“Yes?”
“If I am misreading this, now would be a good time to tell me.”
I breathe in.
Coffee. Bacon. Cake. Him.
I could still step back.
I could tell him this is overemotional. I could say he is leaving after one more shift. I could say I am his supervisor, sort of, and he is a journalist, definitely, and there are at least six excellent reasons not to do this.
But his thumb has just been on my mouth.
His eyes are on mine.
My flat is across the road.
And I am so tired of only ever being sensible.
“You’re not misreading it,” I whisper.
His jaw shifts once.
“Good.”
It is not enough.
Nothing about that word is enough.
I lean back slightly, not away, just enough to let myself make the choice properly.
“I live across the road,” I say.
“I remember.”
“This is probably a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“You should not agree that quickly.”
“I’m trying not to argue with my watch manager.”
“Coward.”
“Only professionally.”
His mouth curves, slow and knowing.
There is nothing uncertain about him now.
Nothing boyish.
He looks rumpled and far too sure of the effect he is having on me. He also looks like a man who knows exactly what he wants and is waiting for me to say whether he is allowed to want it.
Heat moves through me, low and steady.
I put my napkin on the table.
