If You Don't Know Me By Now. A. Michael L.

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       Chapter Eight

      They met in the Hope and Anchor the next day. Imogen tried to pretend she hadn’t made an extra bit of effort. A subtle flick of eyeliner, a top that wasn’t four sizes too big. A pair of jeans that maybe hugged a little bit more than usual. She still had her huge ugly cardigan on, though, the one that looked like a wool factory had exploded. Just so she still felt like herself. Her stomach was in her throat, and she hadn’t managed to eat since they made plans yesterday. Part of her hoped this didn’t carry on into multiple dates – she’d end up waif-like. She thumbed the edge of her fluffy sleeve, looking at her laptop, her pint of cider sitting untouched beside her.

      Every time she heard a floorboard squeak, she looked up. Keith walked past, ruffling his grey hair as he went to rewrite the specials on the board. ‘You’re making me nervous. What you waiting for, the firing squad?’

      ‘Worse,’ she grumbled to herself, demanding that she get a grip. It was a date. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been on a date before. Except that, well, yeah, she sort of hadn’t. She hadn’t dated anyone back home. Partly because she lived at home, and she was too busy with uni and work, and it just seemed very time-consuming, dating someone. Mostly, it was because she didn’t find anyone who interested her. She’d spent years studying stories, and learning about fairy tales. Sure, she knew that life wasn’t a fairy tale, that men weren’t knights in shining armour, and she was quite capable of saving herself, thank you very much. But reading all those epic stories, dying for love, holding love up on this high pedestal – it made modern-day love seem a little … boring. Seemed like all the love stories back home had started with being felt up round the back of the wheelie bins, getting drunk, getting pregnant, and getting stuck with each other. Or just going to the cinema a lot, and creating drama when things got boring. Imogen was happier with the stories in her head.

      She was just contemplating exactly how depressing this was on a scale of one to ten when a voice behind her made her jump.

      ‘Hey!’

      She took a deep breath to steady herself.

      ‘You scared the crap out of me,’ she breathed, trying to smile as she looked up at him, standing just behind her. ‘Hi.’

      ‘Hi.’ Dec smiled, and somehow she sensed he’d made an effort, too. His reddish-brown stubble was slightly more styled than usual, and he had on a grey, thin-knit top that strained across his biceps when he moved. He gestured at her. ‘Do you wanna slide down so I can sit next to you?’

      She blinked at him.

      ‘So I can see the screen and we can do all the stuff we need to do?’ he said slowly, waiting for the penny to drop.

      Imogen shook her head. ‘Yeah, sorry. Thought you’d want to grab a drink first.’

      Now he looked embarrassed. ‘Yeah, of course. Sorry. That makes more sense. I’ll … go do that.’ He bounded off to the bar, where Keith grinned pointedly at her, moving his eyes between them. Imogen briefly closed her eyes and took a second to breathe. Calm the hell down, for God’s sake, she told herself, he’s just working on your computer.

      In her head, Demi’s voice conjured a fair few dirty responses, and that made her feel better. She slid her bag and stuff down the bench to make room for him. Declan reappeared with a pint of coke.

      ‘Thought an Irishman would be all about the booze. Especially if you worked a morning shift,’ she grinned as he sat down.

      ‘Actually, I don’t drink.’

      Imogen tried not to feel like she was staring. She didn’t know anyone who didn’t drink. Maybe just that with her family it was a pastime, an excuse to spend more time with people, much like food. An excuse for celebration. She wanted to ask why, but it seemed inappropriate.

      ‘I get that look a lot. The Irishman who doesn’t drink. Should be a short story,’ Dec laughed, sipping at his coke.

      ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I was surprised,’ Imogen blushed.

      ‘Societal norms? Stereotypes? The fact that drinking is a lot of fun and being sober sucks quite often?’ He laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it. You should hear the bollocking I get at family occasions.’

      Imogen looked at her own pint hesitantly, and he noticed. ‘You can drink yours, you know!’

      ‘Keith actually gave it to me out of habit and I was too embarrassed to turn it down. It’s nice to have a local, but you’re not allowed to change at all.’

      ‘Well, we know that feeling more than most. We connect through routine,’ he shrugged, turning his attention to her laptop screen. ‘So this is the hosting service you’re using?’

      She pursed her lips and raised her shoulders slowly, before simply pushing the laptop towards him. He wasn’t sitting particularly close, but the warmth from his shoulder brushing against hers was making her shiver a little, and the scent of his cologne, manly and slightly spicy, was setting her aflutter. She felt like she was constantly waiting for something. It only seemed to cease when they were talking.

      Declan focused on the laptop, frowning at the settings and making adjustments, mumbling to himself, and Imogen took the chance just to look at him. To notice how his nose slanted, slightly crooked, and his bottom lip rounded perfectly. How there was one patch on his cheek where hair didn’t seem to grow, and a pucker on his earlobe from where he’d once had an earring. His eyelashes were luscious, curving prettily, and she saw a thin silver chain around his neck, the pendant dipping down under his shirt. There was something rugged and strong about him, like he could throw her over his shoulder and carry her away. Like he could protect her. She hadn’t been joking when she’d guessed he was a UFC fighter. He looked solid, powerful, but light on his feet. Maybe it was just that he carried himself well.

      He was also, as it turned out, a geek. Or at least that’s what she was assuming from the technical jargon he was spouting about her computer.

      ‘I have no idea what you just said,’ she laughed, taking a tentative sip of her cider.

      His eyes flicked to hers, lips quirking. ‘Don’t worry about it. But you should look at this.’

      He swivelled the laptop back to face her, then leant over her shoulder to point at the graph. ‘You’ve been running this blog for what, two weeks?’

      Imogen nodded. ‘About that. I’ve been writing something almost every day, depending on how exhausted or rage-fuelled I am.’

      ‘Look at that number,’ he pointed. ‘That’s how many people have read your work in two weeks.’

      Imogen blinked. ‘Wwenty-seven thousand? That can’t be right.’

      ‘Okay, well they may not have read it, but they definitely stopped to look.’ His eyes lit up. ‘Why aren’t you more excited? You have a readership! You’re a writer in London. You’ve done what you set out to do! Drink up!’

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