"And our food is ready," John said and got up.

He headed to the bar for their plates, but noticed Rhys and made a beeline for his cousin. He shook hands with the three men, and Viola saw Rhys glance at her over John's shoulder. She gave him a smile and a small wave. He nodded to her and focused on something John was saying again. Viola suddenly felt slightly sick. She shouldn't have drunk so much lager before eating. Rhys and his mates took seats near the bar, and John was back at the table with their fish cakes and salad. Viola ate unenthusiastically, listening to John telling her about the book fair. She only managed a half of her plateful when she realised she needed to leave. Her head was spinning, and the dim light and the warmth of the pub seemed suffocating. John had driven them here, but he was planning to stay at Nana's now. She didn't feel like waiting for him to finish his food and give her a lift.

She wiped her mouth with a napkin and gave him a calm smile. "John, I'm officially exhausted," she said. "I'm glad you've made so much progress tonight, but I think I might have overdone it." She took out a few bills and put them on the table. "I think I'll head to the surgery."

He, of course, offered to finish his supper quickly, and she, of course, refused.

"It's just a twenty minute walk," she said. "I've been slacking with my running recently, so it'll do me a world of good."

She rose, and he followed her example. She quickly got dressed, let him kiss her cheek, and walked to the door. On the way, she gave Rhys and his mates another polite wave.

Outside she gulped the cold crisp air, trying to fight off nausea, and then stepped into the side alleyway. She pressed her back to the wall and closed her eyes. You're drunk and close to vomiting, Viola. At your age, that's just pathetic.

Pull yourself together, open your eyes, and walk. And pray no one can see you like that.

Her knees were shaking, and she pressed her hands to her cheeks and her forehead, mindful of her mascara and eyeliner.

You won't make it, will you, Viola? You'll be sick in the middle of a street somewhere, and with your luck, some well-wishing old biddie will catch you.

She blindly fished her mobile out of her bag and opened her eyes with difficulty. He picked up after one tone.

"Rhys, I'm sorry to bother you," she started.

"What's wrong?" he interrupted her, and judging by the noise, got off his chair.

"I'm not feeling OK," she said. "I stepped out of the pub, and realised I can't walk home. And I don't want anyone to–"

"Pay for me, would you?" he said to someone near him, and she could hear he was walking. "Where are you?"

"Just turn left from the door, and I'm–"

The pub door banged, and two second later he appeared at the well-lit end of the alley.

"Vi?"

"I'm here," she said quickly and tried to straighten up.

He was in front of her a moment later, and she felt his hand lay on her shoulder. She rocked and pressed her forehead to his chest.

"I didn't want anyone to see me like that," she muttered.

"C'mon," he said softly and wrapped his arm around her. "I'll drive you."

She nodded weakly, and they made their way to his truck. He opened the door for her, and had to help her to climb in. At some point his hands lay on her waist to hoist her up, and she jolted.

"Sorry," he murmured.

He took the driver's seat and started the engine. It was just a five minute drive, but it felt like an eternity. He parked, and she dropped her head back.

"I'm sorry, just give me–" She swallowed. "A moment."

"Take your time," he said. She could hear worry in his voice.

"I was tired, and– I'm still recovering," she said and took a few deep breaths. "Shouldn't have drunk all that beer."

"You always did better with wine," he said, and she hummed confirming. "Why were you having dinner with John?" he asked in an offhand tone.

"We had a dance practice," she answered, focused on centering herself.

"A dance practice?" he repeated, his voice low.

"For the Winter Dance. We're doing an opening number."

"With John?" he asked, and she slowly opened her eyes.

"Why?" she asked.

"And what are you dancing?" he asked just as levelly. His eyes were narrowed.

She swallowed again and gave him a frowned look. Oh, that's how it is then. She'd only had to deal with his jealousy twice before, once with James and at the time of that fateful trip to Amsterdam - but the conversation she'd just had with John had shone quite a new light on Rhys' attitude. In all honesty, she always thought that jealousy stemmed from insecurity - and the latter simply wasn't something, she imagined, Rhys Holyoake experienced.

She put her hand on the door handle. She simply had no energy to deal with him right now.

"Thank you for the lift," she said and turned to push the door.

"Vi, wait, I'll–" he started, and she muttered, "It's OK, I'll manage" at the same time.

"Well, let me open it at least," he grumbled and leaned over her to the door. "It's heavy."

His temple and his ear were suddenly right in front of her, and she looked at a small curl that fell out of his mane. Her nose caught his new grassy, fresh cologne. She stretched her hand and tucked the silky heavy lock behind his ear. He half-turned and stared at her. She slowly lowered her right palm on his shoulder - and then cupped his jaw with her other hand. She felt his body jerk - and she gave out a small laugh.

"Vi, what–" he said.

She leaned in and lightly kissed the corner of his lips, and then craned her neck and kissed firmer. He still wasn't moving, and she curled her fingers enjoying the rough whiskers in his beard.

"It's liquid courage," she murmured. "And now–" She kissed his cheekbone above his beard. "And now it'll run out, and–"

She didn't get to finish because he shifted, aligning their mouths, and caught her lips in a greedy kiss. She felt his calloused hot palm lay on the back of her neck, and she couldn't hold back a loud moan.

They were kissing in his car like teenagers, and while it took her a second to gather courage to lift her second hand and run her fingers through his hair, he suddenly wrapped his arm around her waist and jerked her towards him. She gasped, her breath knocked out of her. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once - and then she heard the zipper of her jacket whiz open. She moaned again, and pushed both her hands into his curls. They'd been driving her crazy since the day he'd walked onto her in Nana's kitchen!

And then a sharp sobering realisation flashed through her hazy mind - of being in her ex-husband's car, and copping off with him, and that she was drunk, and that his hand had just found its way under her shirt, and he confidently brushed his thumb across her skin on her ribs.

Viola pressed her hands into his shoulder and pushed. It did nothing - until he finally noticed she wasn't kissing him back. He tore his mouth off hers, and a low growl rumbled in his throat. He snarled, and shook his head like a dog coming out of water, probably trying to 'sober up' as well - and then he released her. How had she ended up on his lap?! He was breathing heavily, she still had one hand on his chest, and she felt a shudder run through him.

"What– You–" he rasped out, and his eyes roamed her face.

She scampered away from him, back onto the passenger seat, and groaned, this time from frustration. Her whole body was buzzing and felt unfamiliar. It had been years since she'd been that aroused! If ever. And she was in a car! In a parking spot in front of a flat she shared! What are you, Viola, eighteen?!

"Vi," he snarled, and she squeezed her eyes.

"I know!" she exclaimed and looked at him.

He looked livid, and hungry, and almost deranged. She had never seen him like that, for sure!

"I know, alright?" she said and exhaled noisily. "It's just the drink, and– and all these conversations with John, and–"

"This?" He pointed at her with his long index finger. She could see his hand was shaking. "This is because of John?!"

"Not because of John, it's just him and I talked and–" Her thoughts tangled. "I honestly don't know what came over me, and–"

He made a loud frustrated noise in his throat, and Viola sighed. Now look what a mess you've created, Viola!

"Rhys, I know you're angry right now," she started in a calm voice. The memories of the rows they used to have came back, and she pursed her lips in irritation - and the anticipation of his blow-out that was, no doubt, approaching. "I'm sure it seems to you that I'm being willy-nilly, or wishy-washy, I don't remember what you used to call it. A cock-tease, basically," she said sarcastically, and his deeply furrowed eyebrows jumped up in surprise.

He'd never apply such a term to her, but she'd heard him use it towards others. After all, there was nothing Rhys Holyoake despised more than 'willy-nilly' and 'washy-washy' people - indecisive, capricious, manipulative, dishonest, insipid, or unclear in any way.

"Aren't you?" he asked.

"Sure," she answered, suddenly feeling defeated. "Maybe. Like I said, I don't know what came over me. It's your hair and beard, and–"

"What?" he asked sharply.

"What what?" she asked. Her head once again spun, this time from weakness. She also felt cold, and shivered. She was clearly coming down from the adrenaline surge.

"What about my hair and beard?" he asked.

"They're new," she said, not at all sure what he found so astonishing in her statement. "They are new to me. And they suit you."

"Are you saying you just– felt randy?" he asked, looking even more bewildered now.

"I didn't 'just feel randy,'" she answered in an acidic tone. "I might be drunk but I don't normally hook up with strangers in such a state. It's just–" She rubbed her temples. "I control myself worse right now, and it all just sort of– overflown. We hugged in my room, in my bed when I was ill, remember? And I touched it, and I reckon I wanted more."

"So, it's not the drink, or John," he said. "It's me."

"Again, Rhys, as opposed to what? I haven't had sex in three years, and I can't say I missed it," she grumbled. "And I can see how it might frustrate you, but I'm not going to apologise for changing my mind. If my impulsivity isn't to your liking, here's the door," she said haughtily, and then remembered they were in his car. "What I mean to say, I will– just go."

She glanced at his face - and realised in shock that there was a small smile on his lips.

"So, what, Vi? You set all these rules for us, about 'the first date' and 'starting from scratch,'" he drew out, "And then you– what? Got impulsive?"

"I am human, Rhys," Viola muttered. "I don't see why everyone always forgets it."

"I'm not complaining," he murmured, and the left corner of his lips curled up. "Am I allowed to be impulsive?"

As he spoke, he slowly started leaning to her, and she pressed her hand into his shoulder. The evening had been like a roller-coaster for her emotions. She couldn't trust herself right now - especially, her sudden acute desire to let him be as 'impulsive' as he wanted.

"No," she said firmly. "You aren't."

His face dropped, and she realised he must have misinterpreted her tone. Perhaps, the facade she'd been working on for years disguised her bedraggled and flustered state too well. She curled her fingers and pulled at the shoulder of his jacket.

"You don't get to be impulsive," she repeated, softening her voice. His face was much closer now, and she told herself she'd have to stop after one kiss. If it were to happen, that is. "You get to tolerate my mood swings and be the perfect gentleman, while I slip, and lose control over my libido," she added, and saw his long, thick lashes flutter, and his gaze drop to her lips. "You wanted to do better. Do better at being patient and accepting my sudden lapses in judgement... when it comes to your beard."

He smirked, and his breath brushed at her lips.

"And how often will that happen?" he asked and placed a feathery kiss on the corner of her lips, seemingly mimicking her gesture from a few minutes before.

"As long as the hair and the beard are nearby, it can happen at any point of time," she murmured, turning her face, offering him the other side of her mouth. Weren't you going to stop after one kiss, Viola?

"I'm never cutting them then," he said.

The second kiss was longer, and she felt his hand lie on her thigh.

"Alright, let's see how well you do then," she said - and moved away. "I'm going to bed–" He opened his mouth, naughty sparks dancing in his eyes, and she put her fingers across his lips. "Alone. I need rest." She took her hand off his lips - but not without brushing her palm to his jaw. "God, what is this magic?" she murmured, and he chuckled low in his throat.

Viola made a fake irritated noise and shook her finger at him.

"Take your follicular sorcery under control, please," she grumbled and pulled at the door handle. And then she turned around and ran her fingers through his hair- through the Mallen streak on his left temple, and into the heavy soft curls on the back of his head. "Sorcery, indeed," she said with a nod - and jumped out of his truck.

She could hear him guffaw behind her, and she dashed to the entrance to the apartments. She needed to drink plenty of water and go to sleep.