Chapter Sixteen

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Libby checked her cheek in the hall mirror. The grazing wasn't too bad and an icepack had taken the swelling down, but even copious layers of concealer couldn't hide the bruise. Not exactly the best look for a non-date. She glanced down at her multitude of bangles and pushed them off, not wanting Patrick to think she'd made an effort. Bugger, why was she so worried?

Okay, she'd admit Patrick was good-looking, not at Robbie's supermodel level, but certainly an eight out of ten. What was he, about thirty? God, he was a vet and being a vet made him good with animals. To cap it all he didn't have brown eyes. Hazel eyes couldn't be classed as brown, could they? But was he single and was he honest with decent morals?

'Is it me,' Zoe said, pausing as she painted her toenails her usual scarlet, 'or are you a little nervous about your date with the vet?'

'It's not a date. It's a custody battle.'

'There's no battle. He can have the flea bag.'

Libby stroked Hyssop's head. 'Don't listen to her.'

'I'm allergic to him. I have to take Clarityn every bloody day.'

'You get hay fever. You'd take it anyway.' Libby checked her watch.

'Why are you so twitchy? Worried he'll stand you up?'

'No. He wants Hyssop too much.' Libby kissed the cat's head. But he's not having you, mister.

'I can't believe you're going on a date with Patrick McBride. I must've been ten when I saw him last. He was always nicking Maggie's weed and she used to call him the Wee Scots Beastie. I used to fancy him, of course. God knows why. He was this gangly sixteen year-old. What's he like now?'

'Oh, you know... fit.' She'd forgotten the Scottish accent. 'And it's not a date.'

'Fit, as in mountain biker fit, or fit as in...'

'You would.'

'Miss Wilde, is that why you're so twitchy? Wow, what if he's the one?' Zoe turned to her, wide-eyed. 'The one you summoned.'

Libby shook her head. 'He's not.'

'But it could be him.'

'It's not. He's Scottish.' And to avoid summoning Paolo, she'd added English to her list of desired traits. 'Bugger, he's here. You sure I don't look too try-hard?'

Zoe frowned at her. 'You're wearing a denim mini-skirt and black t-shirt. You're as bland as can be.'

Bland wasn't good. Libby pushed several bangles back on and hopped to the door.

'Hi,' she said.

'Christ, it's good to see you.'

Libby blinked in surprise, but Patrick wasn't speaking to her. He crouched down, reaching out to pick up Hyssop. After a thorough examination, accompanied by several chin rubs, Patrick set Hyssop down, then slowly straightened. He fought a smile as his gaze travelled up her legs, but when he reached Libby's face, his eyes widened and he recoiled, laughing.

'Wow,' he said. 'Didn't expect-'

'What?' She folded her arms.

'Seventeen year-old trailer trash. Aren't you a little old to be dressing like a teenage rebel?' He headed back down the garden path. 'You coming?'

Seventeen year-old trailer-trash? Libby straightened her back a little more. This wasn't a date. It was a custody battle. Grabbing her bag, she followed Patrick, deliberately hobbling slowly. If she'd aimed not to look too try-hard, he'd outdone her. His jeans looked threadbare through use, not some designer's whim and that faded t-shirt would be rejected by the homeless. But crikey, he looked good. Stop it.

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