She shrugs. “I get it. I probably wouldn’t want to look at his photos either. They’re all thirst traps and . . . food pics.”
Damn it, she really wants me to bite. I don’t, but it’s like she can see the battle raging inside me. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
“He has a dog too. Or his parents have a dog or something. It’s super cute.” She takes her phone out of her back pocket and starts typing in the passcode. “I think it’s called Brian.”
“Put your phone away,” I say, pushing the device towards Daisy. “I don’t want to look at his photos.” It’s a downright lie, and she knows this, but she doesn’t fight it any more. “So what are your plans today?”
Technically, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays are Daisy’s nights off from working the bar. Not that she ever lets it deter her from hanging around here, usually with her best friend whilst they chat to the locals and scran on all my stock pork scratchings.
“Ooh,” she says, as though she’s only just remembering. “Lando’s cousin is doing art at uni and she’s got some kind of preview thing at a gallery in Bath, so we were thinking about going to that. And then afterwards . . . do you remember my friend Henry Wilkinson?”
I shake my head. Not because I don’t remember Henry Wilkinson, but because I do, and I definitely do not want Daisy anywhere near that guy. “As if I could forget the kid who crashed his motocross bike into the postbox right outside my cottage.”
“It wasn’t like he did it on purpose, and he was wearing a helmet.” She rolls her eyes as though I’m too old to understand. “Anyway, Henry’s older sister Sarasi is having a house party, so we’re gonna go to that. She lives in Bear Flat.”
“Who’s driving?” I ask, because Sarasi is at least somewhat more responsible than her shit-for-brains brother, but I need to know Daisy’s getting there and back safely.
“I’m driving to Mum’s and she’s going to pick us up.”
Good old Kirsty. Can always rely on her.
“Also,” Daisy says with that scheming smirk reappearing. “Lando’s pretty sure he’s found Mathias’s Grindr profile, but he hasn’t included his face in any of the pictures so there is a small element of doubt.”
I snort so hard I’m in danger of pulling a neck muscle and have to take a seat on a bar stool. I hold my hand up, letting Daisy know I need a moment and under no circumstances is she allowed to interrupt.
Finally, when I pull all my questions together, I select the most pressing one. “How do you know it’s Mathias’s profile?”
I want to ask,“What does it say about him? So he’s single? What pictures has he included? Can I see them?”I also want to punch the air in victory. Definite, categorical proof Mathias is into men. Not that it means anything, or that I’d in any way act upon it.
“Because . . .” Daisy pulls out her phone again and hands it to me. The screen shows a profile from the gay dating app, and there’s a photograph of a shirtless man, his head cropped out of the frame, intentionally hiding his identity. The text under his picture reads:Matt.
I push the phone across the bar towards Daisy. “I’m not looking at this. It feels wrong.” Voyeuristic. “And why does an eighteen-year-old gay woman have a men’s dating app on her phone?”
“It’s a screenshot, from Lando’s Grindr, and there’s nothing wrong with looking at it. It’s only the information he put on there himself. Anyone can go online and see what he’s written. It’s not illegal to look at someone’s Grindr.”
“Jesus, please make sure Orlando doesn’t . . . swipe right on Mathias . . . if that even is Mathias.”
Daisy laughs. “Dad, oh my god. That’s not how it works. You’re thinking of Tinder. I think you just find guys close to you and send them a message if you want to f—”
“I don’t care how it works,” I cut in, because I do not need my feral offspring finishing that sentence. “I don’t want Lando hitting on my . . . new neighbour.” Damn, why did I stumble on those words? “Mathias is too old for Lando, and he’s got more important things to focus on than running around after that little dork.” For example, trying to integrate into a new team that’s largely made up of people who probably despise him.
“Why? Jealous?” she teases, and then immediately tries to reel her words back in. “He won’t hit on him. Mathias is not Lan’s type anyway.”
“Fine, let me see, then.” I huff out a sigh as though Daisy’s twisting my arm to look at the phone. She slaps it into my hand.
What can I say? I got curious, and that sliver of dark skin and row of immaculate abdominal muscles is burned into my retinas. And wow, that photo of him . . .
Now, there’s no definitive way to tell if it is Mathias, but his build is the same as the fly-half’s, and his skin tone is the same. He’s hairless, like he’s shaved his chest, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that, but I guess how I feel about Mathias’s chest is of little consequence to anything. He has a cute outtie belly button, and I can see the waistband of his boxers. It says Emporio Armani along the elastic, with a picture of—I think—an eagle. There are four other photos. None of them feature his face, but one is taken from behind. The man is standing on a beach, looking at a sunset. He’s silhouetted, but that cheek bone . . . That cheek bone could easily belong to Mathias Jones.
And now I realise I’ve been staring at the pictures for too long and Daisy’s watching me. I let my eyes flick down to his bio and read the words out loud so she knows for certain I’m not still perving on Mathias’s naked torso.
“I have a nice face, I just can’t show it. Professional athlete. Not looking for anything serious. You will need to sign an NDA.”
“Non-disclosure agreement,” Daisy clarifies, as though I don’t know what it means. “I.e., he’s famous; i.e., it’s Mathias Jones.”
“It still might not be him,” I say.
“Well, at Lando’s yesterday the app said ‘Matt’ was one point two kilometres away.” She gives me a look like she’s saying“I rest my case,”or“Go on, try to argue your way out of that one.”
