“Yes,” I agree. “Very civilised.”
She laughs. “You make it sound like a council meeting.”
“I aim to keep expectations realistic.”
We stand there for a second longer, then she takes my hand and tugs me back towards the table.
“Rematch,” she says. “I’m not done humiliating you.”
I follow, trying not to think too far ahead.
Third date is too soon, I remind myself. There will be a right moment.
Just not tonight.
It’s ten on the dot when I get home. I know this because the oven clock blinks accusingly at me as I open the door, like it’s been waiting to judge my life choices.
The kitchen light is on.
Christa is standing at the island in pyjamas that have seen better days, hair doing something between bedhead and electrical incident, holding a crumpet in one hand and a can of squirty cream in the other. The crumpet is generously coated in what looks like the hazelnut chocolatespread she made me buy. There is cream on the counter. Possibly on her sleeve. Definitely on her nose.
She freezes when she sees me.
“It’s just an experiment,” she says loudly, before I’ve even shut the door.
I pause. Take it in. The scene. The evidence. The complete lack of shame.
“Right,” I say. “Good to know.”
She points the cream can at the crumpet like it’s supporting her argument. “I’m testing flavour ratios. For science.”
I snort and lean back against the door, arms folded.
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t judge me. Pea-Lime demanded innovation.”
“That tracks,” I say. “She’s clearly a visionary.”
Christa relaxes a fraction and takes a bite, spread smearing slightly at the corner of her mouth. She licks it off without thinking and I very deliberately keep my gaze on the cupboard behind her because I am a grown man with self-control.
Mostly.
She chews, then gestures at me with the crumpet. “So. How was the date.”
“Good,” I say honestly. “We played darts. She’s ruthless.”
Christa giggles, approving. “As she should be.”
I push myself off the door and toe my shoes off. “She asked me to go back to hers.”
Christa’s eyebrows lift, just a touch. “Oh.”
“And,” I add quickly, because it seems I’m incapable of telling a story without narrating my own moral stance, “I said it was fine to take things slow.”
She squints at me. “You said it like it was her idea.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Reverse psychology. Very advanced.”
She laughs, a real one, shoulders shaking slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
