‘The passage to the bathroom facilities is covered in framed photographs of the parties that have happened here. Not so strangely, you are in most of them—front and centre. Oh, yeah, you’re just trouble looking for a place to happen.’
Callie batted her eyelashes at him, her eyes inviting him to laugh with her … at her. ‘My daddy told me that talent shouldn’t ever be wasted.’
‘Your daddy is probably on Prozac.’ The smile lifted higher and brushed his eyes.
Progress, she thought.
He shook his head, bemused. ‘Trouble. With a capital T. In flashing neon lights.’
Callie left Rowan and Finn discussing the dissolution of all his wedding plans—his eyes had gone back to being flat and miserable, dammit!—and went to sit on a small table on the outside deck, overlooking the harbour. On the mountain behind her lights from the expensive houses twinkled and a cool breeze skittered over the sea, raising goosebumps on her bare arms.
She tucked herself into her favourite corner, out of sight of the bar patrons, and put her feet up on the railing. The sea swished below her feet.
The noise from the bar had increased in volume and, as Finn had observed earlier, usually she’d be in the thick of the action—calling for shots, cranking up the music, and dancing … on the floor, on a bar stool or on the bar itself.
Nobody could ever call her a wallflower, and if they had to then she’d be an exotic one—climbing the wall with her brightly coloured petals and holding a loud hailer.
Where had she gone, that perfect party girl, loud and fearless? She’d cultivated the persona after the car accident—after she’d made a promise to her father and brother to pull herself away from the edge of destruction. It was the only way she’d been able to find the attention she’d craved and she’d got it—especially from men.
She got a lot of attention from men. Apparently it was because, as a previous lover had once told her, men felt good when they were with her: stronger, bolder, more alpha.
Whatever.
But Rowan was wrong. She didn’t need a man in her life. Her life was fine—perfect, almost. She had absolutely nothing to complain about. She loved her life, loved her job, the world was her oyster and her pearl and the whole damn treasure chest. She liked her life, liked being alone, being independent, answerable only to herself. Her life was super-shiny. It didn’t need additional enhancement.
Besides, as she had learned along the way, to a lot of the men she dated she was a prize to be conquered, a body to possess, a will to be bent. They loved the thrill of the chase and then, because, she didn’t do anything but casual, they ended up getting competitive—thought they could be the one to get her to settle down, to commit. That they were ‘the man’—had the goods, the bigger set of balls.
They tried to get her to play the role of lover or girlfriend and she always refused. And when their attention became a bit too pointed—when they showed the first signs of jealousy and possessiveness—she backed off. All the way off.
She’d never met a man she couldn’t live without, couldn’t leave behind. And if she ever had the slightest inkling that she might feel something deeper for someone she was dating she called it quits. She told him that her life was too hectic, too crazy for a relationship, and that wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
She always left before she could be left. It was that simple and that complicated.
Thanks, Mother.
Callie rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, noticing that a headache that was brewing. Too much thinking, Callie. Maybe you do need a good party after all.
A brief touch on her shoulder had her jumping and she whirled around. Finn. She put her hand on her heart and managed a smile.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you—you were miles away.’ He held a beer bottle loosely in his hand; his other was in the pocket of his jeans. He had a couple of masculine leather and bead bracelets on one wrist and a high-tech watch on the other.
‘Hi.’ Callie waved him to an empty chair at her table and looked past him into the restaurant. ‘Where’s Rowan?’
‘She met someone she knew at the bar.’ Finn yanked the chair out and sat down, stretching his longs legs out in front of him. ‘You okay?’
‘Shouldn’t I be asking that of you?’ Callie replied. She leaned forward and asked softly, gently, ‘What happened with your fiancée?’
Pain flickered in and out of his eyes. ‘You are the nosiest woman I’ve ever met,’ he complained, after taking a long pull of his beer.
‘I am—but that doesn’t mean I’m not deeply sorry that it happened. Besides, men usually love talking about themselves,’ Callie replied.
‘Not this one,’ Finn replied.
Okay. Back off now, Hollis. Give him some space. ‘Can Rowan help you sort out the mess of cancelling the wedding?’
‘Luckily, she can. I was just going through the final non-arrangements with her; people are sympathetic but they still need to be paid. Understandable, since pretty much everything that needed to be ordered has already been ordered.’
‘I bet Rowan refused to be paid,’ Callie said on a small smile. ‘She has a heart as big as the sun.’
Finn nodded. ‘She did, but she will be—just like everyone else. It’s not her fault that things went pear-shaped.’
Pear-shaped? Callie lifted her eyebrows in surprise. Pretty tame word for being jilted. ‘So, what happened?’ she probed again. Yeah, she was nosy—but this man needed to talk … he needed a friend. Who wouldn’t, in his situation? She might be nosy but she could also be a damn good listener.
Finn shook his head. ‘I know that you use your eyes as weapons of interrogation, but I’m not going to go there with you.’
Fair enough, Callie thought. He had a right to his secrets. She just hoped that he had someone to talk to—to work this through with.
Finn rolled his head in an effort to release some of the tension in his shoulders. He tapped his index finger against his thigh. ‘I can tell you that my biggest hassle is that I landed a pretty sweet gig—writing articles about the best honeymoon destinations in Southern Africa. Liz and I were going to spend three weeks travelling … a few days at each destination. My publisher is not going to be happy that I’m doing it solo.’
Callie leaned forward and made a performance of batting her eyelashes. ‘Take me—I’ll be your substitute wife.’
Finn managed a small grin. ‘I’m violently allergic to the word “wife”—even a pretend one.’
‘Well, at least you’d be miserable in comfort.’
‘If I end up keeping the assignment—which I very well might not.’ Finn ran his hands over his short hair and blew out his breath. ‘So, tell me why you’re sitting here in the dark instead of causing chaos in the bar?’
Callie could clearly see that he’d closed the door on any further discussion about his non-wedding. She looked down into her drink and wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not in the mood to be …’
‘Hit on all night?’
‘That too. And someone walked in about fifteen minutes ago who I kind of said I might call. We made plans to have supper, then I had to fly to Milan on short notice—’
‘Fashion-buying emergency?’
Callie lifted her nose at him in response to his gentle sarcasm. ‘Something like that. And I lost his number, and I’m …’
‘Not that interested any more?’
She