Breaking Leila by Lucy V. Morgan Page A

quiet
for a few steps. “I figured we could just have a good time, you
know. Talk. Assault the buffet.”
    “A buffet? You
spoil me, Matthew.”
    He elbowed me
playfully. “So will you come?”
    Ask him ask him ask him ask him ask him!   “Yes, okay. But I need you to
return the favour.”
    “If you think
of this as a favour, maybe you shouldn’t come after all.”
    “No, no…I
meant, this wedding thing I have to go to. I wondered if you’d like
to come with me.”
    He looked
surprised. “This weekend?”
    “Is it a
problem? Because if it is–”
    “No, no. I can
go. Who’s getting married?”
    I hummed
awkwardly. “People from my, er, other job.”
    “Oh.   Oh .” He started to laugh. “Is it
going to be like one of these big, pink porn star jobs?”
    “Nooo! William
was my boss. He’s very low key, actually. But there will be whores
everywhere.”
    “You say it
like it’s a bad thing.”
    “Man whores,
mostly,” I added. “They will be worse than the insolvency queens, I
warn you now.”
    “Will I need to
wear some sort of protective codpiece?”
    “Yes. With
sequins.”
    “I’m sold.”
    In the moments
we continued walking, it was almost as if we’d never ended up in
that hotel room. We were easy with one another, everything flowed,
and yet, I couldn’t help but notice the dimple flashing in his
right cheek, the way his almost-black hair spilled over his eyes,
how his trousers were cut over his thighs and buttocks. The primal
stirred beneath the placid facade.
    We paused at
the corner where we went our separate ways.
    “Where shall I
meet you tomorrow, then?” I asked.
    “I can come to
your flat, if you’d like.”
    Charlotte oozed quietly beneath my skin.   Not there , she said, as if the flat was as much her space as me. “I’ll
meet you here,” I said quickly. “Does that work? What
time?”
    “Is eight
okay?”
    “Yep. Do I need
to dress like I’m posh?”
    “Nah. It’s
pretty casual.”
    Fuck. I didn’t   own   anything casual! “Right.
Well.” Should I have hugged him, kissed his cheek, touched his arm?
I couldn’t bring myself to do any of those things. Our
reconciliation felt too smooth to believe. “I’ll see you tomorrow,
anyway.”
    “Yeah.” He
lingered in the same uncomfortable fashion. “So. Bye.”
    He pulled his
iPod out of a pocket and stuffed the headphones in as he walked
away.
    For somebody
who didn’t want to date anyone, I rippled with too many cool
shivers.
    Not that it was
a date, of course.
    * * * *
    “I’m sorry, you need to borrow   what ?”
    I grimaced over
the phone. “Clothes, Clemmie. Casual ones.”
    “You were
actually being serious about not owning jeans?” Clemmie snorted. “I
can’t really refuse now, can I? What’s the big hoo-ha?”
    “A date.” I
paused, sitting up on the sofa. “A date-type-thing.”
    “Ah yes, one of
those. What the heck is a date-type-thing?”
    “Well,” I began, “it’s one of those things you have when a
colleague asks you to join him somewhere, but you can’t
actually   date   because you’ll fuck up your work relationship.”
    “Oh gosh. It’s
Shares-Your-Desk, isn’t it?” she breathed, giddy and envious.
    “His   name   is Matt.”
    “So what will
you do all evening? Sudoku?”
    I cocked my
head. “Possibly.”
    “Ugh.” Bath
water splashed in the background. “Are you sure you didn’t
misinterpret when he said to keep it casual? Perhaps he was just
talking about sex?”
    I laughed. “He
meant the dress code. It’s a rugby fundraiser.”
    “Perhaps you
could just have sex with him anyway, and then tell me about
it?”
    Baha.   Well–
    “Clothes, Clem.
Can we concentrate on those?”
    “If you
insist.” I could practically hear her pouting. “Raising money for
rugby, or rugby teams raising money for charity? Because that will
have bearing on what you wear.”
    “Really?”
    “Anything to do
with charity ramps it way up in the style stakes. Rugby, on