He sits back and stares at me with a degree of wonder that almost makes me uncomfortable. ‘You know, if you’re stressed about that Dickens essay, I’d be more than happy to help you with it. Not that you need my help, I’m sure, but I don’t think I had a single seminar with Quinn last year that didn’t end in a stiff drink. Having an accountability partner might help you get through it with your liver intact.’
Okay, so he isn’t exactly demanding I allow him to tell me how he ardently admires and loves me, but offering to protect me from the scurrilous Dr Quinn is almost as romantic.
‘When’s the essay due?’ he asks.
‘Monday, nine a.m.’ My hands shake as I raise my mocha to my mouth as nonchalant as possible. Honestly not that nonchalant at all. Almost entirely chalant. ‘He’s given us a whole five days.’
‘Such a generous soul. How many words?’
‘Two thousand.’
‘Pssht, you could knock it out in your sleep.’ Oliver’s eyes sparkle. ‘Why won’t we set up some study dates, work through the pain together?’
I like the sound of study dates a lot more than I liked the sound of accountability partners.
‘I’m all yours,’ I tell him and damn if it isn’t the truth.
‘Mia.’ He leans in towards me, eyes fixed on my mouth. ‘You’ve got a little …’
When he gently brushes a fingertip against my lower lip, I’m quivering. But when he swipes away a fleck of whipped cream and raises the same finger to his mouth and licks it clean, I almost implode.
‘Delicious,’ he murmurs as my entire body liquifies. ‘I’ve been denying myself the sweet stuff for too long.’
‘It’s never too late to start up again,’ I reply, my voice shaky and high-pitched and deeply unsexy but Oliver doesn’t seem to mind.
‘Giving in to pleasure isn’t good for creativity though. All the best songs are about heartbreak.’
Definitely a Tortured Poet and not a Showgirl.
‘You’re saying black coffee inspires good writing and a whipped cream mocha latte doesn’t?’
He picks up my mocha and takes a sip, his lips touching the spot my lips touched only seconds ago.
‘I’m saying happy people don’t create meaningful art. At least not very often. But …’ he hands me the mug and our fingers touch, the sensitive skin tingling on contact, ‘there’s always an exception to the rule. Especially if an artist finds their muse.’
Fuzzy vision, parted lips, my mind swimming. This is the exact moment I have been dreaming of ever since my English teacher gave up trying to make the class readPride & Prejudiceand let uswatch the Kiera Knightley adaptation instead, inadvertently and fundamentally changing my DNA forever. This is my hand flex. This is my Mr Darcy. Only instead of leaning in to touch his lips to mine, he jerks his head away, leaving me cold.
‘Oh shit, is that the time?’ Oliver’s eyes flick over to the clock on the wall and flash wide. ‘I’m going to be late for band practice.’
‘But you only just got here—’
I start to protest then shut myself down. I can’t say for sure but I assume the muse is usually very chill and doesn’t complain when their artist is called away by their art.
‘What are you up to Friday night?’ he asks, slipping the iPod into his messenger bag before standing to leave. ‘We could dig into that essay of yours if you’d like?’
‘I would like. I would definitely like.’
‘Same place, same time?’ he suggests, shrugging on his leather blazer. ‘One taste of that fancy coffee of yours and I’m as good as addicted.’
‘I’ll be here,’ I promise. ‘Fancy coffees on me.’
‘It’s a date.’
He said it, not me. It’s official this time.
There are no more words, we’ve said all that needs to be said and I’m flying as I watch him leave. My karmic reward for last night’s shitshow at Members and the trauma of Dr Quinn’s lecture. Everything I ever wanted and it’s all mine.
15
