didn’t care to be on this side of the conversation. “It’s complicated.”
He wanted to hate Emma—but couldn’t. He wished he could love her the way she wanted to be loved—couldn’t manage to do that, either. Would have liked to stay friends—that was too painful after what they’d had together. He wished he could ignore her—one look and every other woman in the ballroom faded into insignificance.
So where did that leave him? In limbo, that’s where—unable to forget her, unable to move on. This cruise was supposed to be his first step toward a new life.
Instead he was torturing himself by watching her on the dance floor. Even though their last six months together had been the worst of his life, even though they were divorced now, the thought of her on the prowl for another guy twisted his insides into knots. Through the bobbing heads he glimpsed her doing the mambo with some bozo with two left feet. The guy’s hands were all over her. Darcy didn’t know which was worse, the liberties the guy was taking or that a terrific dancer like Emma was wasted on him.
Darcy turned around, unable to watch. He hadn’t seen her in nearly six months, not since the house had sold for a song. Both of them wanted rid of the memories and had been unwilling to wait for a decent offer. She’d moved to Mornington, to a rental unit. He’d moved into the apartment above the pub once the previous tenant’s lease was up.
The first night of this cruise and already her presence had ruined the whole experience for him. How was he going to chat up other women with her on board? Sure he was divorced, but it would still feel like cheating on his wife. He would be constantly looking over his shoulder. Even now he imagined he could smell her perfume—
Hell. She slid onto the next stool.
Blue-green eyes fringed with dark auburn lashes flashed at him. “I can’t believe you’re here, too.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” He gulped his soda, wishing it was Scotch more than ever. They’d both resorted to animosity to cover a whole host of more difficult emotions. It worked but it was draining. “You?”
“Pretty crap, actually, now that I’ve run into you.” She signaled to the bartender. “Can I have a mojito, please? Only instead of rum I’d like vodka, and instead of lime, I want pineapple juice. Oh, and no mint leaves, thanks. Lots of ice. And just a dash of pomegranate.”
Fixing his gaze on the row of liquor bottles lined up in front of the mirror, Darcy gave an irritated chuckle. “Now I remember why I divorced you. Only those cute freckles and that pert nose allow you to get away with orders like that.”
“My freckles suck. And not every bartender is a purist like you.” She dipped fingers with short blunt nails into a bowl of peanuts. “Just for the record, I divorced you. But never mind that, we need to talk.”
It had better not be about Holly, or their relationship or his many faults.
“Don’t eat those.” He shoved the bowl down the black marble bar. “You don’t know whose hands have been there before you. You ought to know about germs.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m on holiday. Don’t mention nursing or hospitals or sick people or bedpans—”
“Okay, okay, I get the idea.”
Instead of getting down to what she wanted to talk about, she said, “How’s the pub? Business good?”
“Fine. The same.” He didn’t know why she asked. She’d always resented the time he spent there. In her opinion he should have been home with her and Holly more. But the sixty-year-old country-style pub he’d bought from his father when he retired was not only his heritage, it was his livelihood. The fact that he enjoyed the atmosphere and considered his local customers part of his extended network of friends was a bonus.
“How’s the hospital?” he said, playing along. “Are you still in post-op?”
“No, I’m in geriatrics now. I work with Tracey. She’s my friend in the red dress. Oh, and I’ve applied to do a master’s degree in nursing. If I get in, classes start next semester.”
“That’s great. You always wanted to finish that.”
She looked him over. “You’ve lost weight. Are you cooking for yourself or relying on takeaway?”
He’d lost a few pounds after he’d stopped drinking, but that was none of her business. “I’m living on peacock’s tongues and caviar. You said you wanted to talk?”