“I always look at the floor,” I say. “It’s such a bad habit, I know, but I can’t seem to stop.”
In fact, I’m tempted to look at the floor right now, but I’m forcing myself not to; otherwise, Jay might catch on to my crush. Perish the thought.
“Whenever you catch yourself doing it, just stop. After a while it’ll become second nature not to.”
At this the waiter returns to our table, asking if we’d like another round of drinks. Jay tells him to give us the same again, and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Hopefully, by the time I get back, Michelle might have returned to the table. It’s strangely intimate sitting alone with Jay, and my antsy disposition urges me to bolt when I’m in situations like that.
There’s a knock on the stall door when I’m doing my business, Michelle calling, “So how’s your night going?”
“It’s going fine, no thanks to you. I can’t believe you told Jay about the seminar. Now I have to bring him with me. He won’t take no for an answer.”
“Oh, he won’t, will he? Well, I think you two will have a great time.”
“We’ll see. It’s going to be a function room filled with two hundred sex-deprived women, and I’m bringing Jay Fields with me. That’s like dangling a bloody steak in front of a bunch of hungry dogs.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. You’re doing those women a favour, allowing them to stare upon such a prime example of maleness.” Michelle laughs, her voice merry. I wonder how many drinks she managed to knock back while she was at the bar.
“Speaking of which, what’s with your sudden lack of interest?” I ask curiously as I flush and leave the stall, going to the sink to wash my hands.
Michelle shrugs and gives me a weird look. “He’s not interested in me. I can tell. And you know I only want men who are willing to worship at my feet.”
“That’s true. So, I guess you’ll be off with Mr Fox from the bar for the rest of the night.”
“For now. If someone else tickles my fancy, I might do a switch.”
We exit the bathroom, and Michelle returns to the bar. As I make my way toward Jay, I notice he’s no longer alone at the table. There’s a redhead sitting beside him, flicking her silky hair over one shoulder. I glance from side to side, weighing my options. Do I go back to the table and suffer being the third wheel, or do I find something else to occupy my time?
The only other way I could occupy myself would be to go chat someone up, but I don’t have the pep for that right now. So I continue my way to the table. When I reach it, I slide in on the other side where Michelle had been sitting and pick up the new glass of wine the waiter left for me.
I give the redhead a small smile and then take a sip. Most girls tend to like me. I suppose that’s because they find me non-threatening. This woman, though, looks at me like she just sniffed something bad. Hmm, must be the dress I’m wearing; it does show a healthy dose of cleavage. A little zing of excitement goes through me. It seems I quite like being a threat.
“Hey, you’re back,” says Jay. “This is Matilda,” he says to the redhead. “We’re housemates. Matilda, this is Charlene. She’s a flight attendant, has a white Persian cat, likes going to the gym, and just recently became a redhead.”
Is that a note of sarcasm I hear in his voice?
I do my best to contain a snicker. “Were you lurking on her Facebook profile or something?” I ask dryly.
“Shush, you’re revealing all my secrets,” he says with a wink.
“He managed to guess all that just by looking at me,” Charlene explains. “Isn’t it amazing?”
“Definitely.” I turn my attention to Jay. “So, tell us how you knew.”
Jay leans back to peruse Charlene before pointing out the evidence. “White cat hair on the dress, but longer than typical domestic cat hair. Persian was the most obvious choice. Musculature on the arms suggests she works out. However, the slight acne around the chin beneath the makeup says it’s only a casual health kick. So, not an athlete who’d be on a very clean diet, which would lead to clear skin. It’s not hormonal acne, because that usually carries on from the teenage years and therefore there’d be scarring, which there isn’t. Also, the whiff of cigarette smoke. Most athletes don’t smoke. So, a gym membership it is. The bags under the eyes show a lack of sleep, indicating either insomnia or a demanding job. Plus, I got a look at her flight attendant badge sticking slightly out of her bag.” He smirks. “And lastly, I know the hair is a recent dye job because of the slight stains on the scalp.”