“And the other.”
“I’m not having sex with you in a country lane.”
“Can’t blame a man for trying,” he replies, unrepentant. “Next time, bring a bag when you come to stay.”
“Okay.” The word comes out small, my stomach a mess of knots. Pleasurable knots mixed in with the conflicted ones.
“You’re not going to ask, are you?” he says, sounding mildly annoyed.
“What is it you want me to ask?”
“When we’ll see each other again.”
Of course, it would be right now that the lights up ahead change to red. Meaning he turns to me withthatexpression. The one that seems to say:give it up, you know you’re going to.
“I mean, I’ll see you at work on Monday.”
“Amelia.”
The sound of my name in that tone makes me want to shimmy and sigh. “I just meant I assumed we’d talk about it then.”
“We’ve got time to talk about it now, given you’re staying in the arse end of London.” The latter he adds in a mutter.
“Which is why I wanted to take the Tube home.”
“Give it up, blondie.” Reaching out, he pulls on the end of my braid.
“Blondie?” A pet name shouldn’t feel mildly thrilling. I mean, it’s not even a pet name yet. Just because he said it once doesn’t mean it’ll stick. Anyway, I’m not supposed to be simp-ing after him.
“Have you got a problem with that?”
I shrug. Whatever. Secretly, I’m thrilled.
“You’re like sunshine, you know.”
“Bright and cheerful?” I reply with a tiny preen.
“Deceptively dangerous. Something tells me if I’m not careful, you’ll leave me burned.”
“Don’t say that,” I whisper. “This is supposed to be fun, not painful.”
“You didn’t answer my question.When?”
“I guess, one weekend—”
“Notoneweekend, Amelia. Multiple weekends. Don’t tell me you’ve had your fill because I’ve barely scratched the surface.”
Interested is the least of what I am. Whit might be an obsession in the making, and that’s exactly why I need to be careful.
“Interestedandthat you can find time to fit me into your busy dating schedule,” he adds caustically.
Someone upstairs must think I need a break as the driver behind us leans on his horn, shifting Whit’s attention to the now green light. “All right, wanker,” Whit mutters, glaring in the rearview mirror as the car glides forward.
I find myself sounding the word out silently. I like Brit speak.
“I hope that wasn’t meant for me.” I turn my head and watch mild amusement flit over Whit’s face.
“I would never presume to call you anything so… insulting. But fun. London swearing feels so… continental.” Whit barks out a laugh. “Is a cheeky wank the same as a cheeky wanker?”
