She chuckled. “No way.”
“But . . . but he’s so cocky and flirty . . .” I trailed off, that uneasiness in my gut starting to make sense all of a sudden.
“Well, he’s spent his formative years surrounded by men incapable of restraint when it comes to flirting outrageously with their wives. Each one of them”—she gestured around the room—“is a cocky, arrogant, overconfident bugger.” She grinned. “But you won’t find men who are more loyal or loving to their wives.” Her expression turned serious. “We’ve all been through a lot. As has Cole. Like us, he knows what’s important. And he’s been deeply influenced by the men in his life. Cole’s never been a fan of casual. With the exception of Jessica and probably some alcohol-induced one-night stands, Cole has only ever been in relationships. He’s looking for the right woman to settle down with. He’s a romantic.” Her eyes glimmered with deep affection. “He’s also one of the best men I’ve ever, ever, ever met. I love him dearly, and . . . I only want the very best for him,” she concluded pointedly.
I felt awful as soon as she finished speaking. Absolutely, truly awful.
“I don’t respect players like you. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. There’s nothing behind that charming smile but empty promises. You have nothing real to offer me or anyone who finds herself a victim of your flirtation. The difference between them and me, however, is that I’m smart enough to see you for what you really are . . . Nothing.”
“Forget the hilariously random analogy that didn’t even make a lot of sense but totally did anyway. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Cole. Bad boy.”
“Right.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’ll let you figure this one out on your own, you bloody numb nut.”
I squeezed my eyes shut tight at the memories. “I am such a bitch.”
Feeling Hannah’s hand resting on my arm, I opened my eyes to find her staring at me with a surprising amount of kindness. “Somehow I don’t believe that’s true.”
And on that enigmatic comment she walked away, leaving me to drown my guilt in a large glass of red wine.
CHAPTER 8
O nce when I was ten I had helped my granddad throw out some old things because Gran was doing her yearly spring clean and somehow Granddad’s belongings always ended up taking the brunt of the clear-out.
My granddad had books everywhere. I remembered grabbing books that were piled randomly in the corner of the sitting room and asking him if they were to be thrown out. His response was an immediate and very adamant no. I made a face and asked him why since no one else had probably even heard of the books with their very boring covers. Granddad had tutted at me and told me that inside the books were the best stories he’d ever read, and that I shouldn’t judge them solely on their bad marketing.
I hadn’t really understood at the time, but I guessed he was quite literally telling me not to judge a book by its cover.
An old cliché.
A cliché it might have been but one lesson I should never have forgotten. After Hannah’s revelations about Cole’s true character, I left his party quickly. I barely slept that night¸ consumed with guilt for judging Cole on what happened to be bad marketing from my perspective. Amid the guilt was regret and something bigger. Something a little like panic.
*
The next day at work I didn’t know how I was supposed to act around Cole. It seemed it was back to business as usual for him, because he didn’t come out to greet me when I pushed open the front door of the studio.
Simon did, looking a little worse for wear as he took his coffee from me. “Thank fuck,” he muttered. “I started in on the whisky after five beers last night.” He took a sip of his coffee and frowned at me. “Where did you run off to?”
I shrugged, already uncomfortable. “Home. Headache.”
He gave me an incredulous look.
With a heavy sigh I told him the truth. “I think I may have made some not very nice assumptions about Cole.”
“Has this got anything to do with the cold war between you two?”
I nodded. “And now I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Why not start with just being nice to him?”
“Nice?”
“Nice.”
Not sure how to go about making that change after being such a bitch, I looked down at my coffee to avoid Simon’s gaze. I felt ashamed of my behavior these last few weeks. How the heck did I go about trying to make amends?
I contemplated my coffee. “What does Cole drink?”
Simon chuckled. “A cortado. One sugar.”
“The coffee shop is right around the corner,” I mused.
“It is.” Simon grinned. “I’ll man the desk for you.”