Page 25 of Romantic Hero
River looks mock wounded, a half-smile crossing his surly face. ‘I thought folk were supposed to be well-mannered in England. You’re awful snippy.’
‘Wearewell-mannered,’ I protest. ‘I pride myself on my impeccable politeness. I am actually not a snippy person at all – in fact I’ve only ever had one single argument in my entire life, so … I guess the problem is you. You are … you are …’
River stops in the middle of the street. I notice, as hedoes, that every single woman, and a fair few men, stare up at him with heart eyes. ‘What am I, Gertie?’ he asks, taking a step closer and peering down at me.
‘Unexpected,’ I say eventually.
‘Ah yes.’ River starts walking again, commanding the pavement, his sheer size and presence meaning that everyone scatters out of his way. ‘Not the evil 2D villain you thought I was, huh? A living, breathing man with complex emotions and opinions and a lived history that is more than just a vague backstory to augment Cassidy Oakley’s narrative, yes? Not so fictional after all? I see …’
I huff because he is right. And it’s completely confusing. This man refers to things I know nothing about, which doesn’t make sense because if he’s just a character I made up then surely I would know everything he knows? He’s clearly a lot more multifaceted, a lot more …realthan anything I could ever hope to write on a page. And while he’s very obviously an overconfident, obnoxious asshole, my gut instinct tells me he’s not evil. The River Oakley of my Bedlam Creek novelsisevil. He makes Cassidy’s life a misery. None of this makes sense.
‘Aha.’ River points into the window of a boutique where a sexy mannequin sports a teensy strapless dress made entirely of silver sequins. ‘How about something like that?’ he muses. ‘For Jim’s main campfire party on Sunday?’
‘Ha! I don’t think so. My vibe is more demure than that. Henry’s vibe is definitely more demure than that.’
‘A dress like this is eye-catching, Gertie. It can’t be ignored. A dress like this will make you the centre of attention.’
I shudder at the very thought. ‘Centre of attention? No, thanks. That sounds like a nightmare.’
‘Oh, but being the centre of attention is great fun,’ River smirks, winking at a married couple who saunter by, the pair of them blatantly lusting after him. ‘Howdy,’ he drawls, hammily tipping his hat at them.
I roll my eyes.
His confidence reminds me a lot of Josie – a sparkly sort of energy that isn’t exactly warm or welcoming but somehow manages to cast a spell over everyone who comes into its orbit. And no matter how annoying it is, I can’t help but be fascinated by it. It’s the same feeling I got when I saw a Monet painting in real life for the first time. Like,how?How does that happen? How did that get made?
‘So you like to blend into the background, huh?’ River asks. ‘And how’s that working out for you?’
‘Not all of us want to be main characters,’ I explain, glancing across at him while he grins wolfishly at a modelesque-looking woman on the other side of the street. ‘Some of us are happy sidekicks. I’m a sidekick and it suits me down to the ground. Anyway, I still don’t see what’s wrong with taking my own clothes to Little Crumpet.’
River glances pointedly at my nice comfortable baggy black trousers and cream lace blouse. I squirm under his gaze, an annoying flashback of our stormy cheek kiss popping up unbidden in my mind. I fling it away and try to focus instead on how it feels when Henry kisses me.Like sinking into a warm bath on a chilly day.
‘Men are magpies and this dress will get Henry’sattention,’ River continues, opening the door to the boutique and gesturing for me to go in ahead of him. ‘Come on. Let’s go try it on. It’ll be perfect, I know it.’
‘You don’t know, though,’ I tut, halting. ‘You don’t actually know Henry. Or me for that matter. Our relationship is much deeper than me showing up in some glittery dress and winning him over because my thigh flesh is on display. Henry is a more cerebral man than that. You saw the videos I showed you. He’s smart and funny, a … athinker.’
River nods. ‘You’re right. I’m diminishing poor Henry, tarring him with the same brush as every single other man I have ever met in my thirty years of life. How about after we go into this store and try on this dress, we go grab a bite to eat and you can tell me all about your thinking-man’s windbag. Give me the full oral history.’
‘Are you manipulating me right now?’
‘That depends. Is it working?’
I can’t deny that the thought of getting to talk about Henry in depth to someone, anyone, even this guy, is appealing for a person who has been keeping it all in for the sake of not burdening or boring anyone with my drama. And heisoffering …
‘Fine,’ I say breezily, pushing past him into the boutique. ‘I’ll try the dress on. But there’s no way in hell I’m buying it.’
*
By the time we reach the Merryweather Arms a couple of hours later, River and I are swamped with glossy shopping bags containing not only the silver sequin dress, but apair of tight blue Wranglers, a short button-down floral dress in cream and pink, plus a long-sleeved fitted black T-shirt with a deep square neckline that River described as ‘stealth hot’.
‘Operation True Love better work,’ I grumble as we reach the bustling bar. ‘I’mreallygoing to need to finish this book to pay off the massive incoming credit card bill.’
River examines our surroundings, nodding, impressed. I follow his gaze, seeing the place through his eyes – plum shabby velvet armchairs, rickety dark-wood tables, flock wallpaper in a smoke-tarnished maroon, old men nursing pints of bitter at the bar. ‘So this is a real-life, authentic English pub. It’s a lot like a saloon. I like it. Reminds me of home.’
‘Ooh, they do Sunday roast!’ I say excitedly, catching sight of the menu on the bar. ‘Sunday roast is the best meal on planet earth and very British. You have to try it.’
‘But it’s a Thursday.’
‘It’s a carvery. It’s on every day!’
