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Except maybe I do? Just a bit.
No.No, I don’t.
Still, the place looked kind of cool and fancy on the website, so I pull on my one good going out-out dress, a black short-sleeved one. I pair it with my trainers and denim jacket, not wanting to show uptoooverdressed, or have Lloyd think I made any particular effort for his sake. Because I didn’t. Obviously.
It’s not for his sake that I put on some lipstick and a little mascara, either.
I mean, if anything, the lipstick should be a deterrent. I’m not putting it on just for it to get all messed up, after all.
By the time I’m leaving the Tube station at Waterloo and following Google Maps, I start to think that I’ve had a horrible lapse in judgement. It’s still light out and the city is bustling with people, though there arehints that night is sweeping in: the crowds gathering near bars, the outfits that have shifted from office-appropriate to distinctly-not, the tendrils of purple and pink dusk creeping up through the clouds. Looking up to check my bearings against the map, I catch a glimpse of the London Eye. For a moment, I see it lit up against a midnight sky; but I blink, and the memory is gone.
I can taste Lloyd’s kiss, phantom lips against mine.
I almost talk myself out of meeting him. The closer I get to this late-night cafe, the more adamant the nagging voice in the back of my mind becomes – although right now, it’s very prominently at the forefront of my mind.
What are you doing? This is the worst idea you’ve ever had. This is a sure-fire way to get fired, you absolute idiot. Screwing around with the boss’s son. There’s no way people won’t find out …
‘Annalise? Hey! You okay?’
My snippy internal voice is easy to shut down when Lloyd is there, pushing off from the lamp post he was leaning a shoulder against to wave at me, his usual dazzling smile on his face. It slips a little and I see him looking me over. Not checking me out – more like something’s wrong, and he’s looking for what. His eyes flick down to my shoes, searching.
‘Did you step in dog shit or something?’
Huh?
Oh, I soon realize. It’s me that’s wrong. I’m grimacing – and probably look like I just smelled dog shit.Great.
I do my best to rearrange my face into something more neutral. Polite. Civil, like we promised we’d be. I even attempt a smile, but think better of it when it feels too fake. I know he’ll see right through me. He’s … unusually good at that.
‘Sorry. Just, um. Checking the map.’ I wave my phone at him as I click the screen off, shoving it into my bag and then nodding at the cafe. It’s lit up bright, just a few meters away. ‘Shall we … go in?’
I gesture for him to lead the way, but he adjusts his pace to fall in step beside me. His arm brushes lightly against mine, elbow nudging the sleeve of my jacket. It’s electric. A lightning strike that empties my head of everything except that sensation, every nerve in my body suddenly focusing on that one point of too-brief contact.
However much hanging out with Lloyd feels like a bad idea, there’s one singular, crystal-clear reason why I changed my mind and agreed to meet him.
He’s magnetic.
And I, like everybody else at Arrowmile, am drawnto his good looks, easy charm, friendly smile … and the kindred spirit I think I recognize in him. A moth to a flame.
But then he holds the door open for me and catches my eye to wink, his grin cheeky, spreading wide across his face, and he says, ‘Knew you’d cave eventually, Annalise. After you.’
And just like that, the lightning strike is a distant memory.
Keye & Shore is unlike any place I’ve ever been before. It’s a dreamy, hipster coffee shop plucked straight from Pinterest, with chipped hardwood floors and exposed beams overhead, pleasantly mismatched tables and chairs in the same mix of farmhouse and industrial styles. There are low-slung lampshades hanging from the ceiling, tealights on each table. A small, raised stage across the room has a two-piece band playing: a girl with a guitar and another with a keyboard, both of them singing indie songs I think I maybe recognize – or else, good enough that they sound like something I’d hear on Spotify mixes.
It looks like a coffee shop, and it definitely smells like one. The counter is larger than any I’ve seen at a Starbucks. But the hiss of steam and churn of coffee spitting out of machines, the clink of mugs – it all belies the bawdy chatter and loud laughter and the crowdsstanding at tall tables with their drinks, which makes the whole atmosphere feel more like a pub. I hesitate in the doorway, taking it all in, overwhelmed by the caffeine that sits thick in the summer evening air.
Lloyd turns slightly to face me, gesturing over his shoulder at the counter. ‘I’ll get the drinks. You find us a table?’
I’m about to protest that I’ll buy my own drink, thanks. I’ve had plenty of his so-called ‘chivalry’. But then I remember we’re just hanging out. Like friends. And I’d let my friend buy me a drink, so I could buy the next one.
I nod. ‘Okay. I’ll take a hot chocolate, if that’s …?’
Okay, but why wouldn’t it be?
‘On the menu,’ I settle for saying.
I find us an empty table in the far corner near the stage, and before long Lloyd is weaving deftly towards me, a tray held high and steady as he keeps a sharp eye out for anyone getting up from their table too quickly – just as well, because he only narrowly avoids someone stepping back into him and knocking it all to the floor.
