Page 46 of Lying Is My Love Language

‘Here and there,’ I say, waving a hand, when what I really mean is that I once climbed a flight of stairs after the elevator in my building broke and I never physically recovered.

Jodie, my favourite waitress and co-conspirator, winks at me as she drops off my lychee martini.

I look at it.Then at Andrew.Then back at the martini.

Fuck it.

I take a sip.

Andrew smiles.‘I could show you a decent spot to climb – about forty minutes out of the city.The view’s incredible.’

‘Do you say that to all the girls?’I tease.

He flushes, slicing his focaccia and dragging it through olive oil.‘No.You’re the first one I’ve met who likes climbing.’

Oh, Andrew.Sweet, muscled unicorn Andrew.If only you knew.

‘Lucky me,’ I say, and even sound like I mean it.

Dinner passes in a blur of easy conversation and alarming compatibility.I excuse myself after dessert to use the bathroom, where I lean against the sink and stare at my reflection.My thoughts travel back to the two lines that are now sitting snug in the kitchen bin, and how the person equally responsible for that mistake is knee-deep in croc country, blissfully unaware.

Why am I thinking about Luke?

It’s not even a conscious thought – more a ripple.A tear in the fabric.One minute I’m wiping lip gloss off my front tooth, the next I’m wondering if Luke is feeding cattle right now or if he has moved on with another woman.

Nope.Nope.

This is not a Luke-thought-friendly zone.

I give myself a stern look in the mirror, take a deep breath, then head back out to Andrew.‘Do you want to head back to mine for a drink?’

His smile is soft.Hopeful.‘Sure.’

I go to flag Jodie, but Andrew touches my arm.‘I’ve paid the bill.Hope you don’t mind?’

Congratulations, Andrew.You’ve passed with flying colours.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ I say, but the corners of my mouth betray me.‘Thank you.’

He waits for me to walk out first.A gentleman.Predictable.Kind.Basically, he’s the opposite of every man I’ve ever made out with in a dark bar and then promptly ghosted.

We get back to my apartment and I head for the liquor shelf while he browses my modest vinyl collection.I hand him a glass, but he sets both drinks on the table.Confused, I watch as he steps forward and gently slides my hands into his.‘Trust in Me’ by Etta James echoes through the room.

‘What are you doing?’

He smiles.‘Dancing.’

‘I – what?’

‘I have three older sisters,’ he explains.‘Mum put us all in dance class because it was cheaper than soccer.’

And then he spins me.

HE SPINS ME.

‘You’ll have to lead,’ I say, trying not to trip over my own thoughts.‘I never danced as a kid.Or as an adult.Or ever.’

He smiles again.‘I’ve got you.’