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“Is he a Scottish film director?” he joked. By the look she flashed him, jokes were not in order. But at least she didn’t have a thing going with Carts. He wanted to punch the air—probably not the moment for a testosterone-fuelled gesture, either. He forced himself to sit dead still and listen.
“No. He’s a university professor. At Cambridge.”
Now his mouth went slack. “Seriously?”
She nodded, nibbling on a piece of greenery.
“What happened? I mean, how did he find you?”
“He didn’t.”
“You found him?”
“Nope.”
Aaron frowned, perplexed. “What then?”
“Mum,” said Alice, and he saw the tiniest quirk at the corners of her lips. “Seems her trip to England was about a lot more than foraging for old books.”
Half an hour later, Aaron was realising he enjoyed listening to Alice. In the past he’d mostly talked and Alice had listened, but now he had a sudden fantasy of snuggling on the sofa with her, a fire burning, her head resting on his shoulder as she told him about her day. As he pondered, he lost the train of her words and had to backtrack. “Sorry, did you just say you’re going to fly somewhere? As in a plane?”
She nodded. “Yep. I’m flying to Sydney to meet Henry. This weekend.”
“On your own?”
“All on my own.”
“Wow!”
A huge smile cracked across her face and a bolt of something delicious shot down his spine. Glasses, no make-up, hair tied back: she was beyond beautiful when she smiled this way.
He wanted a zillion more smiles like this one directed his way.
By the time Alice had finished explaining, Aaron was fidgeting. It was amazing, mind-blowing in fact, that she’d found her father after all this time, but right now he needed to set things straight between them. Needed to start the herculean task of telling her how he felt.
They’d finished eating and Alice was making noises about leaving.
Desperation clawed at his chest, rose up his throat. “Al, are we okay? As in, you and me?”
She stilled, then shrugged.
“Have we—I mean, did what I tell you yesterday clear up the misunderstanding?”
Alice was staring at his left ear again. “I suppose so.”
His stomach churned. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“What are you trying to say, Aaron?”
“I guess—er.” He gulped in a mouthful of air. “I think I’m trying to say I—um—like you.” He laughed too loudly. “But you know that, right?”
“Yes, I know that,” she said slowly. “You’ve alwayslikedme.”
“Well, since we started, you know, thebenefitsthing, maybe you could say it’s a bit more than like.”
“What does that mean?” Her face was flushed. He was sure his was too, by the heat that was radiating out of him. This was torture. How did you tell someone after years of being friends that you were a mess of badly fitting parts because of them? That those parts had been put in some kind of blender, whizzed around and put back inside you completely differently—so differently that you were finding it hard to recognise who you even were anymore.
How in fuck’s name were you supposed to explain any of it?
