I should let her go. Thank her for a lovely afternoon, head back to the office, and return to my normal, structured life. That would be the sensible thing to do.
The Nicolas Adams thing to do.
But then I glance at her—snowflakes catching in her blonde hair, that soft smile still playing at her lips, the shopping bag with our ridiculous jumpers swinging from her hand—and I think about earlier.
About how I ran into her completely by accident outside my Pret. Of all the coffee shops in London, all the lunch spots in the city, she walked into my path.
What are the odds?
Reed would say there are no coincidences. Jace would wriggle his eyebrows and tell me I’m whipped. My mother would smile that knowing smile and call it fate.
And maybe they'd be right. Well, not Jace—that wanker—but maybe Mum and Reed.
Maybe the universe gave me a second chance after I fucked up the first one. Maybe I'm not supposed to walk away again.
Maybe I'm supposed to give in to this pull between us and see where it leads.
I look at Rory—I reallylookat her.
The way her nose scrunches when she laughs at something a passing child says. How her eyes light up at every twinkling strand of fairy lights like she's seeing magic for the first time. The gentle curve of her smile that makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's nervous, and talks with her hands. How she bites her bottom lip when she's thinking. The flush that spreads across her cheeks in the cold, making her look soft and alive and so fuckingbeautifulit actually hurts.
She makes me feel things.Realthings. Things I thought I'd shut off for good after Charity walked out, after I'd built these walls so high that nothing could get through.
Butshegot through.
With her blue eyes and terrible book boyfriends and endearingly irritating enthusiasm for disgusting mulled wine and ugly Christmas jumpers, she has somehow slipped past every defence I’ve spent years amassing.
As I watch Rory laugh uproariously at a bunch of teens pelting one another with snowballs, I make a decision.
“So what else is on your London Christmas bucket list?”
She swings about to face me, her features glowing in the fairy lights strung overhead.
“Well, I really want to go ice skating at Somerset House. And see the Christmas lights on Oxford Street. Maybe catch a pantomime if I can get tickets.” She's ticking them off on her fingers, animated and excited, and I want to give her every single thing on that list.
“Somerset House is right around the corner from here,” I say slowly.
“I know. I really want to fit it in before I'm too busy.”
“Well…” I murmur, and there's something almost vulnerable in my voice that I don't entirely recognise, “I could take you.”
She stops walking and turns to face me fully. Around us, the market continues its cheerful chaos, but we're somehow in our own bubble. “Now?”
“Unless you have other plans.”
“I want to.”
Even I'm surprised at the veracity of my words as I look at her with an intensity I can't quite mask, entranced by the Christmas lights reflected in her eyes. “I've really enjoyed our day, Rory. I don't want it to end yet.” I pause, then add with a lopsided smirk, trying to lighten the weight of what I'm really saying. “Besides, we can add it to the growing list of spontaneous things I've done this month courtesy of Operation Liberation.”
Her expression softens, understanding flickering in those pretty eyes. The admission feels dangerous. Exposing. But her face lights up in a way that makes it worth it.
Sofucking worth it.
“Okay then, Hotshot. Let's go skating.”
CHAPTER 11
