible, and his eyes are lasers coming straight at mine. He looks vulnerable and conflicted compared to the pompous ass he was a minute ago.
“You’re welcome,” I say, biting my lower lip because I don’t know what else to say.
“How many times have you heard how beautiful you are?”
And welcome back the pompous ass .
I clear my throat, and my chin dips into my chest from embarrassment. My voice is weak. “Um... I think the wine is getting to you, Alec.”
“Doubtful. I’ve only just begun my second glass, thanks to you. Don’t be shy, Caroline. You’re beautiful. It’s impossible you don’t already know this. Boyfriend?”
Boyfriend? Yes! Oh, what is wrong with me? I either have one or not. And I do! Of course I do but I take a few extra seconds to answer.
Ryan and I met at Starbucks. Actually, I met him at a book store which is connected to the coffee shop. I noticed him noticing me, and initially, I didn’t know what to do with that. Then we mustered out a few sentences while in line and sat to chitchat. The rest was history, as they say.
“Yes—Ryan,” I say firmly, and suddenly I’m brought back to the fact that we’re not alone.
Flocks of people have gathered around in small groups, and Sofie manages to be the centre of attention in all of them. She’s absolutely beaming. The music is louder, and her company braver than when I was first introduced to them. One very married man is unashamedly staring at me as his wife maintains conversation with two other women who send quick glances at Alec. I recognize the music as Sofie’s, with Ella Fitzgerald in the mix.
Two couples dance and sway with red wine swinging hazardously in their glasses. Promiscuity isn’t entirely absent in the vibe, and the ambience is buoyant, hardly a single discerning eye around.
It’s refreshing, and even in a fuzzy state, I begin to understand Sofie a little clearer—why she loves this place and who we can be here.
“Eat. I want you tipsy not unconscious,” Sofie says with a paper plate practically under my nose. It’s covered in bite-size hors d’oeuvres with a napkin beneath it.
“Alec, I’m pretty sure Fatima made her famous hummus and chicken skewers just for you. Why don’t you make her night and give them a try?”
He looks uncomfortable, and it’s both strange and pleasing to catch his awkwardness. At once, he’s on his feet.
“I’ll do just that,” he says, turning and entrapping me in an intense gaze. “Save my place.”
I don’t even want to look at Sofie because I certainly don’t need to see her to know what she’s thinking. She’s no doubt rejoicing from Alec’s flirtatious command.
“Oh, shut up!” I blurt. “Did you know he was in Montreal? I saw him two days ago. He delivered a painting to Cat’s House, and he actually remembered me from your screensaver. How creepy is that!”
“You don’t say,” she answers, too composed for my liking.
“Sofie?” I say. “Sofie!
“Oh, relax. I showed you pictures of him, too, I’m sure. He’s in a bunch of them from last summer.”
I try arranging my thoughts. It would explain why Alec looked so familiar, and as I attempt to marshal my theories and collect ideas on how I feel about this, I reach a deliberation.
“Oh my God. Are you serious
“Can I help you with something?” he asks, revelling in my humiliation.
“So what’s your story, James Bond? Born in London?” I query, trying to divert my chagrin, stooping to condescending him, instead.
“I’m from Wales, actually, but yes, I’ve lived in London.” Alec attempts half a smile and finishes his wine. “And I have family drama, too.”
I make an understanding nod and decide to pour wine into the empty glass that’s still in his hand.
“Thank you, Caroline.” His voice is barely audible, and his eyes are lasers coming straight at mine. He looks vulnerable and conflicted compared to the pompous ass he was a minute ago.
“You’re welcome,” I say, biting my lower lip because I don’t know what else to say.
“How many times have you heard how beautiful you are?”
And welcome back the pompous ass .
I clear my throat, and my chin dips into my chest from embarrassment. My voice is weak. “Um... I think the wine is getting to you, Alec.”
“Doubtful. I’ve only just begun my second glass, thanks to you. Don’t be shy, Caroline. You’re beautiful. It’s impossible you don’t already know this. Boyfriend?”
Boyfriend? Yes! Oh, what is wrong with me? I either have one or not. And I do! Of course I do but I take a few extra seconds to answer.
Ryan and I met at Starbucks. Actually, I met him at a book store which is connected to the coffee shop. I noticed him noticing me, and initially, I didn’t know what to do with that. Then we mustered out a few sentences while in line and sat to chitchat. The rest was history, as they say.
“Yes—Ryan,” I say firmly, and suddenly I’m brought back to the fact that we’re not alone.
Flocks of people have gathered around in small groups, and Sofie manages to be the centre of attention in all of them. She’s absolutely beaming. The music is louder, and her company braver than when I was first introduced to them. One very married man is unashamedly staring at me as his wife maintains conversation with two other women who send quick glances at Alec. I recognize the music as Sofie’s, with Ella Fitzgerald in the mix.
Two couples dance and sway with red wine swinging hazardously in their glasses. Promiscuity isn’t entirely absent in the vibe, and the ambience is buoyant, hardly a single discerning eye around.
It’s refreshing, and even in a fuzzy state, I begin to understand Sofie a little clearer—why she loves this place and who we can be here.
“Eat. I want you tipsy not unconscious,” Sofie says with a paper plate practically under my nose. It’s covered in bite-size hors d’oeuvres with a napkin beneath it.
“Alec, I’m pretty sure Fatima made her famous hummus and chicken skewers just for you. Why don’t you make her night and give them a try?”
He looks uncomfortable, and it’s both strange and pleasing to catch his awkwardness. At once, he’s on his feet.
“I’ll do just that,” he says, turning and entrapping me in an intense gaze. “Save my place.”
I don’t even want to look at Sofie because I certainly don’t need to see her to know what she’s thinking. She’s no doubt rejoicing from Alec’s flirtatious command.
“Oh, shut up!” I blurt. “Did you know he was in Montreal? I saw him two days ago. He delivered a painting to Cat’s House, and he actually remembered me from your screensaver. How creepy is that!”
“You don’t say,” she answers, too composed for my liking.
“Sofie?” I say. “Sofie!
“Oh, relax. I showed you pictures of him, too, I’m sure. He’s in a bunch of them from last summer.”
I try arranging my thoughts. It would explain why Alec looked so familiar, and as I attempt to marshal my theories and collect ideas on how I feel about this, I reach a deliberation.
“Oh my God. Are you serious
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