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‘It’s what I’ve always wanted to do,’ and Connor is on the periphery of my mind but I’m finding it easier to treat this like an interview as I speak to SCP Alexander.
‘For any particular reason?’
‘A great many,’ I say. ‘But a few in particular. My dad’s a senior detective with the Met. A few years ago, well, quite a few, actually, because I was in high school, there was a case that was lost. He was made to sound like he’d bungled the investigation. It was clever lawyering.’ I sense Connor stiffen behind me. ‘And it nearly destroyed him. He felt, for a long time, the guilt of having let the victim down. The victim’s family. And that a really bad guy got to walk. It’s tortured him.’ I shrug. ‘Who wouldn’t want a chance to stop that from happening?’
‘It happens every day, thanks to men like my friend here,’ SCP Alexander says with a lightness that doesn’t quite match my confession, nor the nail he’s hammering into the coffin—the essential incompatibility of Connor and me. ‘Though, as he’d point out, we need someone to fight against.’
‘Well, I just want to join the fight,’ I say tactfully.
‘Are you ready to order?’ A waitress appears, a smile on her face and a notepad in her hand.
‘I haven’t even looked at the menu,’ SCP Alexander murmurs. ‘Can we have a few more minutes?’
Connor’s knee brushes against mine beneath the table. I’m sure it’s not intentional but I sit up straighter and my face flies to his on autopilot. Our eyes meet and heat simmers between us. It overrides everything else.
‘I’m so grateful for your time,’ I say, the words throbbing with heat. I turn back to SCP Alexander with effort. ‘But I don’t want to intrude on your night.’
‘Besides, you had a date,’ he says with a kindly smile.
‘Right, yeah.’ I am dreading the moment of standing up—revealing the dress in all its horrible sexiness, but I dread sitting between these two legal powerhouses even more. Bracing myself for the impact of staring at the solar eclipse that is Connor, I look in his general direction.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
There is displeasure in his features, a quiet frustration or anger, I don’t know which. But he covers it quickly and slides out of his seat.
‘Thanks for joining us tonight, Miss Amorelli.’
My name on his lips is so sexy.
I smile up at him like I’m not a swarm of difficult, dark emotions. ‘My pleasure.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’M TOO STEAMED up to go home. Fury that began as a kernel in my stomach has grown like a weed, and it pokes out of all my pores now. I can’t believe Connor would be so heavy-handed! I buy a cheap pashmina from one of those pop-up stalls near a tube station, which at least lets me cover my cleavage as I stomp my way through London, trying to disentangle my feelings.
Disappointment that the date I thought we were on our way to was actually his attempt to further my career. His paternalistic, heavy-handed involvement in a matter I specifically told him to stay out of. Pleasure that he took an interest? Yes, it’s a confusing conundrum of mixed emotions and they drag along behind me like a misshapen Santa’s sack of gloom and doom. I stomp my way through the streets for hours and eventually dive into the Underground and jump on a Tube.
I’m not even sure where I’m going until I realise it’s the Jubilee line, and it stops at Canary Wharf.
Connor’s stop.
When I emerge from the station, the night has turned cool. It’s a firm reminder of something I am already aware of. Autumn is coming. The summer term will soon be over.
And then what?
Connor will no longer be my teacher. Does that matter? Does it change anything? Does he want it to? Do I?
Something lurches in the region of my heart—the thought of him not being my teacher. The thought of not seeing him again. The thought of not being able to hold him, kiss him, be held by him.
I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. That’s all beside the point. Right now, I’m pissed and I want to remember that.
I press the buzzer; nothing happens. I prop my hip against the edge of his building, glaring out into the night air. I lift my finger to press again and hear his voice. Deep and raspy, it makes my stomach flip, and I fume at the automatic response.
How dare his simple drawl of the word, ‘Yeah?’ fill me with this kind of heaven-sent need?
‘It’s me.’ I try—and fail—to keep the shittiness from my voice.
The front door of his building makes a buzzing sound and I push it inwards, jabbing my finger on the lift button before taking it to the top floor. He’s waiting in the doorway of his apartment when I reach the landing, his shoulder nudged against the frame, his eyes watchful, his expression blank.
