“The deal is sealed,” I say lightly. “But I was actually hoping you’d hand me your cell.”
“Oh. Damn it. Yes, of course.” He fumbles for his phone, annoyed with himself, then passes over the latest Google Pixel, immaculate and smudge-free. He’s already unlocked it, so I punch in my number and call myself.
“OK, numbers swapped.” I glance at the poster. “Text me your address and I’ll pick you up at… six thirty?”
He nods again, hand drifting to the back of his neck, eyebrows drawing in. Spontaneity clearly lives outside his comfort zone.
“Awesome.” I stand, leaning in just enough to press a quick kiss to the edge of his jaw. His throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing, and under the café hum I’m almost sure I hear the faintest rumble of a whimper.
“I’ll see you then,” I murmur.
And I cannot frigging wait.
Chapter 3
Jacob
If there were ever a time to break the speed limit, it’s now.
Unfortunately, my seventeen year old self was traumatised into rigid adherence by a driving instructor who believed speeding was a moral failing, so forty miles per hour it is. Anything higher and my brain starts itching in a way that feels scientifically impossible but experientially accurate.
I am running late.
For a date.
WithTippi.
My thoughts race faster than the car. She’ll think I’m rude. Or disorganised. Or indifferent. The fact is, I’d planned this properly: finish work on time, go home, shower, change, sit quietly for fifteen minutes to gain control of my zinging nervous system, then be ready and composed when she arrived. Or a close facsimile.
Instead, a zero-day patch overran. It hung halfway through deployment and we had to roll it back, restart, monitor for vulnerabilities. You can’t just stop once you’re committed. Cyberattacks don’t care about your social life.
I swing into my street finally, muttering apologies to no one, and pull onto the drive just as a black Audi Q5 glides up to the curb.
We arrive at exactly the same moment.
Typical.
I kill the engine, get out, and then she steps out of her car and all coherent thought disintegrates.
Jeans like they were painted on. White sleeveless Sleep Token tour T-shirt. Red Converse. Riot of blonde waves. No make-up I can detect beyond maybe mascara. She’s staggering in a completely unfair ‘I just threw this on’ way that should be answerable to NATO.
“Hi,” she beams.
I forget English for a second. Then it returns in a panicked rush. “I’m so -” I stop, swallow, start again. “I’m so sorry. I would never have been late for this, for you, but I couldn’t help it. I had to do a zero-day software patch and I thought it would be quick, they usually are, but this time the process hung, which meant we had to roll back part of it and restart it, because once you’re halfway through you can’t just stop, and we’d gone over halfway, and without the patch the systems would have been vulnerable and that’s unthinkable, so Ihadto -”
“Shhhh.” Tippi’s suddenly right in front of me, fingers pressed lightly to my lips. My heart stumbles, my mouth unsure what to do with itself. Her eyes are warm, amused, not remotely annoyed. “No harm, no foul,” she says easily. “Shit happens. You made it.” She drops her hand and my mouth tingles at the loss. “Do you still want to go tonight, or would you rather call it off and decompress?”
“I want to go with you,” I say instantly.
“Perfect.” She reaches up, slides my tie loose, and pulls it off as if it’s personally offended her, then flicks open the top button of my shirt. “We’d better head out if we’re going to make it.” On tiptoe, she scruffs my hair. “You’ll do. Come on, I’m driving.”
I stand there, dazed, while she walks back to the driver’s side. It’sonly when she glances over her shoulder and grins that I realise I’ve been staring at her backside. My face heats. I pretend, weakly, that I was admiring the car.
I buckle into the passenger seat, grateful for the silence that follows. We don’t talk on the drive; she sings along to the stereo - something thrash-guitar-heavy and unfamiliar, but she’s word perfect. Her driving is quick, smooth, confident. She checks her mirrors more often than most people I’ve ridden with which is kind of a surprise. It feels… safe.
Meanwhile, my thoughts take advantage of the quiet.
She told me, plainly, that she finds me physically attractive, which is like Picasso telling me my stick figures show promise. But that wasn’t the part that scrambled me. It wasit’s not just your appearance, though.
