All the blood drains from my face.
‘Exactly,’ Alice says. ‘So go.’
Without another word, I turn around and walk directly through the fire door that should legally be kept closed but Alice assures me hasn’t shut all the way since 2003. The blast of cool evening air hits me the moment I step outside, and all at once, the crowded bar is a million miles away. I perch on a low brick wall and stare upwards, sparkling pinpricks of stars fading up into the darkening sky. The change in temperature is intense, and I wrap my naked arms around my body. It’s too hot for anything but a tank top inside but a second layer is more than necessary out here. A chilly British autumn? Who would’ve believed it?
‘Trying to escape already?’
A figure emerges from the darkness and my heart leaps when I see Oliver, guitar case slung across his back, strolling over from a footpath that winds through the trees.
‘I’m on break,’ I tell him, edging away from the olde worlde-style lantern hanging above the back door and into the shadows. I’m hot, stressed and smudged, far from my best self and in no way ready to have a one-on-one conversation with this beautiful man.
‘Sounds raucous in there.’ He nods towards Members, both hands clutching the strap of his guitar case. ‘Busy night.’
‘The busiest,’ I confirmed. ‘Busiest bar I’ve ever seen.’
‘And you’ve been bartending how long?’
I take a look at my watch. ‘Four hours.’
‘An expert then.’ He grins, that one-sided grin that makes my heart melt and my thighs clench. ‘I’m not a massive Members fan if I’m honest, the music’s shite and it’s always full of pissheads and football players.’
‘If you’re talking about Michael, yes, he is in there.’
He smiles and I’m almost floating. Then it fades, replaced by a frown, and my heart stops.
‘You’re cold.’
With pure grace, Oliver slides the strap of his guitar case over his head, shrugs off his leather jacket and hands it to me. Oh my God. It’s warm, softer than I thought it would be, and smells divine. The scent of the leather is cut by a hint of something dark and expensive, and when he speaks, the air between us fills with the warm scent of whiskey.
‘Looks good on you,’ he says, hands still on the lapels of the vintage blazer.
All the flirting advice I’ve absorbed over the years downloads to my brain at the same time. Play with your hair, smile, don’t cross your arms, point your feet towards him, make eye contact, stare at his mouth, laugh at his jokes, look at him but also look away, touch his arm, ask him questions. Am I supposed to do all of it at the same time? Because even an octopus would struggle, and those things have eight arms and a giant brain.
‘Band practice?’ I ask, silently applauding myself with a slow clap. Clever girl, he’s walking across campus, carrying his guitar, right after he told you he had band practice.
He taps the case and nods. ‘What gave it away?’
‘Lucky guess,’ I reply, swiping at my sweaty bangs. ‘Have you been playing long?’
Hardly the most creative question on the planet but the mere fact I’m forming words with my mouth and getting them out feels like a miracle. My brain has turned to pink slime, butterflies and rainbows shooting around behind my eyes, and every time I inhale, I catch the scent of his jacket, and the wonderful nightmare starts again. Thankfully, Oliver doesn’t seem to notice.
‘All my life. My dad used to play before he gave in and got a proper job so there was always a guitar in the house. I don’t feel complete without it. I’ve always got my Dictaphone in case lyrical inspiration strikes but that’s not the same as having my guitar. I’d never leave the house without it if I could.’
‘I know what you mean.’
His face lights up with interest.
‘You play?’
‘Oh, no.’ I bite my bottom lip, inwardly cursing myself. ‘But that’s how I feel about, um, other … stuff.’
Oliver does not respond. His lips press into a thin, colourless line because it’s clearly the dumbest thing anyone has ever said. Frantically, I search for something to get us back on track.
‘Tell me about your favourite music?’
It’s better than nothing but just barely.
‘God.’ He tips his head back and looks to the stars for an answer. ‘I hardly know where to start … Do you know Radiohead?’
