“I was obviously joking,” I grumble into my wine. “I appreciate you would never in a million years help me out.”
He starts. “That’s not what I was laughing at!”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’m being honest.” He frowns, shuffling closer to me and giving me a nudge on the arm with his elbow, so I’m forced to look directly into his earnest eyes. “The reason I laughed at the idea of giving you tips is because it’s obvious you don’t need any.”
“Oh, please,” I sigh, putting my cup down on the grass, where it topples over. “I know today has been all right, but you don’t need to pretend to be nice to me.”
“I’m not pretending, I mean it, Harper,” he insists. “You’re so good at chatting to anyone; it comes so naturally to you to put people at ease. I wish I could be like that.”
I blink at him. “Are you being serious?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “I can work as hard as I like, but I don’t have your—” he waves his hand up and down at me “—likability.”
I shift, thrown by the compliment. “Oh. Uh… thanks.”
He nods.
“Okay, fine, I suppose I need to say something nice about you now,” I blurt out.
That makes him chuckle, his shoulders relaxing.
“You’re much more well-read than I am,” I admit reluctantly. “You know all this stuff about the world off the top of your head.”
“I don’t think I know any more than you do.”
“Well, maybe not about who’s dating who—a subject you really need to brush up on, by the way—but you have a better grasp on economics and history and politics. Stuff like that.”
“Eloquently put.”
“I am a writer.”
He smiles warmly, and my stomach flips. We’re so close in proximity that it makes my breath catch in my throat. And the way he’s looking at me suddenly shifts—the moment has become charged under his intense gaze. Instinctively, I lift my chin, inviting him to make the move. He leans closer and I can smell the wine on his breath.
“Heads!”
We spring back from each other at someone’s shout, a football hurtling over our heads, missing us by inches and bouncing just in front of our feet. A couple of boys stumble after it, apologizing to us as they go.
Flustered, I glance at Ryan, who looks as bewildered as I feel by what the hell just happened.
“We should… uh… get back,” I say, running a hand through my hair.
“Yeah, it’s getting late.”
We gather our cups and scramble to our feet, brushing grass off our clothes before making our way back toward the station, my head swirling with confusion and excitement. I find myself hoping that on our way home he’ll suggest going for another drink somewhere or maybe try kissing me again. But he only gives me an awkward goodbye as he gets off the tube at his stop.
The next day, I wake up with a hangover and an unwelcome bout of anxiety.
I almostkissedRyan Jansson.What was I thinking?
CHAPTER NINE
Mimi’s team is up to bat first, so our team gathers in a huddle to discuss fielding tactics while Mimi finishes setting out the jumpers to mark the pitch.
“Harper, you okay to bowl again this year?” Katya suggests, after she’s finished explaining to a new yoga friend of Mimi’s, who hails from New York, that rounders is essentially the same as baseball except with a small bat and there’s no such thing as strikes—you get one shot to hit the ball and then you have to run.
“As long as no one else wants to give it a go,” I reply, glancing round the circle as everyone shakes their heads, refusing the responsibility.
