I send Eliza a look of impatience but can’t fight the ever-present swoop of shame that accompanies any mention of his name. ‘He is behind me.’
‘If that were true you wouldn’t have spent the past eight months wallowing!’
‘I am not wallowing,’ I deny, turning to Cassie pleadingly.
‘I can see why you think I’d back you up, but seriously, Ally, you have to get back out there.’
My stomach flops and my gaze wanders towards the man at the bar.
Ethan ‘rock star’ Ash. And so much hotter in real life than I could ever have imagined.
I shake my head. ‘No way. I’m not going to talk to him.’
‘Why not?’ Cassie throws a look over her shoulder, and when she looks back at us she has a pretty flush in her cheeks.
‘Because.’ I shoot them both a look they know better than to argue with. ‘Now, can we please talk about something else?’
I sip my drink, crossing my legs in the other direction, and most definitely not looking towards the bar again.
‘What’s new?’
I listen to their responses, relieved as all hell that they’ve let the matter of the smoking hot rock god drop. At least for now...
‘Drinks are empty. It’s your turn, Ally.’
I blink, drawn back into the conversation by Eliza, who is handing her glass to me. I frown. ‘Isn’t it table service?’
‘Nah. Not on a Friday.’
I grimace. ‘Remind me why we chose this place again?’
Cassie points to the sign overhead and I know what it says without even reading it: Happy Hour—9-9!
As the only one of our little trio who can afford full-price drinks in decent bars with professional wait staff, I resist the urge to complain. Besides, the place is obviously good enough for Ethan Ash. Which begs the question: what’s he doing here? He’s alone, and has been since I got here an hour earlier. Is he waiting for someone? Has he been stood up? That doesn’t make sense. Who’d stand him up?
I’m two cocktails in, so I know I have a bit of an alcohol-confident swagger as I make my way to the bar. But I’m immune to tall, dark and handsome men now—Jeremy cured me of that habit for life—so I determinedly move past him—way past, like other-planet past—choosing to prop my elbows on a spot that’s practically in the kitchen it’s so far away from him.
Despite the fact there are at least seven people serving behind the bar, I’m kept waiting for several minutes. Slowing down is probably a good thing, so I don’t make a fuss. I pull my phone out instead, flicking through Instagram and checking my emails, humming along without realising to the song overhead. It’s only when the song begins to surround, envelop and roll over me, with an oddly perfect surround-sound quality, that I look up and realise he’s right beside me.
He.
He of the thick brown hair and ocean-green eyes. He of the tanned skin and gazillion-pack abs. He of the torn jeans and loose grey shirt—designer dishevelled. And the way he smells—delicious. My gut twists in enthusiastic acknowledgement of all of the above and my knees tremble as if they’re conspiring to pull me closer to him.
But my face is still following orders and thankfully stays resolutely unimpressed.
A smile flicks his lips as he continues to croon—yes, he’s actually crooning—the words to a pop song, for God’s sake—and I desperately don’t want him to stop.
‘How’s it going?’
It’s so completely not what I expect he of the stubbled jaw to say that I laugh softly. ‘How’s what going?’
His grin is disarming and he obviously knows it. How could he not? His accent is huskier in real life—broad British that is more Midlands than Eton. It’s sexy AF.
‘Life. The universe. Your place in it.’
‘Ah. That sounds like a conversation more suited to Neil deGrasse Tyson’s living room.’
‘Want me to give him a call? See if he’s free?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Sure. You got him on speed dial or something?’
He lifts his phone out of his pocket. It’s an iPhone, I think, but it looks to be pure gold. Catching me looking, he seems almost embarrassed as he clarifies, ‘I get given them.’
At that moment, thank God, a waiter appears behind the bar. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Vodka gimlet, gin and tonic and Prosecco.’
He nods and moves away, picking up where he of the smooth as caramel voice left off, singing the song softly as he mixes our drinks.
‘See?’
Ethan calls me back to him and he’s holding his phone so I can see the world’s most famous astrophysicist staring back at me.
‘You seriously know him?’
‘Sure. We did a charity thing together a year ago. Nice guy.’
I arch a brow. Am I really standing in a bar in SoHo talking to a veritable rock god superstar about a world-famous scientist?
‘I’m impressed.’
‘So am I. I think you’re the first girl I’ve met in a bar who outed herself as a science nerd.’
‘Your implication being that knowing who one of the most pre-eminent astrophysicists of our time is makes me a nerd? I would think that’s kind of mainstream knowledge.’
He shrugs. ‘Not in my experience.’
‘Ah. So maybe your experience is just...limited.’
The bartender returns with our drinks, and before I can hand my credit card over Ethan Sexier-than-Thou Ash slides his own across the bar.
‘Maybe it is.’
His eyes hold mine and my tummy lurches as though I’ve just driven at speed over the crest of a hill. I’m in free fall.
‘Don’t use his card,’ I say, my voice croaky as I drag my attention to the waiter behind the bar. ‘It’s my shout.’
‘You can get the next round.’ Ethan’s voice brooks no opposition and the bartender taps his card on the machine.
‘Next round?’ I arch a brow. ‘Meaning...?’
He leans closer. He smells amazing. Like salt and sand and sunshine all rolled into one.
‘Meaning these drinks are on me.’
He pulls back just far enough to grin at me while his eyes meet mine, green versus blue, and I am losing whatever battle it is we’re waging. Then his fingers lift up and press lightly to the back of my hand. Just for a second, but it’s enough. Heat spirals up my arm spreading goosebumps on my flesh and, mortifyingly, tensing my nipples. His eyes catch the reaction and my cheeks flush bright pink.
‘It was nice to meet you...?’
His question hangs in the air but I’m flummoxed. The way my body has reacted is strange. Unexpected.
‘You too.’
I deliberately don’t give him my name. Names are where the problems start.
I’m over Jeremy. I am.
If I ever see him again I think I could seriously find myself in a federal prison for life.
But the ghost of what we were...what he turned