He chuckles timidly, before making his way towards the counter.
‘So, last night...’ He unloads a six-pack of large water bottles.
‘What about it?’ I ask, leaning forward to take him in.
I can see the tension in his shoulders from here and it makes my stomach turn for an entirely new reason. He risks a glance my way and I hold my breath as our eyes meet for the first time since yesterday.
‘We’re good, right?’ he asks, the words slightly strained.
His eyes are still sparkly and just as entrancing. This is fine.
‘Of course we are,’ I say to reassure him, confirming it with a cheery smile.
He lets out an exhale of relief, his lips stretching into a grin.
‘Good! Because I bought you a bottle,’ he says, brandishing a litre of water in the air.
‘Well, thank you,’ I reply, relaxing instantly.
‘And a pastry.’
He scurries over with a greasy paper bag. I peek inside it and spot the brown, flaky curves of an all-butter croissant.
‘Aren’t these French?’ I ask, eyeing it.
‘Believe it or not, they actually have them here too,’ he says mockingly.
I roll my eyes but take a hearty bite of it anyway, the pastry flaking off into my mouth. He goes to grab one for himself before dashing back over and brushing my feet off the sofa so he can settle down too. I make him some more room, shutting my laptop and placing it on the coffee table. He follows it with his eyes.
‘Were you writing about me?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say, lying.
‘You so were.’ He smiles. ‘Good things, I hope?’
‘Awful, terrible things,’ I reply.
He brings his hand to his heart, miming getting shot in the chest. I almost spit out my mouthful of pastry.
‘What nickname did you go for?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘I’m going to read the article when it comes out anyway.’
‘No, you won’t,’ I tut, shaking my head.
Honestly, one of the main reasons I wanted to be a writer growing up was that it seemed like the least exposing way to get myself out there. Haters will flock to a video or a picture of you that goes viral, but very few have the energy to read through large blocks of text. While not necessarily ‘haters’, I assumed that the same logic would apply to the people I write my date pieces about. Noah, however, seems determined to be different. He digs around in his pocket, unlocking his phone and flashing his screen at me.
‘Already got theNew Travellerbookmarked in prep.AndI signed up for email alerts. I’m very serious about following your journey.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I say, suddenly overtaken by shyness.
He’s not meant to see this.No oneI know is meant to see this.
‘Yes, I do – you’re like the most famous person I know,’ he replies.
I laugh it off, but his face is dead serious. I feel that wave of warmth from yesterday flushing through me again.
