Keep It In The Family

I have achieved the holy grail. After 17 years of being repeatedly late to meet, collect and otherwise be there for my daughter, I am finally early.

Just call me mother of the year.

It's a little after 7, and I'm not meeting Grace and Sam until 7.30, but, thanks to my wonderful Research Assistant, Ginger, I remembered to leave work on time, and am therefore sat at the bar in the very swanky although quite tragically plant based restaurant that Grace has selected for the evening.

Seriously. I miss steak.

No matter. It's a charming location, and the bartender knows how to mix an excellent Manhattan so I can't really complain. Also, the eye candy is to die for.

For the last five minutes, I've been trading what I would describe as serious 'glances' with a dark and brooding man child on the other side of the bar. I must have a good 20 years on him, but that doesn't seem to be an issue. In fact, if I'm honest, if his eyes were as literally and physically capable of undressing me as they were attempting to mentally, I'd currently be sat on my barstool stark naked.

It's quite a confidence boost actually. After the debacle with Jacob back in Holby it comes as quite a relief to know I've still got it.

As I trade yet another flirtatious grin with him, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror that backs the bar, and it gives me an opportunity to appraise what it is he might see in me; a woman old enough to be his mother. I'm actually pretty pleased with what I see. Life away from the NHS obviously suits me. I look happier and healthier than I have done in some years, and although I'd had my doubts about my hair when I'd first had it bleached, I've really warmed to it now, and based on this evening's reaction, apparently blondes really do have more fun.

Just as I am thinking as much, the bartender approaches me, and pushes a second Manhattan, one that I haven't ordered, across the bar. I look at him quizzically, more out of false modesty than genuine curiosity if I'm honest. I know exactly where it's come from.

He points to the other side of the bar, and I look over at my tall, handsome, generous stranger mouthing "Thank you" and getting a jaunty wink in return.

God, he's gorgeous.

In another life, another time, I'd have been over there like a shot. Connie Beauchamp of old wasn't the kind of simpering wallflower who sat around waiting for a man to make his move. If she wanted something, she took it. Several times a night if it suited her.

But that was then, and this is now, and this Connie Beauchamp is expecting her 17 year old daughter, and said daughter's father to arrive at any moment. Jumping straight on in there just isn't an option.

Although...

An idea occurs to me, and in the first instance I wonder whether I've actually got it in me to go through with it. Then I look at him again, and his smouldering eyes as good drill into me. He's long since moved on from undressing me. This is a full on air fuck.

Pushing images of being screwed on the marble bar from my mind, I reach for my clutch, opening it and rooting through the contents until I find a pen. Then I grab a napkin from a nearby holder, and scribble my number on the back, followed by, "Call me". Disgustingly cliche, but I have a sneaky suspicion that he won't care.

I get to my feet and approach him, sliding the napkin along the bar as I reach his side. It's not my intention to engage him in conversation. I've got precious little time before Sam and Grace arrive, and the last thing I need them witnessing is this little exchange, but before I can walk away, he grabs my wrist, instantly halting me in my tracks.

"You're not even going to introduce yourself."

It's not a casual enquiry. He's not inviting me to. Instead he's making perfectly clear what kind of woman he thinks I am. The kind of bitch on heat who would come on to a man at a bar without even bothering to tell him her name.

I'm not offended. He's absolutely right.

I smile at him, heat coursing through me from his hand wrapped tightly around my arm,

"I don't have time."

He looks at me quizzically, and ever aware of time ticking on, I keep my answer as to the point as I possibly can,

"I'm expecting my daughter and her father."

The words hang in the air, as he continues to just look at me, demanding further information with his eyes alone. I think on my feet, imparting maximum information in minimal time.

"She's younger than she looks. She looks 17 but she's actually 14." Yes, playing down my own age. Shameful but necessary. Next, Sam, "And he was little more than a sperm donor. No added complications there. So," I nod towards the napkin, "call me?"

He releases my wrist. It's stings as the blood starts to flow again, but it's not an unpleasant feeling. Far from it.

He picks up the napkin, looks at my number and then pockets it before turning his attention back to me. He leans in, and whispers in my ear,

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, you won't walk for a week."

His words have the desired effect, and I suspect if I wasn't leaning on the bar, I'd be in a crumpled heap on the floor. Not that I'm going to let him see he's ruffled me. That's not my style. I look at him, eyes raised,

"Promises promises." I turn to walk away but as I do, he suddenly, and without any kind of warning, slaps me on the arse.

I turn back, unable to hide my surprise. It wasn't an unwelcome gesture, but somewhat public in its nature. I look at him questioning, "Did you just...?"

He shrugs, challenging me with his eyes, "You don't strike me as the kind of woman who would have a problem with that. In the bedroom or anywhere else."

His implications are very clear, and I feel a shiver go down my spine. Not in a bad way, not by any stretch of the imagination. I love rough sex, and always have done, and it really has been a while. Things with Jacob were passionate, yes, but it wasn't like that. I was too much his princess for things to get very intense. The idea of having that type of encounter again, even as a one off, was far from an unattractive prospect.

I fixed him in my gaze, head on tilt, lips full, eyes seductive.

"I'll be awaiting your call."

And then, I do walk away. Take myself off to the ladies room, lock myself in a stall, and then, and only then, do I allow myself to breathe.

Arousal has taken over every part of me. I feel more alive than I have done in years.

Fucking hell. He better bloody call.

Still, at that moment, him calling, or not, is not my primary issue. I glance at my watch. It's just before half past, and Sam and Grace will be arriving any second. I need to get my mind and body under control and get back out there.

I leave the stall, splash cold water on my face; thank god MAC is waterproof, and with a deep breath head back into the restaurant. As I approach the bar area, I can't help but allow myself a brief glance at the spot where my mystery man had been stood, but to my disappointment he's no longer there.

Seconds later, I discover why.

My gaze falls on Grace, and Sam, who have arrived in my absence, and as I reach them I see him. There, next to Sam, chatting away like he totally belongs in the picture, which he really, really doesn't.

And what can I do? They're expecting me. I can't run in the opposite direction, so I steel myself, put my big girl pants on and join them.

"Hey..."

"Hey." Sam breaks off his conversation, and looks at me, "I didn't realise you were here already."

"And I didn't realise we were having additional company." I look at the fourth member of our party questioningly, noticing as I do so that he has an absolutely poker face on and doesn't look anywhere near as flustered as I feel. "Friend from work?"

At my side, my daughter starts to laugh, "God, no mum." She wraps her arm around my admirers waist, "This is Kieron." My brain takes a moment to catch up, and as it does I feel the colour drain from face, as she speaks again and confirms my fears, "He's my brother."

Shit. As nightmare scenarios go this is absolutely off the charts.

How the Hell do I get myself out of this one?