“Yeah,” I agree, my voice low and rough. “It was.”
The air between us thickens with the memory of tangled sheets and breathless moans, of her nails raking down my back and her name on my lips. I can see the same heat reflected in her eyes, the same awareness that we're standing too close, that the pull between us hasn't diminished one bit despite my fuckery this morning.
“So,” she says, breaking the tension with a bright smile that makes her shine from within. “Heroic rescue plus a genuine apology, hmm? That's practically swoon-worthy territory on the book boyfriend scale.”
Despite everything, I feel my lips curve into a genuine smile. “I'm most assuredly not book boyfriend material.”
“Hmm.” She tilts her head, mock-serious. “See, that's exactly what they always say. They think they're too damaged or too complicated.” Then she taps her chin thoughtfully. “And yet, here you are, apologising for your behaviour and showingactualemotional intelligence. Very suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” I question, shaking my head, but unable to stop the grin from spreading across my face.
“Extremely.” Her eyes dance with mischief as she adjusts her festive red woollen coat. “I’m going to need a decent lunch recommendation to add to my data collection spreadsheets.”
We edge closer to Pret, and I reach for the door. “Oh, you’ve got spreadsheets now? Your devotion shall be felt throughout the book boyfriend community.”
“We prefer Smut Readers Anonymous, Hotshot.” She winks broadly. “So, considering this isyourPret, what would you recommend?”
Holding the door open, I try not to notice how her scent wraps around me as she passes. “What do you usually go for? Meat, vegetarian?”
“I'll eat just about anything,” she admits with a smile in her voice as she follows me inside before immediately scanning the menu board. “I'm trying to eat my way through as much authentic British cuisine as possible before my time in the UK is over.”
The reminder that she's temporary, that she'll be gone soon, sits heavily in my chest. A reminder that, although cowardly, asshole behaviour, I did the right thing this morning.
The safe thing.
“The chicken and bacon is good. Though you could try the cheddar and pickle if you want something properly British.”
“Sounds perfect. Cheddar and pickle it is.” She glances over at me, eyebrows raised when she notices I'm not looking at the board. “And what about you? What are you having today?”
“Chicken and bacon.”
“Oh, that's one of the ones you recommended.” She tilts her head questioningly. “Do you get that often?”
“Every day,” I confirm with a firm nod.
She stares at me like I've just sprouted an extra head. “The exact same sandwich every single day?”
“It's efficient.”
“It's depressing,” she counters playfully.
“It'sconsistent,” I correct.
As we join the queue, Rory shakes her head, but doesn't further critique my exceedingly efficient lunch order. We move along slowly, courtesy of the lunch rush, and I push down ona surge of frustration when the line crawls forward at a snail's pace.
When we finally reach the counter, I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding.
“One cheese and pickle, please.” Rory smiles brightly at the teenager behind the till, and my lips twitch with an almost grin when he blushes bright red right to the tips of his ears.
“Chicken and bacon,” I add.
The teenager nods and disappears to grab our sandwiches. A minute later, he returns with both wrapped and ready, then punches the order into the till. When he announces the total, Rory reaches for her bag, but I gently place my hand over hers.
“I've got it,” I say.
“You don't have to—”
I find and hold her gaze. “I'm getting it.”
