He dug a hand into his pocket, took out a packet of Kleenex tissues and handed it to me.
“Thanks.” I hated to sound so pathetic, but who am I kidding? I took out a tissue, wiped my face and blew my nose. When I tried to give him the rest of the packet he held a hand up. “Keep it.”
Yeah, because he’s not going to touch it now it’s been in my dirty hands. He’s probably trying to find a polite way to leave me on the ground and go back to his Verbier girlfriends.
But he settled down on the ground beside me and reached a tentative finger to touch the fragile white petals. “What is it?”
“Camellia.”
He waited for me to say more.
“Camellia Snow Flurry. It’s a rare hybrid.” My voice steadied. As always, talking about plants calmed me down.
Osian leaned over to smell the bloom. “Wow, that’s really nice. Subtle, but very nice.”
“It was supposed to be a surprise gift for Miss Gibson.”
“Miss Gibson? Isn’t she the one who… er… runs First Aid Club?”
Like he didn’t know? I knew what he was thinking about my favourite teacher.
“Go ahead. Say it,” I said hotly. “I know everybody talks about her. Obviously you heard the full story going around.”
The school was buzzing with the gossip. Her husband had kicked her out of his house with her clothes in bin liners because she was bad in bed and had put on weight.
A nasty lie, obvs, but it made the rounds.
Osian fixed me with his eyes. “I don’t think we should believe gossip. What do people know, anyway? It’s not like she told them in class,”—he put on a higher-pitched voice like a woman—“Now, class, what are the benefits of disinfectant cream, and do you think my thighs are too fat?”
In spite of the tears still in my eyes, I snorted with a giggle. Thank God I still had the tissue so I could blow my nose. “‘Now, work in pairs to practice the recovery position. Compare and contrast my ex-husband and Vladimir Putin.’”
He laughed. Osian James laughed. At my joke.
He rubbed his hands on his thighs, and suddenly, all I could see were his hands on his stonewashed jeans. No one had ever had such beautiful hands.
“I’d hate to be a teacher and have students speculating on my personal life,” he said, sounding like he really meant it.
His hair was dark blond or light brown, except on his temples which were white-gold blond.
“Me too. People are so cruel.”
I still remembered how two of the blonde witches called me ‘washboard chest’ after a swimming lesson one time. They didn’t say it to my face, obvs, but Tricia heard them and told me.
“You okay?” Osian laid a hand on my shoulder.
“Me? ‘Course!” I said, as brightly as I could.
“So you grew this Camilla to give to Miss Gibson?”
“Camellia.” I stressed the last syllable. “Camellia sasanqua. Or Snow Flurry.”
“Why did you choose it?” He reached over and took the pot with its broken flower. His hands around mine for an instant were warm, strong and slightly rough. They probably got a lot of abuse gripping his racket, yet his touch on my hands was so gentle.
“I mean, why not red roses?” he asked, smelling the camellia again. His eyes fluttered closed. His lashes were darker than his hair, but if you looked really carefully they were light at the roots. His black jumper made him look blonder; it was close fitting but not too tight – just perfect.
“Hmm?” he asked again.
Oh God, I’d been dreaming or something.Please God, don’t let me blush.
