He nods, his eyes on mine the entire time I speak. I’m shaking inside and I’m not sure why. If my marriage wasn’t falling apart, this would just be me having a polite conversation with a friend of a friend. One I’d quite possibly go home and tell my husband about, ‘oh, I got chatting to Gabe Wild in the pub tonight. Do you know him? His family has a construction company too.’ But that’s not how my life is anymore. I no longer have those kinds of conversations with my husband, and my brain is going off on tangents, and I’m totally overthinking all of this.
“Have you got a card? We’re about to start work on a brand new shopping and apartment building at the end of Main Street, we’ll be looking for someone to set up the show apartments when they’re ready to sell, and we’re always looking for someone to dress the show homes in our other developments, either to sell or for photos.”
My heart rate picks up further at the prospect of maybe finding some work, at the same time the reality of my situation is hitting me. I need to get a job and find somewhere to live because I’m leaving my husband. Life as I know it is over. My legs feel like they’re full of jelly and barely holding me up, my arms like lead weights.
What the fuck am I doing here? What am I doing? I’m forty-four years old. I can’t leave Jay. I’m too old to start over. Where will I go, what will I do?
He’s watching me, waiting on a response and I know I need to say something.
“I. No, I don’t have a card on me, but I can get one to Jo to give to you. I’d definitely be interested in the work. My website has images and testimonials from previous clients.”
“Hey, Gabe,” a brunette says as she passes us by.
“Hey,’ he responds, all the while not taking his eyes from me. His gaze’s intensity is adding to my nerves and obviously preventing my brain from engaging with my mouth.
“That’s quite the little fan club you’ve got going on. What do you call them? Gabriella’s? No, no. I know, Gabettes?”
He rubs his palm over his stubble, lifts one dark eyebrow and smiles.
“Have you been talking to my brothers? You sound like one of them with the shit you’ve been giving me.”
I open my mouth to speak, a little unsure if I’ve offended him with my comment when he laughs and shakes his head.
“Fuck me. You don’t hold back, do you? Gabettes? That one’s actually pretty funny.”
“Thanks.” I shrug and return his smile.
“That accent must let you get away with murder.”
“I don’t have an accent. This is how most new Australians sounded when they arrived on the First Fleet.”
“Yeah, I s’pose you’re right. My dad’s English, from Kent.”
“That’s just across the Thames from where I’m from, a place called Essex.”
He nods. Eyebrows raised, he tilts his head towards me.
“I’ve seen the show, that’s where they get vajazzled and say, ‘shut up, and hundred percent babe’, all the time, right?”
His impersonation of the Essex accent leaves a lot to be desired, but I’m impressed that he’s seen the show.
“That’s. . . that accent is nearly as bad as your chat-up line, but you’ve redeemed yourself by saying the word vajazzled and your knowledge of the spoken word from my old home county.”
“I have a daughter who’s about to turn thirteen. I’d probably shock the shit out of you with a lot of stuff a thirty-five-year-old single bloke shouldn’t know.”
Thirty-five? This is why I shouldn’t be here. This is why I need to go home.
“How long have you lived in Australia?” He fills the moment’s silence almost instantly, not really giving me a chance to overthink the fact he’s years younger than me.
“Since I was thirteen.”
“Really? Your accent. . . non-accent. . . is still so strong. My dad didn’t move here till he was eighteen, and he sounds a lot less English than you.”
“What about your mum?”
“Born here, but to Italian parents.”
That explains the dark hair and skin, and now I’m aware of the fact, everything about him screams Italian. Tall. Dark. Chiselled cheekbones. Straight nose. Those eyes though, not what I’d assume to be typically Italian.
He’s watching me watching him and somehow reads my thoughts.
“Blue eyes from my dad, hair and skin from my mum.”
“It’s a great combination. . .” And yep, I said that out loud.
“Glad you like it.” He leans in and says against my ear, “Would you like another drink?”
My senses are invaded by the clean, citrusy smell of his aftershave combined with the unique musky smell that is all him.
He moves his head back, but he’s still all up in my space as he looks down at me. We stare. It’s a moment. If I press up on my toes, I could kiss him, but I don’t. I won’t.
“What is it exactly you think is happening here?” I ask, gesturing between us with a wave of my hand.
“I have no fucking idea. What would you like to happen here?” He mimics my gesture.
Making a split-second decision that I’m far too old and my life complicated enough for any more bull
shit, I go with total honesty.
“I’m right in the middle of what is likely to be a very messy separation from my husband.”
A flicker of something passes across his eyes, but it’s there and gone so quickly, I don’t have any idea what it means.
“I haven’t even moved out of our home yet, that’s not happening till tomorrow, but even then, even once I move out, it’s likely to be a very long time before I’m ready for anything. . . any kind of relationship with anyone else.”
His thick brows are pulled down tight over those amazing blue eyes of his. He licks his lips and swallows but remains silent.
“I’m nine years older than you, my life is a shit show that is about to implode before it explodes, and as much as I would love to leave here right now with you and spend the rest of the night in your bed, it’s not gonna happen. I just want you to be aware of all of that before you waste your time with me and miss out on the chance of taking one of your Gabettes home.”
Scratching at his stubbled jaw, he looks around the bar before letting out a long, slow breath through his nose.
“Firstly, I don’t take women back to my bed, not ever. That’s my daughter’s home, and I keep those two parts of my life very separate. Secondly, all I asked was if you’d like a drink. I have no expectations and no hidden agenda. Of course I’d like to take you home and fuck you senseless all night, but if that’s not an option, I’m equally as happy to stand here and talk. I give zero fucks about your age, it’s just a number and has fuck all to do with this.” He makes another gesture, this time with his pointer finger, between us. “This—connection, or whatever the fuck it is.”
I watch as he rubs between his pecs with his knuckles, something I’ve seen him do a few times while we’ve been talking.
“Connection? We met an hour ago, that makes no sense.”
“Nothing about tonight is making sense. I didn’t come out tonight expecting this, expecting you. I don’t usually stand in a bar making small talk with a woman. If it’s obvious they’re interested, we leave. We go back to theirs, and we fuck. When we’re done, I leave, and that’s the end of our connection. I don’t ever catch sight of a flash of red hair, and a smile from across a bar and have an overwhelming urge to get to know who all of that belongs to. That’s not me, that’s not who I am.”