‘Stop laughing,’ I protest even as I join in, grateful for the opportunity to move on from the topic of my parents and my questionable adulting skills. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to go with a double-barrelled surname.’
‘Harry Henry-Harrison,’ he enunciates in that sharp accent of his. ‘It was in the file,’ he adds as I open my mouth to ask him how he knows my surname. ‘We should be shot for naming our child anything resembling that, particularly as Harry is short for Henry. Henry Henry-Harrison.
‘How does that work? They both have exactly the same number of letters.’
‘I don’t make the rules.’
‘Anyway, Harry is short for Haribo,’ I say primly as I reach for my glass, watching the flicker of confusion cross his expression. ‘It’s what he, or she, looked like on the scan.’
‘I like it.’ I exhale a little breath as he shoots me a small, conspiratorial smile. ‘So, accommodations,’ he says, bringing the conversation back around again.
‘Sorted. Or it will be soon. Actually,’ I add as a tiny jangle of excitement spikes in my veins, ‘I’m going to look at a flat on Saturday.’ Like a real grown-up who’s saved just enough money to pay the first month’s rent and another as a deposit. Though I suppose real grown-ups don’t have to congratulate themselves on feeling like a grown-up.
Jesus, me and this kid are going to grow up together.
‘Would you like me to come along? To the viewing, I mean. I know one or two things about the London property market.’
‘I’m renting, not buying. But if you’d like to come, that would be nice.’ And it would save me from having to bribe Heather to get out of bed on a Saturday morning when she ordinarily doesn’t see daylight until gone noon. I was thinking of offering to take her out for breakfast as thanks for tagging along because I didn’t much like the idea of wandering around empty properties on my own—that’s just asking to be locked in the basement and sold into slavery—but given my current propensity for expelling food at speed, it might not have been the best of ideas.
‘Great. I’ll pick you up.’
‘There’s no need to go out of your way. I can meet you there. I’ll send you the address.’
‘Let me pick you up,’ he insists. ‘I do love a captive audience.’
And erotic glimpses of wrists, as I recall.
Dinner arrives soon after, and the conversation flows easily, though we’re both careful to avoid the more difficult topics as I make a joke about Dr Travers and how wrong it will seem to have someone so handsome between my splayed legs, which sets us on a course of easy banter and feigned hurt feelings. James orders another beer and then dessert, and when it arrives, he insists I eat half his manly serving of tiramisu.When in a fake Roman cantina, nothing but tiramisu will do.
My mother would be abhorred by our decidedly lowbrow menu choices, but I do like the fact that James seems perfectly at home here. He’s pretty low maintenance for someone so wealthy.
We linger over coffee, and I’m more impressed than I ought to be when I realise he somehow knows I prefer a latte. He, I note, orders a macchiato, which is served in an espresso cup, unlike the Starbucks offering of the same name.
When it becomes clear that we’re both stalling, the bill is ordered, and we proceed to argue over it. I know it’s ridiculous, but just because he’s wealthier than I am doesn’t mean he should pay. Especially when I’m so conscious of those pesky blurred lines. But then James says something cute about being responsible for my heightened appetites, and I find myself burying my red face in my napkin to hide. By the time I surface again, he’s already handed over his credit card.
‘Thank you for dinner. I’m really glad I came.’ Something flickers in the depths of his gaze, but I brush it away before I’m tempted to examine it.
Who am I kidding? The man is temptation personified. He’s basically my catnip.
‘I wish you many happy comings,’ he murmurs as we both stand, his delivery as smooth as silk.
‘And... I’m not touching that.’
My eyes dip to his hands as he refastens the button on his jacket, every inch the proper gentleman. One movement leads my brain to another, the thoughts linked like charms on a chain. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, and James stands in front, almost towering over me. His fingers work to loosen the buckle of his belt, my own hands covering his as though to speed up the process.
‘Of course, you’re not. Touching is my job.’
My fingers frantically outlining the proud length of him over the fabric of his pants.
‘Stop it.’ I sound like an automaton, my thoughts lagging behind in the memories. ‘I’m leaving now.’
‘I don’t know whether you know,’ James purrs as he comes up behind me, his mouth almost at my ear, ‘we’re going in the same direction. There’s no escape.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’ Or a promise. I half turn, my voice a little silky with the admonishment as a shiver of exhilaration caresses my skin.It’s just how close he is, and his teasing. It doesn’t have to mean anything.‘We’re only going as far as the cars, then we’re going our separate ways.’
‘I’m sure etiquette dictates I see you to your door.’
‘I’m not going home, remember? I’m off to look after a flatulent poodle. Oh, sorry!’ We reach the door to the restaurant, James still behind me as it swings open. Why I’m saying sorry when the fault isn’t mine, I don’t know. But I do soon know why my heart has suddenly dropped to my boots.
