Keep it together, MacMickin. Smile. Reinforce the illusion you’re head over block heels in love with a walking snack in trainers. How hard can it be?
He leans in a little, close enough to brush my hair as he murmurs, ‘You alright?’
No. Not really. He shouldn’t clean up this well. Or smell that way – fresh cotton, orange peel, clean skin. Sharp enough to catch in my throat, heady enough to make me want to lean closer.
‘Yeah, sure. I’m fine.’ I force a smile, and focus on the lighting, the flowers, the glasses on the tables. Not how my skin is on fire where he touches me.
The maître d’ leads us to a corner table with a view of the entire restaurant. Perfect for visibility without making it obvious we want to be seen. Good choice.
Finn pulls out my chair. I sit, say ‘thank you’, and wonder if I’ve entered a parallel universe where rogue rugby players have manners.
He sits across from me, stretching his legs long under the table. One foot brushes mine. On purpose, no doubt.
‘Just so you’re aware, we’re being watched,’ I mutter behind the menu.
‘We’re always being watched.’ His mouth curves, smug as sin. ‘That’s the plan, right? So go on then, give them a show.’
I peek over my menu and clock the photographer planted two tables away to the side, sipping still water like it’s vintage wine. ‘Charlie should’ve hired someone less obvious.’
‘You’re adorable when you pretend this is your first rodeo.’
‘And you’re annoying when you pretend it’s not.’
‘Touché, chérie. Champagne?’
‘I’m more of a fizzy orange-juice kinda gal.’ I smooth the napkin across my lap.
‘Noted.’ He winks at the waiter. ‘One Fanta for my…erm…girlfriend, and I’ll take a ginger beer. Cheers.’
‘Careful not to choke on that word,’ I say over the rim of the menu. ‘I’m not qualified to perform a Heimlich.’
Seriously, his lopsided, cocky grin should come with a warning label. Reckless, lit from somewhere deep, and aimed squarely at my better judgement. My insides sway off-centre. It’s probably the pressure of playing a part I didn’t rehearse properly. My nervous system’s responding to environmental stressors, not the man in front of me. No matter how distractingly gorgeous his face might be when he decides to turn on the charm.
The waiter returns with our drinks and Finn raises his glass. ‘To convincing performances. I mean…to true love.’
I clink my glass against his. ‘To not making arses of ourselves.’
‘Making an arse of myself is my speciality.’
‘So I’ve gathered from your highlight reel.’
He flashes that maddening half-smile again. ‘Which part impressed you most?’
‘The unicorn onesie at the press conference was inspired.’
‘Ah, a classic.’ He sips his drink, mockingly lifting his little finger away from it. ‘It’s my favourite animal. Wait till you see the matching sleeping mask.’
I bite back a smile, but it slips out sideways anyway. ‘I didn’t expect anything less.’
I scan the menu, conscious of the photographer who keeps glancing our way, holding her phone up. ‘What are you having?’
‘Probably something separate,’ he says, browsing the options. ‘Can’t stand when my food touches.’
I lower my menu. ‘You’re joking.’
‘No. There are rules. Each veggie stays in its lane. Unless it’s a stew, a soup, or a lasagne. I’d never joke about food boundaries. I’m not a monster.’
I blink. ‘No, I mean… I’m the same. I use those sectioned plates at home.’
