Page 100 of Pretty Mess

“Good?” he says huskily, and when I look up, his eyes are on my mouth. I lick my lips, and he shudders before visibly calming himself. “Why accountancy?”

“Goodness, you appear to have hijacked my question session.”

“Let’s call a spade a spade. It was an interrogation.”

I laugh and then sober. “Numbers make sense. That probably sounds silly, but in a world that sometimes feels like it’s running mad, numbers have strict rules and never deviate.” I smile crookedly at him. “You didn’t expect that, did you?”

“Wes, you constantly surprise me. This was just another example.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know,” he says, staring at me.

“Anyway, I was helping my mum balance the household budget by the time I was ten. It was a natural profession for me.”

He signals the waiter for another bottle of wine. We resume eating and I look at him. “Okay, next question. When did you know you were gay?”

He considers that. “I think I always knew, but it was confirmed in my teens when I realised that what made my breath come short and me hard was other men and not girls.”

“Did your godfather mind?”

He hesitates. “No, he wasn’t bothered,” he finally says almost awkwardly.

“My mum didn’t,” I say quickly. “I was very lucky. My mum loved us fiercely, and that made no difference to her. It’s probably just as well, because I didn’t know my dad, and from what she said of him, I probably dodged a bullet.”

“You didn’t know your father?”

I sit back, smiling my thanks to the waiter as he removes our plates. “No, he ran off when I was born. He was in a band and thought we’d cramp his style. My mum sure could pick them. My brother Tyler’s dad was married. Another one who didn’t want her.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is quiet.

I shake my head and smile determinedly at him.

“It doesn’t matter. Really. The three of us were strong together.”

“Were?”

“My mum died when I was twelve.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Me too. I think you’d have liked her. She was funny and kind and a bit scatty. She drew people to her wherever she went.”

“Like you.”

“Really?” I consider that and then reluctantly shake my head. “Nah, she was a much nicer person.”

“I very much doubt that.”

“Was that sarcasm?”

That startles a laugh out of him. “No, of course not.”

“I think you’re one of those people who can’t say anything nice without sounding deeply sarcastic.” He laughs again and pours more wine. “They’re going to have to roll us out of here at the end of the night,” I observe.

“So? Do you have anywhere you need to be?”

“No,” I say quietly. “Nowhere and no one else.”