Page 30 of Unapologetic Love Story

She said a hasty goodbye, swiping up her bag and heading for the exit. He followed her at a leisurely pace. Just as she was pushing the pub door open to enter the beer garden, it swung back in her face as a rowdy group of rugby lads pushed their way inside. Raina stumbled backwards and almost lost her footing.

A pair of hands caught her by the hips and gently steadied her. The feel of it was a flame catching powder. She was expecting a remark about their closeness, his front against her back and her head against his chest, but instead he snapped at the rugby lads.

He barked at them to watch where they were going, and his usually gentle Scottish lilt went from a casual four to an aggressive eight. The men looked terrified of him and they apologized profusely.

He still smelled of neroli and his fingers were still tight on her hips. She felt no desire to remove them. In fact, she wanted to fall into him. His hands were huge and she knew his arms would feel incredible and she wanted them wrapped around her. Raina suddenly wondered what it would feel like to have him push her hair away, scrape his stubble against her neck and brush his lips against her throat as she sank back into his body.

Raina, move. Walk.

‘You all right?’ he asked, his mouth brushing her ear.

No, you’re making me want to do indecent things with you in public!

‘Just fine,’ was all she could say, as she stepped away from him. Every inch of her body complained at the detachment, except the sensible part of her brain that was demanding she call an Uber and hightail it out of Fulham.

She knew what Pepper would say when she recounted all of this later. Just have sex with him, get it over with, then he can’t write about you because it’s a conflict of interest, and the itch will have been scratched.

The fascination will end, the attraction will dim, and it won’t be this irritating or unbearable. You won’t remember that the mask seems to want to slip away when he’s around. Or that he can parry quips in a way that makes you able to let your tongue loose – sure you can use the deep cuts with him. The touchstones that other people haven’t read about.

You’ll forget all of that, she told herself. You’ll stop having dreams about him late at night and it will all fade into a memory rather than a current ache.

She staggered into the beer garden, refusing to linger with that train of thought. So he was handsome. So he was annoyingly principled. He showed his intellect and his wits, instead of just boasting about having them, like so many men she’d known. She let out a breathless sound as the unapologetic heat of the sun hit her skin. She could feel Tom Branimir behind her like a shadow, though he was clearly trying to be mindful of her space.

‘Next Sunday,’ she said. ‘Poplar High Street, eight in the morning.’

He looked shocked. ‘What for?’

‘You’ll see, Alice.’

She set off across the green and didn’t look back to see if he was watching her.

Tom was resolute and cold of heart as he sat across from his editor the following day. He was determined to be professional. He couldn’t get distracted by soft skin and a witty tongue. Raina Lewis was interesting, fine. Outrageously attractive, of course, but that was none of his business.

‘How’s tricks?’ Ben, his book editor, asked innocently. They were sat outside in Islington, not far from Ben’s home office.

‘I think I’ve found the new material you wanted for the last chapter,’ Tom replied, cutting through Ben’s attempts at small talk and getting straight to the subject line of their meeting.

‘Hit me with it.’

‘There’s this girl, Raina Lewis.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘She does a disability podcast.’

‘Scam artist?’

‘No!’ Tom defensively blurted out the word before he could censor himself. ‘I mean, I don’t think so. It’s something . . . else.’

‘Well, you kind of have a theme going for you, Tom,’ Ben said carefully. ‘You want an in-depth look at uncovering a bunch of frauds and then . . . something else?’

‘I think it might be more complex,’ Tom said, changing tack. ‘I want something good. The rest of the book is so cynical.’

‘Because that’s what you do,’ Ben pointed out. He smiled, but when Tom didn’t mirror the expression, he blinked. ‘Sorry, go on.’

‘I want the book to have an antidote. It can’t all be poison. She has this small corner of the internet and it’s warm and it’s optimistic. Not manufactured, fake positivity. Real connection. She’s different. She’s kind of like . . . I don’t know. A cure for all of it.’

‘All of what?’ Ben asked, and Tom had to admit his editor looked rather content with his cold cider and the warm sun on his face.