She rested one of her perfect hands on his thigh. He tensed, cursing himself for not changing out of his footy shorts.
“You’re not going home, are you, Flynn?” Her singsong voice grated on his nerves.
“Actually...” That’s exactly where he planned on heading. The last thing he wanted to do was socialize right now.
“I understand,” she began, in an annoyingly sympathetic tone, “that today would have been difficult for you. But it’s times like these you need to be around friends. People who care about you, people who understand you.” Her nails drifted a little higher up his thigh. “What do you say? Come to the pub with us?”
He looked past Lauren to see Lucy a few meters away. She was beaming like a loony and holding both thumbs up. Go on, she mouthed at him theatrically.
“Who’s us?” asked Flynn. He didn’t want Lauren getting any ideas.
“Oh, you know, the usual crowd. Rats will be there.”
Rats, nicknamed so because he’d had a rat’s tail haircut since he was in kindergarten. That is, until a few weeks ago when he proposed to Whitney, who refused to accept unless he cut it off. Rats, who just happened to be the best mate Flynn had.
He still didn’t want to go. Pubs hadn’t been real appealing since his father’s accident, when he’d been forced to get his life back on track. But this wasn’t just about the pub. Maybe he should make an appearance and hold his head up high. Show everyone he didn’t need their sympathy, that ten years was a long time. Definitely long enough for him and Ellie to be in the same shire without him losing the plot. Again.
“Do you need a lift, then?” He forced a smile to his lips.
“Sure.” Lauren’s face lit up. She poked her head back out the car for a moment. “Meet you there, girls.”
“Shove over. We can fit,” said a voice from outside.
Flynn leaned forward to wave at Emma and another local chick, Linda.
“I don’t think so.” Lauren pulled the door shut before they could negotiate. “Drive on, Flynn. They’ll be fine.”
Ignoring Lauren, he pushed a button to wind down the passenger window. “If you ladies want, you can hop on the back.”
Giggles and shrieks ensued as Flynn hitched the girls up onto the tray. He took the opportunity to pull his jeans out of his bag and tug them on before getting back in. He barely had three hundred meters to drive, so there wasn’t much danger. Not on the road, anyway.
When Flynn opened the door at the top pub for Lauren and her friends, however, the hackles rose on the back of his neck. It wasn’t that he never came to the pub, but it was rare. Years ago this joint had been his first port of call whenever he’d wanted to drown his sorrows. The place they came whenever they lost a game of football—which hadn’t been nearly as often back then—and always where they came to celebrate a win. After Ellie had left he’d come even more. It had become his second home.
Back then, he’d step inside and smile. The aroma of cigarette smoke mixed with beer, sweat and cheap perfume always comforted. The run-down decor? Strangely alluring. The music? Exactly what he would have chosen. The people? Folks he’d grown up with, folks he’d die for. Folks he knew would do the same for him.
But times had changed. Although he still loved his football, he wasn’t the carefree larrikin of a decade ago. Not frequently anyway. He was a long way from the Flynn who’d streaked across the oval. In the years since, the law had sent the smokers outside, and although he wasn’t one of them, there was something wrong about a pub without that smell. New owners had renovated and The Commercial Hotel had lost its rural character. Its beige walls with a chocolate feature and the leather-upholstered bar stools could have been transplanted from any city establishment. The people he’d loved had moved on or changed. At least the music still had the right vibe.
He barely had the chance to nod at Rats and Whitney or take in the others hanging around before Lauren had an arm round him and was practically licking his ear.
“My shout, Flynn. What are you having?”
“Just a Coke, thanks.” He extracted his limbs from hers and moved along the bar to Rats.
“Hey, mate.” Rats slapped Flynn on the back and grinned. “Good to see ya. S’pose you’ve heard?”
“Grapevine wouldn’t be working if I hadn’t.” Flynn looked straight ahead.
“Doubt she’ll be here for long,” continued Rats. “She’s only back to help Ms. T. Surely a broken ankle won’t take long to mend. Right?”
Flynn wanted to ask if anyone had seen her yet, but he didn’t want to look like he gave a damn. He didn’t give a damn. So instead he said, “Free country. She can go where she likes.”
“True, true.” Rats took a sip of beer and pulled Whitney into his side. “So, mate, we’ve been talking and you don’t have to say yes straightaway but...”
“There’s no one we’d rather want as our best man,” gushed Whitney, reaching past Rats to take Flynn’s hands. “Please, please say yes.”
Hell. Flynn supposed he should have seen this coming. His friends hadn’t planned a long engagement and Rats had been decked out in the best-man suit the day Ellie had left him standing at the altar of St. Pete’s. But today? Just the thought of setting foot inside a church made his skin crawl.
“Sure,” he managed. “It’d be an honor.”
“Yippee!” As Whitney shrieked, she leaned forward and kissed Flynn on the lips. It was only quick, and entirely platonic, but whoops went up around the pub.
“Did he say yes?” Lauren returned with a bottle of champers, four delicate glass flutes and no sign of a Coke. “This calls for a toast.” Behind her were Emma and Linda with another bottle and more glasses.
As glasses were filled, Rats edged close to Flynn. “I’ll get you that Coke, mate. You don’t have to drink to take part in the toast.” Rats was one of the few people who knew just how dependent he’d become on booze before his dad died.
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Flynn, suddenly feeling like a tiny shot of bubbles would work wonders for his tension-infused body. “I can handle a glass on a special occasion.”
“Fair enough.” Rats held up his palms in surrender, but Flynn couldn’t miss the worry in his friend’s eyes. “Just looking out for you.”
Flynn didn’t reply. He was tired of people looking out for him, like he was some sort of pathetic child. He took a glass and raised it along with everybody else’s.
“To Flynn,” Lauren said, staring at him as if he were the only person in the room, “for completing our fabulous bridal party.”
“To Flynn,” chorused his friends.
He took a gulp and only as the bubbles caressed his throat did he register Lauren’s words. Dinner was ordered soon after, and once the pub grub had been devoured the group broke up—some playing pool, others chatting near the dartboard. This was Flynn’s chance to escape, but just as he was about to make a sly departure, Lauren pulled up a stool next to him. She barely sat on it, however, and Flynn got the impression she was angling for a spot on his lap, instead.
“You know,” she drawled in an unmistakably seductive tone, “the best man gets first pick of the bridesmaids.”
“Is that so?” Flynn took another sip to stop himself from saying the first thing that came into his head.
“It’s tradition. And it just so happens I’m maid of honor.” Was she actually singing her words? “Care for a top-up?”