Look Back at Me (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 1)

A Couple of Old Stories

She expected panic, defensiveness, and resistance. Let's face it, it would make sense for her deep-rooted anxiety and low self-esteem to trigger all of the above - except all she felt was some sort of a slightly patronising amusement. He thinks he's being so bloody clever, doesn't he? she thought and chuckled.

She poured herself coffee, well aware that he was sitting very still behind her, gauging her reaction, maybe even holding his breath - and then she slowly turned, took a sip of her coffee, and looked at him over her cup. She was right, his back was straight, and his eyes were fixed on her face.

"Alright," she said and sipped her coffee again.

"Alright?" he repeated, giving her a cautious look.

"If we date and I spend time in your cottage, I'll very much appreciate it if you cleaned up and reduced the amount of clutter, for when I visit," she said nonchalantly. "Don't bother with the kitchen, I'm not going to cook in it, that's for sure. But if you want my Turkish coffee in the morning, you could assign me a shelf: with beans, a cezve, a grinder, and cups."

His left eyebrow had been slowly travelling up while she spoke - and she couldn't keep the straight face anymore and snorted.

"Fair enough," he murmured, and the left corner of his lips curled up. "Just let my shoulder get better, and I'll get on with it."

"Ah yes, the shoulder," she said. "At least you know what to expect. Three days in a sling, and cold compresses, and then warm compresses and mild exercise."

He nodded and sipped his coffee.

"Could I have sugar, please?" he said. "It's on the counter behind you."

"Let me guess, it's in a jar that says 'flour,'" Viola teased.

"No, it's a box of packets," he laughed.

"If I were still your wife, I'd lecture and nag you right now about what a waste of money it was, and how much rubbish you're putting out into the world," she said and plopped the box in front of him.

"You can't lecture and nag me right now," he whinged in an almost convincing sullen voice. "I'm injured. And I can't open the sugar, actually," he added and pushed the box back towards her on the island.

"And I am not your wife," she pointed out and tore open three packets.

He emitted a noncommittal hum, and Viola gave him a sarcastic glance, which he, of course, deftly ignored.

"How did you injure your shoulder?" she suddenly asked. "The very first time, twelve years ago. I just realised that I don't know."

He looked up at her.

"We were still together then. It was on a construction site. What was it, that bridge in Abernathy, I think?" he drew out pensively.

"Yes, we were together, but I was away. And because you were being a prick at the time, you didn't tell me. And when I came back, it turned out you'd dislocated your shoulder, tore three muscles in it, and from then on would always suffer from shoulder instability," Viola answered in an acidic tone.

His eyes widened.

"Why was I being a prick?" he asked, sincerely confused.

"Because I was in Amsterdam at a conference at the time," Viola said. "Do you remember Amsterdam?"

His face dropped.

"I remember Amsterdam," he said quietly.

"Yes, so do I." Viola's voice grew even more venomous. "I was at a conference, and you thought I was having an affair."