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Because there it is. The charm. That smile.

My stomach drops. Dad’s face flashes in my mind—that same practiced warmth.

“No time,” I shrug. Too fast. “I’ve got dinner.”

“Flick’s, right?” One of his brows arches in the shade of the baseball cap, and I freeze. “Simon’s taking Andrew.”

“You’re very observant.” I narrow my eyes. “For someone skulking around in a baseball cap.”

He grins, and I hate that I almost do too.

“Who are you taking?” he asks.

“I’m taking myself.” The words come out flatter than I meant.

He tilts his head. “Wow. You really are immune.”

“Oh—were you trying to charm me?” I blink. “Hang on, let me just switch off my bullshit detector.”

He laughs. Properly. The sound vibrates through my chest, and I clench my jaw against it.

My hands ball into fists inside my gloves.

“So where after Manchester?” I ask, too quick, crossing my arms.

He blinks.

Then breaks into a laugh. “Oh my God. You’re a fan.”

“No,” I snap. “I’m not.”

He grins, wide and smug. “I didn’t say we were playing Manchester.”

Shit.

My cheeks burn. “Maybe your fangirls in the shop said it.”

“Nope.”

“Maybe I heard it on the radio.”

He laughs harder. And I want to kick him.

“Right,” I snap, spinning on my heel. “Nice meeting you. Not. I’m off for the Tube. Do not follow me.”

And this time, I mean it.

His lips curl at the corners, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. Actually amused. Not camera-ready charm.

“You’re far too rude to be a groupie.”

“Oof. Harsh.” I place a hand on my chest like I’ve been wounded.

But then a blacked-out Land Rover hums to a halt beside us. The engine idles, low and expensive. His smile flickers. Fades.

“Can I offer you a lift?”

I stiffen. “No, thanks.”