Page 103 of Counting Down To You

“How did they take it?”

He taps his finger against his glass. “Well, I think my mum will always worry, to be honest. But I do think they did understand a little bit more. Or they tried to, at least. It’s not easy, being the one with the illness—but then it’s not easy loving that person, either.” I’m not sure if there’s something inherently sad about that statement, but I don’t comment, because he’s smiling a little fuller than before. “They’re going to come out, visit me in the New Year.”

“That’s great,” I say, and mean it. “Actually, on the subject of New Year, do you know how the New Year’s walk is doing? Any interest?”

“Yep. Fully booked.”

“Really?” I grin. “That’s brilliant.” Then I think about it. “By fully booked, do you mean…?”

“Ten people.”

I grimace. “He can’t do that without—”

“Another guide, I know.”

“He found someone?”

“Well, sort of. Someone highly unqualified.” He gives me a meaningful look.

“You?” I narrow my eyes. “You said you didn’t get the whole hiking-in-winter thing.”

“I don’t. Especially when you could be skiing. But I’m better than nothing, right? And he’s my friend. I’m just hoping he finds someone else to help if this all goes well.”

Someone else. Not me. Because I haven’t taken him up on the offer, and he hasn’t messaged me again. I’m not sure if he’s mad at me for bailing or just giving me space. The bond we’d tentatively built was so fragile that it wouldn’t take that much to break it.

“Well,” I say, trying for a bright tone, “I hope it goes really well for him.”

“Me too.”

We change the subject to lighter things after that—the incorrect email Charlotte sent on her first day working behind reception, Marco storming out of the kitchen because no one ordered the special he’d put on last weekend, the agony of trying to buy Graham a Christmas present given I barely know him. We don’t talk again about Robyn, or about what brought us here, or about the future. And in the time it takes to finish our champagne, I manage to relax and enjoy it. Enjoy being at the Ritz and talking to Leo. Enjoy the feeling I get every time his leg bumps against mine on the stools, the way it feels when he looks at me as I laugh.

When we’ve finished, we leave the bar and head out onto the street. It feels so natural when his fingers lace through mine as we fall into step beside one another. I don’t know which direction he’s going in—whether we’ll be able to walk to the station together, or whether we’ll have to say goodbye outside the hotel. The thought makes me almost panicked. I’m not ready for the evening to be over yet. I’m not ready, I realize, to say goodbye.

Just outside the entrance, Leo turns me in the misty rain. “Ali…” He blows out a breath. “Look, I’m not sure if this is going to make things better or worse, but I know I’ll regret it if I don’t say it.” Nerves spike in my stomach. “After all that’s happened, I don’t want to live with any more regrets than I have to. So, here goes.” His gaze doesn’t falter as it holds mine. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”

I feel the words both leaping in my chest and punching through my gut as I close my eyes.

Tell someone you love them.

But I can’t say it. Because there is still a part of me that can’t shake the thought that this is a betrayal of Robyn.

When you know you know. I told you, Al. I always knew it would happen like that for you.

But not for us.

Not for Robyn. And that’s the thing holding me back.

“Leo, I—”

“Don’t worry.” He runs his hands down my arms. Soothing. Comforting. “I’m not expecting you to say it back. I’m not even expecting you to feel it back. I know it’s only been a few weeks, and I know I’ve fucked up, big time. I just…I haven’t ever felt this way before, haven’t ever let myself feel it. So, despite it all, despite how we got here, it just…” He gives me a crooked smile. “It seemed a shame not to say it.”

I laugh a little at that, then lean into him, pressing my forehead against his. His arms come round me. I can feel my heart, settling to the rhythm of his.

“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper.

“That’s okay.”

“I don’t want to say goodbye again. Not yet.” Because I can admit that, can’t I? If I can’t say anything else, I can at least admit that.