Year of the Chick (book 1 in the "Year of the Chick" series)

Chapter Ten

“Wasn’t the point of this conversation to talk about your writing instead?”

“I know, but we need to warm things up. You go first.”

Yeah, you keep talking with that luscious accent.

“Alright…” he began, “well for one thing it’s very easy to become distracted out here. Blue skies, blue seas, great food, great wine...” he trailed off.

And hot Spanish chicks damn you!

“I’m guessing it’s great for inspiration?”

“Oh indeed that it is,” he said warmly. “Imagine starting your day with the sun on the terrace, a few sheets of blank paper and a strong black coffee. Simply magnificent, can you picture that?”

Umm no.

At that moment I looked out my bedroom window, and the beige brick wall of our neighbour’s house looked back.

“Wow, that sounds so beautiful,” I said.

Is that all you can think of to say?

“A light breeze in the air,” he continued, “the smell of the ocean sweeping over you, a few soft pastries with freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast, and the morning sun heating up your skin all the while. Are you with me?”

Yeah I’m with you, and the thought of soft pastries is making me drool. Damn diet!

“Oh yes, I’m right there. I mean come on, pastries!”

Great, now he knew I was a sugar-happy pig. Was there a way to hit rewind and start this conversation from the top?

“We’ll get back to the pastries later,” he said. “But tell me - are you a smoker?”

What? Don’t burst my Mediterranean bubble with some random question! I want pastries and sun and Barcelona!Sigh...

“No. I don’t smoke and never have.”

What a strange thing to ask. Unless he was screening my mouth for a possible make-out.

I had so many questions to ask him, so I grabbed one at random from my list. “Hey James…how old are you? I hope it’s not rude to ask, but I’m wondering if you’re secretly a miracle of science, who’s like a hundred years old but only looks thirty.”

“I look thirty? Well I’m flattered. But no, I’m thirty-seven, turning thirty-eight in a few short months. Does that answer your question Roms? Is age important to you?”

“Romes,” I said between gritted teeth.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Romes, not Roms.”

“But your name is Romi,” he said, with a typical English air that instantly made me picture Hugh Grant.

“It’s pronounced ‘Romey,’ like ‘homey’ or umm…’Pony.’ Not like ‘mommy’!”

“Mommy? Excuse me?” He chuckled. “Err I think I catch your drift on the name now…anyway where were we?”

“You were asking if age was important to me.”

“Ah yes, well is it?”

I sighed.

“No not at all,” I said, now biting my lip hard. Like when you’re hot and you have that accent, what else do I need to know? “Your age is hardly relevant, I mean look at George Clooney, almost fifty and still a heartthrob, how do men do it? It’s not fair godammit!”