“Piglet!?”
“You’re small, brave, colourful and you like jam sandwiches. And sometimes you get angry but you’re never scary.”
“I’m not convinced those are Piglet’s characteristics. Does he like jam sandwiches?” I say, then ponder. “How doyouknow I like jam sandwiches?”
James takes a sip of wine from the bottle, munching on a crisp before pressing his lips together guiltily. He doesn’t need to say anything more. I fold my arms across my chest with a jokey scowl. “YOU!”
“What?”
“You’re the kitchen bandit who steals my sandwiches?”
James munches slowly on another crisp.
“Oh my god! You cretin!”
“They’re just so cute,” he laughs. “You wrap them up in brown paper and they’re never the same jam. You mix it up. My favourite is the sweet chilli one.”
I sit there gawking at him. “It is not ok to steal people’s lunches, James.”
“I don’t. I steal yours. Specifically, I might add, when you insist on asking questions at the end of long meetings that mean my lunch break for the day vanishes.”
I blink. Actually, that sort of does add up. I remember how it was always when I was going to have a rushed lunch, because meetings overran, that I found my sandwiches had disappeared. “You never bring your own lunch?”
“No way. I’m not that organised. I spend at least fifty quid a week on Pret.”
“That’s so bad.”
He grins across at me, a small dimple forming in his cheek. I bite my bottom lip to prevent myself from smiling too. It’s annoying really. His smile is quite infectious. And although I’ve just found out he’s been stealing my sandwiches for the past few years on our busiest days, I can’t hate him for it. It’s too small. We just survived walking across the Highlands without our phones and limited supplies.
James shuffles slightly, his shoulder pressing alongside mine. Come to think of it, should we be more concerned about the bed-sharing arrangement? I know we’ve shared a tent the last three nights. And things happened. But that doesn’t mean to say this isn’t an inappropriate situation considering we’re colleagues.
“I meant it though,” James says out of nowhere.
“Meant what?”
“That I think you’re cute. You’ve always been sort of cute. Annoying. Frustrating. Argumentative. But cute.”
I swallow down his compliment before I know what to say. He sounds sincere. I’m not sure whether cute is really the vibe I’m going for. Blood rushes through my veins and my brain starts to hum, because, oh god, Gloatman is giving me compliments, and after last night’s shenanigans I should probably divert this fast. I don’t know if I trust myself anymore.
Butterflies take flight in my stomach. Nope. I definitely do not trust myself.
“Ilikeyournose,” I say so fast it comes out as one word.
“My nose?” James says, reaching up to touch it.
“Yeah.”
He frowns inquisitively. “Why? It’s my worst feature.”
“It’s perfectly imperfect. Like you. In the office you always look like you’re about to walk down a runway for Moss Bros. Always so done up. But your nose breaks through the image. The little bump. It’s perfect.”
James drops his hand, our gazes locked, unsmiling. Our breathing is heavy. I look away first, pretending to watch the TV but I can still feel him watching me, a slight groove forming in his forehead as if he’s considering what I’ve said.
“You know I said the other day I didn’t have long-term plans at Starr?” James asks softly.
I look back, feeling the heat of his gaze soak through me like an old whisky. “Yeah?”
“It’s not entirely true. I don’t want you to think I’m just going to pack up and leave. Partly, I do enjoy some of it. But mostly, I’m too afraid of finding myself skint again. I have nightmares about it. Being broke really weighs on me. Having strange people knocking on your door, calling your home line at weird hours until you have to unplug it for sanity, the emails and letters, it breaks you.” James takes a calming breath. “I just want you to understand me. Understand why I do the things I do and say the things I say. Where my ideas come from.”
