The Lie(45)

She steps one foot in before Winter is bounding toward her like a fluffy white steam train.

“Winter, sit!” I command, pointing at him to get his arse on the ground.

But Winter doesn’t care. He runs right to Natasha and starts to jump on her.

“Winter!” I yell, grabbing his collar, but Natasha is giggling and sinking to a crouch so she can muss with him on his level.

“I’m so sorry, he’s such a special case,” I try and explain, shutting the door behind her.

“He’s lovely,” she says as he licks her all over her face.

Lucky f*cking dog.

I grab his collar again and pull him back. “I’ve had him for a year almost and he’s pretty much still a puppy. I’m sure he’ll outgrow that but I’m not sure if he’ll outgrow being a jerk.”

She’s smiling as she stands back up, wiping her face with her sleeve. “He’s beautiful. Where did you get him again?”

“Found him on Christmas Eve. Poor little bastard was left alone by someone in a barn, don’t know who. There was a snowstorm and I took him to my grandfather’s place. That obviously didn’t last one night. He’s been with me ever since.”

I let go of Winter and he immediately sticks his nose in her crotch.

I smirk at her. “Well, at least he knows where to go.”

“Hey,” she says, mouth agape as she swats me across the arm. “And ow, what’s with your bicep?”

“Nothing at all,” I tell her, flexing automatically. “Shall I give you the tour?”

My flat is pretty nice. It’s not as big as my brother’s out in Edinburgh—that’s what smart investments and rugby money gets you—but it’s still fairly large for this part of London. I actually lucked out, considering it’s a rental. And though it’s a bit more than what I’m used to spending, the place is starting to feel like home and that says a lot. The last couple of years I’ve just been adrift.

I take her around, pointing out the maple floors and the white-washed walls and cornices, realizing that aside from a few random women I’ve brought in here on drunken nights, I haven’t shown anyone my apartment. Not Lachlan, not my parents. It’s not that they haven’t hinted that they’d like to stop by, it’s just that I’ve never offered. It’s like I’m scared to let them see this new life and my utter lack of confidence in it.

But now, with Natasha slowly walking in front of me, her boots echoing on the wood floors, I realize I’m not afraid. I want to share this with her, I crave her opinion, and I need her to be part of it all in some way.

“This is beautiful, Brigs,” she says in soft awe as we come back to the drawing room.

Unfortunately, I can’t beam proudly at her for too long because Winter comes trotting out of my bedroom with one of my shoes in his mouth.

“Oh, bloody hell,” I swear, reaching for him, but he bounds out of the way, tail wagging, and leaps onto the couch. When I give it another go, he at least drops the shoe and makes a break back to the bedroom. “I swear, sometimes I think the reason he was abandoned was because some gypsy put some shoe-eating curse on him.”

“Now that sounds like it could be quite the indie film.”

“It sounds like something Shia LaBeouf would produce.” I glance at my watch, wishing we had more time here. Truthfully I want to spend the night talking to her, looking at her, not sitting in silence in a cinema—especially while having to suffer through Tarantino’s ego for three hours. “I suppose we should get going.”

She grins mischievously, which only cements the fact that I wish we could just stay in. The spark in her eyes is making my blood run hot. “I love the look on your face right now,” she says.

“What look?”

She steps forward and taps her finger against my chin. “This one. The one that says you’re prepared to be tortured for the rest of the night.”

The movie won’t be the only thing torturing me, I think, so very tempted to take her finger into my mouth and playfully bite it. Even the slight touch of her fingertip to my skin feels hot and deadly.

I grab my leather jacket and give Winter a warning look before I usher him out of my bedroom and close the door. Then Natasha and I head out of the flat and into the night.

We walk side by side down Baker Street a few blocks to the Everyman Cinema, and with a little bit of time to kill, we order a drink at their bar while waiting for the film to start.

“What are you smiling at?” she asks, eyeing me over her drink.

“Am I smiling?” I ask, and I’m surprised to find that I am. We were just talking about how terrible the UK Netflix is. It’s pretty ridiculous that something so benign could have me so enthralled, bent on her every word and apparently smiling like an idiot.

I straighten up, reminding myself to stop acting like such a wanker. What was it that Melissa had called me? Lovesick? I didn’t quite agree with that at the time, and the memory of this afternoon puts a bitter taste in my mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, putting her hand on mine. “I didn’t mean to point it out like that. Please keep smiling. It makes me happy.”

The mention of her happiness eases the tension.

I put Melissa on the back burner.

We finish up our drinks and head to the concession stand, getting in line.