“I believe when it’s for bisexuals, it’s called a Bi-Fi,” I offer and delight again in hearing the husky rumble of her laugh. I don’t think I’d ever get bored of making her laugh.
“I knew you were checking out his arse!”
“Guilty as charged.” I hold my hands up, one of them still gripping my drink. “It's a nice arse.”
“I will pass that on. I’m sorry you and your ex didn’t work out. Break-ups are tough,” she says, and it should sound out of place, but it doesn’t. But that doesn’t stop it from making my lungs cave in a little.
“Same to you, Jenna. I can imagine divorces are rough too,” I say eventually.
“Exes were supposed to be vetoed, weren’t they?”
I nod. “Correct. I guess you should do your dislikes and likes because we're almost running out of things to talk about with all this vetoing.”
She breathes in deep. “Okay, here you go. Likes. Well, I like lifting weights, writing, swimming, hanging out with my brother, seeing friends, researching weird facts and stories about sex, orgasms, long walks, watching the seasons change, any and every kind of noodle soup, more orgasms, going to the theatre, reading smut-filled romance novels, and yep, orgasms.”
“I can’t argue with any of that, apart from maybe the long walks. Unless there’s a dog involved, I’d rather be riding a bike or chasing a ball than just walking.”
She leans closer, eyes alive and sparkling. “But what if there’s the most amazing pub lunch at the other end? Roast beef or lamb? With all the trimmings?”
“With a log fire? Maybe some board games?” I play along.
“Yes, of course. And sticky toffee pudding for dessert.”
“With custard or ice cream?” I give her my most serious stare. “This is a very important question, Jenna.”
Her lips pout as she considers and it sends my blood pumping south again.
“Both,” she says resolutely.
“Correct answer! And your dislikes?”
“Unsolicited dick pics, unwanted advice about investments, overpriced fine dining that isn’t very fine, and men who pose topless with fish,” she says after only a brief hesitation.
“Good job I left my fishing rod at home.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “And excellent restraint not making a joke about rods.”
Chuckling, she draws her knees up to hug them with her arms.
“Are you cold? I think I’ve got a jumper in my bag,” I say, reaching for it. I should also check my phone for the time again. Missing dinner would not be a good end to the day.
“No, thank you,” she says but she does shiver a little. I look at the goosebumps that cover the skin on her forearms and I want to feel their texture on my tongue.
Jesus, I’m close to going from 0 to 60 with this woman.I need to slow down.
“So, you’re from the UK?” I rush to find a neutral topic of conversation. “Where do you live?”
“Islington, North London,” she rests her head on the top of her knees. “And you live in...”
“Dublin. Born and raised,” I say.
“It's a beautiful city.”
“Yeah, sure, for those three days of the year when it stops raining and the sun comes out.”
“London's not much better.” She shrugs.
