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OK, words apparently didn’t work with this guy because now he’d pulled my hood down, the touch of his fingertips light on my skin as he inspected my cheek.
“You should have that checked out. It looks sore.”
Concern? Who is this guy? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Calm down, head.This was not a romance movie, and I was no famous actor. This was me, an ordinary high school teacher who’d had an accidental altercation with Connor Telford’s hand. His very fine hand that was attached to the rest of him, and he was staring at me while I was no doubt standing here drooling like a moron. Because Connor Telford was…I wasn’t going to mention the wet dreams. But he was. One. Big. Sheet destroying. Wet. Dream.
“It’s fine. You can barely see it,” I countered, pulling my hoodie back up over my head.
“Mate, can I do anything? I feel really bad.”
He felt bad? I was getting a hard-on just hearing him talk. His hand was still firmly attached to my arm. I should have him arrested for assault. Well, not really. Well, yes. Assault on my brain. Attraction was one thing, and attractive he was, but personal space was also a thing, and apparently, Connor Telford had no sense of it.
Connor Telford. Funny how I could remember now! Actor Connor Telford had won, like,all the Baftas. I may…or may not…have watched every episode ofWhite Noise. He was downright filthy in that series, always getting his kit off, and his arse was legendary. Every episode had at least one scene of full nudity involving Cass Powell showering or getting down and dirty, usually with a woman, sometimes with a man. Sometimes with both.
He was a gay icon. A bi icon. A hot-as-hell-dude icon whose heated gaze stared at me in Tesco as I browsed the magazines.Men’s Health,GQ,Attitude—he’d fronted them all, and now he was fronting me as I put my hand on his chest and gently pushed him away.
“I’m absolutely fine, but thank you for your concern. It was nice meeting you.”
Meeting him? What the almighty Christ was I on about?
“Can I at least…I don’t know. Get you a taxi home? Buy you a drink?”
“I’mfine,” I insisted, though I sounded anything but fine. My voice was back to that juvenile squeak it did when I was nervous. He made me nervous.
Scrap that. I made myself nervous.
“Look, I’m fine. I just need to go get some noodles and then I have thirty odd essays on the French Revolution to go through, which I’m already dreading, and then I need to pass out before I have to get up and lead assembly tomorrow.”
I was oversharing. Again. Being myself. Yes. This was me. Always me. A slight mess on the outside, an even bigger mess on the inside.
“The French Revolution? You just whooshed me right back to secondary school. I take it you’re a teacher?”
Why were we even having this conversation? All right, yes, I’d started it, but only because he’d been in my face.
“History and maths. Lucky me, eh?”
“If I could do it all again, I would have paid better attention in history. Back then, it was all boring, and now I love it. I even watch documentaries on the History Channel.”
He was grinning. My stomach was full of stupid butterflies.
“Tell that to my students. None of them seem to have grasped the basics of human evolution, let alone that the French Revolution has nothing to do with a fashion brand.”
“I bet you spend a lot of time tearing your hair out,” he said softly, looking at me in a way that made my knees wobble. “Noodles, you say?”
I grimaced. Or my insides did.
“Mrs Wu’s on the corner? I always have number forty-two with extra egg.” His voice. Goddamn.
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” I laughed. “You have to have the pork. Number seventeen. Sticky honey-ginger-glazed pieces of heaven. On noodles. Probably not traditionally Chinese at all but, man.”
He laughed, and my world went into soft focus. And it had nothing to do with the honey-ginger-glazed pork.
“Can I…” he began then paused. “Wanna join me for some really disgustingly unhealthy food? My shout. As…an apology.”
“Thanks, but no,” my mouth said. My head was screamingwhat are you doing?!“Sorry. I have a shedload of work to do. Another time, maybe?”
I had no idea why I was smiling, but he was too, and my heart skipped a beat as he threw his gym bag over his shoulder.
“I’ll just have to go eat on my own then.” He pretend-pouted. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do. And sorry. Again.”
