My hands itch to thread through her hair, to pull her close, to taste the winter and pickle on her lips, to find out if kissing her in daylight feels as electric as it did in the dark.
I find my feet rooted to the pavement, utterly unwilling to walk through those doors and watch her disappear into London's crowds again. The realisation should terrify me—itdoesterrify me—but not enough to make me move. Not when she's looking at me like that, with possibility and challenge and heat all tangled together in her expression.
“Right. Of course you do.” Taking another bite, she chews slowly as she watches me with a glint in her bright blue eyes. “I'm going to Covent Garden. The Christmas market. You could come with me?”
The words hang between us like a dare, and I feel myself wavering in a way that's entirely foreign. My mind immediately begins cataloguing all the reasons this is a terrible idea: the New York call at two, the merger meeting at four, the stack of reports that need reviewing, not to mention the fact that I simply don't do this.
I don't deviate from the plan. I don't take risks.
I don't let myself want things I can't have.
“I have meetings,” I repeat, but even I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice.
“So cancel them,” she replies simply, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. As if people like me—efficient, responsible, cautious, emotionally damaged people like me just...cancel their entire afternoon on a whim.
“I can't just—”
“Why not?” The challenge dancing in her eyes reminds me of last night. Of the way she looked when she slid that keycard into my palm—bold and uncertain all at once. “When's the last time you did something spontaneous, aside from last night?”
“This afternoon.” I quirk an eyebrow pointedly, and she laughs in delight. “I came to Pret myself instead of having my assistant collect lunch.”
“Oh wow,” she says, eyes wide with mock amazement. “That's practically skydiving in Cole-land.”
Sadly true.
“It's different from my routine.”
“Cole.” She bumps her shoulder against mine, and even through our coats, I feel the contact like a brand. “That's not spontaneous. That's tragic. Come on, Scrooge. Live a little. When's the last time you did something just for fun?”
Live a little.
There it is again. My mother's voice, Reed’s and Jace's teasing, and now Rory, all saying the same damn thing. All pointing out what I already know but refuse to admit: that I've built my entire life around safety and predictability, around never being vulnerable enough to get hurt again.
I open my mouth to say no. To explain that I have responsibilities, that people are counting on me, that spontaneity is for people who don't have a motherless four-year-old daughter depending on them for stability.
That I can't just abandon my work because a beautiful woman asked me to.
But the word doesn't come.
Because the truth is, I don't want to say no. I want to spend more time with her. I want to see her face light up at overpriced Christmas stalls and mulled wine. I want to spend time baskingin her light, to allow myself one afternoon with her before we go our separate ways for a second time.
When did wanting something for myself become so foreign?
“I'm not Scrooge,” I mutter, but the protest sounds half-hearted, even to me.
Rory studies my face for a moment, and something in her expression softens. Understanding, maybe. Or resignation. “Right. Well, it was lovely running into you. Literally.” Her smile is genuine yet wistful, tinged with something that looks like disappointment. “Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll stumble into your path a third time. Preferably without the near-death experience.”
She's giving me an out. No pressure, no expectations, no guilt trip. Just an open invitation that I can walk away from, same as I did this morning. Same as I always do.
Which is precisely why I step away and pull out my phone.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the weight of what I'm about to do. This goes against everything I've built my life around. Everything that keeps things stable and predictable for Hollie.
But then I look at Rory again—at the hope in her eyes carefully masked by casualness, at the way she's trying not to show how much my answer matters—and I run my hand through my hair.
Fuck it.
My thumb hovers over Jane's number for just a moment—one last chance to be sensible, responsible, predictable Cole. Then I think about going back to my office alone, eating lunch at my desk alone, spending another evening in that empty hotel room alone, which is only marginally less shit than going home to a Hollie-less house.
