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I laugh. “That’d be a joke. I tried therapy once in college, and it was kind of a bust.” The only secret I revealed is that I don’t like talking about myself.
“You’re an art history professor?”
“I don’t even like museums,” I whisper.
He’s scrutinizing me like my face will reveal what I am. I’m not a fan of being interrogated, but I want him to keep guessing wrong so he’ll have to keep looking at me. He shrugs and says he’s stumped. I’m reluctant to tell him. I’ve never felt ashamed of my job, but any pride I take from it has been more about keeping a local business afloat than loving my work. It’s what I do: I live in the same house where I grew up and have worked in the same establishment since high school.
“I’m an optician.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Then you don’t need my services?” For a second, I regret how flirty that sounds, but Dev says, “On the contrary. It’s been ages since I’ve had my eyes checked.”
I lean closer. “Your eyes lookverygood to me. And that’s a professional opinion.”
“What do I owe you for the diagnosis?”
“No charge.” I explain that I don’t do eye exams, just fit people with glasses. I imagine him in dark frames that would complement his thick brows, warm eyes, beautifully curved lips. “You’d look sexy in geeky glasses,” I say.
“Or geeky in sexy glasses.”
I’m not exactly spinning, but I’m feeling the effects of the Hanky Panky. My hands are on the bar, tantalizingly close to Dev’s forearms. Arms that have been deep in the dirt of his garden, making things grow. Rhubarb. What a funny word. I whisper it.Rhubarb.
Dev asks if I’m okay. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again.
“Please tell me you’re not drinking on an empty stomach,” he says. The familiarity of the remark reads more like genuine concern than bossiness.
“Does a sausage roll count?”
Dev goes to the end of the bar and comes back with a packet of cashews and a bright yellow bag of something called Scampi Fries.
“These seem like a weird match for fancy cocktails,” I say.
I push the bag away and tell him the nuts will do fine. He shakes his head and walks off to take someone’s order. I nibble cashews, watching him. The nuts awaken my appetite. I reconsider the Scampi Fries, which according to the bright yellow packet are “a cereal snack with a delicious scampi and lemon taste.” I open the bag and take some out. How about that, they look like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Worth a try. Bursts of buttery, lemony, bacony, fishy heaven. A few more. Why don’t we have these at home? I polish off the rest of them, tip my head back, and shake the bag to pour the crumbs into my mouth. When I right myself, I’m face-to-face with Dev. He looks at me like I’ve done something hilarious. I hiccup and put my hand to my mouth. Smiling, Dev turns away to get drinks for a couple who’s just settled at the bar. I figure I’d better leave before I get sloppy, but as I push off my stool, Dev is back. He takes the towel from his waistband, and for a second I think he’s going to undress. Clearly, it’s time for me to call it a night. He asks if he can walk me back to my cottage. I tell him that would be nice. He folds the towel and places it on the bar. He calls to a waiter and says he’ll be back in ten.
Outside, the air is cool and damp. The village is eerily quiet. The whiz of a car passing by. Footsteps in the distance. It reminds me of a stage set for a murder mystery, which I suppose it is. The stone houses are close to the street. Through lace curtains, I see the flickering glow of a television. A woman reaching for a light switch.The sidewalk is too narrow for both of us, so Dev walks beside me in the street. Without looking, I can sense him glancing at me.
“Do you often walk inebriated customers home?” I ask.
“No, I wouldn’t say that,” Dev says. “This is a first.” A few more paces. “Do you often get too sloshed to manage on your own?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.” I’d like to be able to say this is a first, but the year after my grandmother died was rough.
We turn off the main road and up the lane. Dev stops at the gate in front of Wisteria Cottage. I’m surprised that he knows where I’m staying, but then I remember he’s pals with Germaine. Dev opens the gate and waits for me to cross into the garden.
“I should get back,” he says.
“Right.” I turn around.
“Good night,” he says.
We don’t move. We each reach for the gate, and our hands touch. Does he think I did that on purpose? I grasp his hand and give it a firm, businesslike handshake.
“Thank you for the safe delivery,” I say.
He looks amused.
“Thank you for being a valued client,” he says.