‘Ah, we are still… connected. If you want some space do you want to just let go for a while?’
‘Not exactly part of the deal we made,’ I counter, leaving no choice but to quickly pick it back up and drop it beside the other.
We both sink into the deliciously soft beanbags and my feet practically scream with relief after the stress of standing all day.
As expected, we’re sitting closer than I’d really like. I blush at the unfamiliar contact, fighting the instinct to leap away from him when I feel the rough denim of his jeans against my knee.
Remain calm. For the love of God.
‘Thanks for this. Don’t know if you imagined having a drink with someone like me this evening,’ I say, eager to fill the silence.
His brows knit together in a frown. ‘No. I didn’t.’
I take a sip of my drink and desperately look inward to find something to say.
‘So,’ he starts, avoiding my eyes. ‘Are you from around here?’
‘Nope, I live in Brighton.’ He doesn’t seem to mind tedious small talk. Thank God. It’s all I have.
His eyes light up. ‘Great place to be.’
‘What about you?’ I reach down to put my glass next to me, altogether too conscious of the way his jeans brush my legs again. His eyes dart quickly to my knees as he shifts away.
He clears his throat. ‘I live in London.’
‘Oh, whereabouts?’
‘South-ish, near Bermondsey.’
This means nothing to me. My London knowledge is practically non-existent, but I nod in what I hope is a contented and interested way.
‘Cool.’
I notice him peek at me over the top of his glass as he takes a sip, then cast his eyes back down. The ensuing silence is painful.Thisis painful. We’re suddenly engaging in this charade of politeness out of nowhere when all of my energy should be directed towards deeply hating him. What are we even doing?
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Why are you suddenly being so polite?’
He tilts his head at me curiously. ‘I figured we might as well try to cultivate a pleasant dynamic if we’re going to be stuck like this all weekend.’
I give him a sour look. ‘I’m honoured. But this won’t last all weekend.’
He smiles bitterly. ‘I’m starting to get a feeling it might.’
‘You’ll break before I do.’ I smirk at him. ‘I snore. And sleep talk. Very disturbing stuff, apparently.’
His eyes are unwavering, eyeing me with a steady curiosity. ‘Really? Like what?’
‘Oh, you know. Just channeling demons and ghouls, mostly. Sickly Victorian ghost children asking for their mothers, here and there. Reciting passages from the box office hitStuart Little. Some reports of Nickelback lyrics.’
‘Sounds like sleeping next to you is very entertaining,’ he says, that little contented smile back on his face.
‘Depends what falls under your umbrella of “entertaining”,’ I reply. ‘And I insist on listening to organ music while I fall asleep.’
‘That’s okay.’ He shrugs, but his eyes are alight with something I can’t look away from.
‘At full volume,’ I add matter-of-factly.
‘Fine.’
