Page 17
I can think of several.
That is precisely the problem.
“I started a new book yesterday,” I announce, pivoting so hard I nearly pull something. “The Earl’s Reluctant Bride. Tudor setting. Lots of political shenanigans.”
Tom doesn’t question my random conversation change. Instead he just groans. “Those books take far too much poetic licence with the realities of the period.” He shakes his head solemnly. “Look, pretending they all bathed regularly? Fine. I support that. But I read one once where they got the date of a battle wrong, and it upset me a lot.”
“Shhh.” I wave a hand at him. “I don’t need a pedant ruining my romantic notions of Tudor England. For example, I’ve learned all about the quickest way to unlace a corset in a moment of passion.”
His eyes flick to mine.
I review the last ten seconds. I pivoted to books specifically to stop accidentally flirting with this man, and in three sentences I have arrived, entirely unassisted, at corsetry. The fire exit led directly back into the fire.
Fantastic work, Claire. Really solid evacuation.
“You should try reading them yourself,” I add lightly. “For research. It’s an intellectual hobby. Some of us have those.”
“Some of us,” he echoes, sipping his wine with mock seriousness, “once tried to impress a girl they like with a history-themed chat-up line about revolutionary France.”
My brain snags on the word like, and doesn’t let go.
“I thought we established that those lines don’t work,” I say, but my voice sounds too breathy for it to land.
“That’s not quite how I remember it.”
We make eye contact, but then someone across the table asks him about his volunteering, and he turns to answer. I pick at the edge of my napkin and shift my obsession from radishes to the garlic bread.
Tom tells the guy across the table about the group he works with, a charity that does football coaching at a kids’ community centre. He usually does Sunday mornings, but was covering for someone else this evening who couldn’t make the session.
“They offer art classes.” He turns his attention back to me. “Maybe you could volunteer.”
“Maybe,” I hum, “I’m not sure I’m good enough at art anymore though.”
“Don’t do yourself down. You’re talking yourself out of something before you’ve even stepped on the pitch,” Tom says firmly. “You don’t have to be perfect. It’s more about making other people enthusiastic. Anyway, you forget that I’ve seen your cake decorations for years. That’s some serious artistic talent.”
He looks like he’s about to say something more, but we get subsumed into a conversation with the wider table.
When it’s finally time to leave, Tom offers to get the night bus with me. It’s 1 a.m. and I appreciate not having to wait alone on a quiet pavement.
The bus ride is quiet. I watch the dark London streets pass by, a blur of streetlamps and signposts. I’m annoyingly aware of his presence next to me. The way his thigh presses against mine when he shifts in his seat. And the way it sends a prickle of heat through my whole body.
When we reach my stop, I half-expect him to wave goodbye, but instead, he follows me off the bus without a word. We walk to my flat in silence, the streets hushed and still. In step with each other, we both allow our hands to swing at our sides, close enough that if either of us moved even slightly we’d be touching.
Outside my door, I fumble for my keys. Tom stands beside me, watching with a half-smile.
“Thanks for walking me home,” I say.
His brown hair catches under the streetlights, and I have to stop myself from reaching up to run my fingers through it.
“Any time.” Tom shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets. “And hey, I always have more history lines if you want to hear them.”
I bite my lip. Maybe I’m overthinking things in the way I always do. I like Tom. Really like him. Maybe it doesn’t need to be as complicated as I’m making it. I spend too much of my life talking myself out of things.
Taking a deep breath I look directly at him, meeting his brown eyes. He’s standing so close that I can feel the warmth radiating off him despite the cold night air. I notice the rise and fall of his chest, and the way his fingers are flexing slightly at his sides.
His gaze flicks down to my mouth for the briefest second before returning to my eyes and I wet my lips. Now I can’t stop thinking about kissing him. We stopped just short the other day but what would it be like if he touched me?
I suck in a shaky breath.
