Page 39 of Unapologetic Love Story

But Tom Branimir risking a bloody nose? She secretly loved it.

‘A pointless display of toxic masculinity,’ she scolded him, ignoring the electricity in her blood. ‘I expected better of a famous features writer.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he mumbled. ‘Hemingway would be proud.’

‘If you care what he would think.’

‘Well, I do.’

‘Fine.’

‘Fine.’

She continued to clean until his face looked unblemished once more. Her heightened senses twinged at the chemical scent in the cloth. She crumpled it up and wrapped it in its foil wrapper once more.

His face was dangerously close to hers. He was wearing his signature white shirt with dark blue jeans. The shirt had managed to stay pristine, despite his antics. His arms looked strong. He still smelled incredible. His dark curls and slight stubble made her want to run her hands over him, to feel the full texture of him against her palms. His half-lidded eyes were drinking her in, making her feel like purring.

‘Thanks for tidying me up, Raina,’ he said huskily.

‘You’re welcome. Wish I could clean up the inside.’

‘Oh, wow,’ he laughed heartily, making her fight a smile. ‘Don’t mince your words.’

A waiter approached the table and the two of them moved apart, quickly and clumsily.

‘Yes?’ the waiter asked, looking guardedly at Tom.

‘I don’t know what’s good,’ Tom said distractedly, glancing around for a menu.

‘Two scones and a pot of tea for two,’ Raina said politely. ‘And some tap water, please.’

The waiter nodded in satisfaction, threw one more unsure look towards Tom and then departed.

‘You like plain food?’ Tom remarked.

‘Mostly,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘Heightened senses. And also a texture thing. A lot of neurodivergent people are sensitive about food. Not all.’

The admission made her feel instantly vulnerable. While she was proud of who she was, she found it uncomfortable to reveal things to neurotypicals. There was a shorthand she reserved for her community, and things that she would willingly disclose for her doctor and her work commitments, but when it came to anything else, she was a great believer in privacy.

Especially with journalists.

She wondered how Tom would retell this incident in his final feature. Or if he would even mention it at all. For all of his nonchalance and gentle probing, Raina was never unaware of the fact that he was collecting intel on every single interaction that they shared. If he looked at her intensely, she told herself that it was nothing to do with her. He was merely constructing a sentence in his head, figuring out a way to document what was happening in a pithy, witty segment.

‘You still don’t like me, do you?’

He asked the question unemotionally and Raina made certain to keep her expression blank.

‘You haven’t given me much reason to like you,’ she said. ‘You weren’t exactly charming on our first meeting.’

‘I’m sorry. I think you made me nervous. You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met before.’

‘You’re not going to endear yourself to me by insulting other women, I’m afraid. I don’t go for that “not like other girls” crap.’

‘But you’re not.’

‘Not what?

‘Like other girls.’