Neither was my semi, come to think of it.
‘Good?’ Meaningless question, but I need to say something.
‘Shockingly good.’ She wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb and licks it off.
My brain doesn’t recover, it barely holds together as I try not to imagine what else I could feed her slowly and?—
She takes the spoon from my hand and dips it into the cream.
‘Your turn.’ She holds it up as if it’s nothing, but her cheeks give her away. Doesn’t matter how calm her voice is. Her skin’s telling the truth. It’s adorable.
I close the distance, tongue darting out to catch the tip. Then I give it a few lazy sweeps through the cream. Am I laying it on thick? Sure. But she started it.
Theo’s eyes don’t waver, but her pupils dilate and the breath she draws trembles at the edges. The line between us moves in the half-second her lashes lower. In the sudden knowledge that if I wanted to kiss her right now, I wouldn’t have to fake a damn thing.
That’s insane. We’re not dating. This is fake. Fuck’s sake, it’s fake. Not to speak of the fact she probably thinks I’m an arse with serious impulse control issues. And she’d be a hundred per cent right.
It’s supposed to be a fake date, not foreplay.
Theo sets the spoon down. ‘Photos done.’
‘Aye.’ My voice’s gone husky.
She dabs her lower lip with her napkin, nodding.
I need a distraction, so I ask, ‘What are you doing after?’
‘Nothing even remotely exciting. Probably a bit of Great British Bake Off and that’s it.’
‘Slippery slope. I’ve heard sponge cake’s a gateway drug.’
She laughs, and it lands deep, hot, and far too fucking welcome.
I cock my head, and let the smile go full tilt. ‘You’re too young and beautiful to spend Saturday nights alone on the couch.’
She arches a brow, her mouth curving just a little. ‘Firstly, save the sweet talk. Secondly, I’m not alone.’
For a second, searing rage spears through me, and I hate whoever gets to sit beside her. Some faceless prick in chinos. Probably scrolls through his phone while she talks. ‘Hope he appreciates you sharing your cake show.’
‘He mostly sleeps through it.’
I sit back, keep the grin where it is. What kind of impotent, boring twat sleeps on a couch next to a stunner like Theo?
‘Elvis. My cat,’ she says. ‘Prefers canned tuna to Victoria sponge.’
Relief flares and I chuckle.
In about half an hour, after this pretend dinner date, I’ll drop her off outside her flat in Leith. Then it’s back to Duncraig. Video game on, shouting at teenagers. Maybe a wank. Definitely a wank. And bed.
I turned twenty-four last month. My Saturday nights weren’t meant to fizzle out before the bingo crowd went home. A few weeks ago, I’d have been out. Found someone and kept the night going until the moans drowned everything else out for a bit.
Can’t do that under this spotlight. Now there are cameras and people sniffing for scandal. And sure, that’s part of it. But the real kicker?
I don’t want to.
I could pull. Easily. All it’d take is one look, one line. But the thought makes my skin go tight. Feels wrong in a way that I don’t bother unpacking.
Doesn’t mean I want to sit on that lumpy-arse couch either, controller in hand, stewing over the things I should’ve said to a man who’s six feet under and should’ve heard them. Even if I spent years convincing myself he didn’t deserve to.
