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Chapter eleven

Josh

The universe had a twisted sense of humour.

I’d been trying to get her out of my mind, focusing on the dreaded blind date, for one, which had droned on about as boring as I’d expected. But my parents were beside themselves with glee—“Finally, you’re taking your role seriously,” they’d said—and my short Sunday lunch visit had been less unbearable than usual.

And then Mia went and crashed into me.

My mind wouldn’t stop replaying it.

The breathiness in her voice.

The angry flush on her skin.

My hands flexed in front of me, as though they still remembered what her waist felt like. I shoved them into my pockets.

That lazy Saturday evening, about a week since the collision, I was hanging out with Liam, Matthew, Oliver—our newly single friend—and a few girls.

The mission of trying to get him to talk with other women continued. The stakes remained low: striking up a friendly conversation without stammering. So far, it was like pulling teeth.

I declined a refill of my coffee and ducked out of the bar for a cigarette, frustration rolling off me in waves, and checked my phone.

A few new texts—all from women I’d previously hooked up with—and a few reminders from my mom about the blind dates coming up next week. For once, I didn’t snort at them, but welcomed the change. Anything to barricade my mind against a certain someone.

A church bell chimed eight somewhere behind me, cutting through the noise of the city waking up for the night: chatter brushed my ears as groups passed by, casting me curious, appreciative looks, an asshole leaned on the horn in the distance, the shrill sound piercing through the static, and laughter spilled from the pubs lining the narrow, cobbled lane.

Lights flickered to life all around the Gothic Quarter, hanging under eaves and criss-crossing the narrow streets where hostesses paced, all practised smiles and long legs, and tried to pull people inside for a pint or dinner.

The last drag scorched my lungs before I turned to put my cigarette out in the clean, sleek ashtray, and something caught my eye: a flash of floppy, warm brown hair.

It can’t be—

But it was. Mia, walking somewhere with purposeful strides, hair falling loose over relaxed shoulders. I shoved my hands in my pockets and battled an inconvenient spark of curiosity.

I shifted on my feet and glanced up at the glowing golden sign of The Rook, torn between the pull of familiarity, my friends, my armour—and the undeniable urge to trail after her.

With a pained groan aimed entirely at myself, I turned on my heel and followed, feeling like a creep and berating myself with every step.

Then, I blinked, and she’d disappeared.

I whirled around and my eyes landed on a place that had seen better days, with a flickering neon sign that cryptically read Games. The “E” pulsed on and off, well on its way to snuffing out.

A bitter pang of disappointment shot through me.

Gambling, Mia?

My lip curled up at it, and my foot tapped an impatient tattoo against damp asphalt as I lit up another cigarette.

I should have turned back, left her to it—god knows I shouldn’t even be seen near a place like this—but curiosity hummed like a live wire inside me, low and insistent.

If she was gambling, better to know now—to prove, once and for all, how far beneath my notice she was. Maybe my brain would finally get the memo and stop snagging on her like she was a puzzle it itched to solve.

I crushed the half-smoked cigarette in an overflowing ashtray by the door and stepped inside.

No seedy gambling parlour awaited.

My eyes widened as they took in the flashing lights spilling from the machines, the bright signs blinking up at me, names of games greeting me like old friends I’d half forgotten.