‘Alright,’ Isa cuts in. ‘Let’s me and Trey help him get dressed and you, JC, go order us some breakfast. Tiago needs to take his meds.’ JC’s still turning it over in his head and she grabs him by the sleeve.‘Muévete, Juan Camilo.’
He snarls back – mostly because she used his real name – and she pushes him out the door.
Gracias, I mouth as she shuts it behind him.
Chapter 29
JULES
LONDON
‘That wasincredible,’ Tom enthuses, beaming as we leave the artists’ studio stroke reclaimed clothes shop. ‘I’d never heard of that indie band before but they wereelectric.’
‘They were great,’ I reply.
‘And when that gospel singer came out? I’ve never heard anything like it. What synthesis.’
‘For sure.’
‘So you never know which band are going to play ahead of the show?’ he asks as we step out into the bustling streets of Borough. ‘And it’s a ballot on the day to see if you’re going or not?’
‘Yes, unless you have connections…’ Not so hostile about Instagram now, are we.
‘I didn’t even know something like that existed.’
I steer him in the right direction, past yellow-bricked townhouses and glass-fronted offices, ribbons of bikes and drinkers circling pubs in the evening sun. It sure is good to be home.
Maltby Street Market is smaller, cheaper and less chockfull of tourists than its famous counterpart Borough Market a coupleof streets away, and I have a feeling this is more Tom’s style. Sheltered beneath nineteenth century railway arches, it’s a feast of flags, stalls and picnic benches. Tables on old beer barrels; dogs zigzagging through feet. A celebration of London’s diversity and local produce. It’s the perfect place for our third date. In public view, but not obviously. It’s the British Grand Prix weekend, after all, and the city’s swamped with F1 fans.
‘You sure know how to plan a date, Miss Butler,’ Tom says, gazing into my eyes in a way that makes my stomach curdle.
I just smile. His fingers brush mine and I pretend to find something interesting at the far stands. When I get closer, a sign catches my eye for Brazilian steak tortillas and I immediately picture Tiago waiting in line. I wonder if he’s landed in the UK yet. It’s been a month since the fireball in Spain and you’d never know it’d happened at all. He didn’t skip a race (crazy boy); Leone are firing on all cylinders; they’re ahead of DFKandAlpha Prime in the Championship. And?—
Why am I thinking about him? I should be thinking about the man appraising the sausage options at the sausage and mash stand. I’m here for business and only business.
It’s purely coincidental that I’m in the mood for a tortilla.
‘They’ve got a pork, apple and black pudding one!’ Tom says incredulously. ‘We have to try it.’
My smile falters. ‘I’m good thanks.’
‘You sure? It’s not a regular sausage, it’s aguestsausage.’
‘You go ahead. Get the full British experience.’
He takes my rejection with a polite dip of his head. ‘When in Old Blighty, ey?’
We commandeer a beer barrel and two primary-coloured high chairs.
‘After this,’ Tom says gently, unfurling cutlery from a napkin, ‘how about we head back to my hotel? I can’t offer you a nightcapbecause it’s quali tomorrow, but I could make it worth your while.’ His smile’s tentative and it makes me feel wretched.
Bless him. He has every right to want to sleep with the woman he’s dating, but he’s the polar opposite to what I want. There’s no fire, no sass, no challenge, no impulsiveness, not even a dim flicker of temptation. He’s just a beige man, and not even multiple World Championships can colour him interesting.
‘That’s a kind offer but I don’t think I’m quite ready,’ I say. Lord knows it’s the first honest thing I’ve said to him. ‘Intimacy’s something I take very seriously and reserve for someone I really trust.’
Panic ignites in his eyes. ‘I wasn’t suggesting….’
You totally were. ‘I’m just really old fashioned. Sorry, Tom.’
