“I guess I could just keep this--”
“No! I want it!” He hands me the package and I rip into it, and it’s…a Tottenham kit.
“I just figured if you planned on continuing to watch matches with us, you’d want to look the part. It might be stupid.”
“Niall, it’s not stupid. It’s perfect. Thank you.” I lean in and give him a hug, lingering a bit.
“It’s getting late. You want me to walk you back? We’ve had a bit to drink this evening.” He’s barely able to get the word evening out before a massive yawn escapes him.
“I think I’ll manage One Direction, but thank you. You should hit the sack old man.”
I walk out the door and Niall pops out in the hallway. “You’re the old man! Thirty-eight!”
23
I’m sitting in Cuppa, a coffee and tea bar close to campus, when he walks in.
He, as in, one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen in my life.
Calling this man a Temu Henry Cavill would be offensive, because he just may be that attractive.
The barista, this poor twenty-something girl, is visibly flustered at the counter. He smiles at her, which causes her to run into her coworker, coffee spilling all over both of them.
This has such a movie rom-com vibe. I can’t stop watching.
When he finally gets his drink, he walks over to my table. He hovers for a moment before he places his cup down across from me.
“Did you enjoy the show?”
I peek over the corner of my book. “Excuse me?” I try to say, confidently. But also, not confidently.
Thank you, vocal cords. You have failed me.
“I saw the smirk on your face, for whatever that was.” He gestures over to the barista, who happens to be staring in our direction, now realizing she was caught. Bright red face.
“I think you know exactly what that was.”
He smirks. “Which was…”
I place my book down. “I think you know you are objectively attractive.”
He slides the chair out, dropping into it. “Go on,” he says, taking a sip of his drink.
Well, this has escalated quickly. “Fine, I’ll be bold. You are very attractive. Happy?”
He leans in. “Very. Also, this confidence thing you’re playing with, is very sexy.” This time it’s me who’s flustered, coughing on the sip of coffee I just took.
“Do you,” I stammer, recovering from the last cough, “find joy in torturing people?”
“No,” he says, swirling his cup around. “Do I detect an American accent?”
“Very astute. I’m on loan at Trinity to teach for a year.”
“What a coincidence. I also teach at Trinity, in the School of Law.”
Jesus. Hot and a lawyer. “Part-time?”
“Full,” he says, moving in his seat. “Turns out I don’t care much for practicing law. I do, however, have a knack for preparing others. I’m Jackson, by the way.”
