I want to groan and scoff.
I want to print that dreadful word on a sock with the caption This just-friends stuff is utter bullshit.
I don’t want to be just friends with her, whatsoever. Yet I also know we can’t be anything more.
You don’t romance your rival.
But I don’t scoff, groan, or mock her. She makes too good of a case for friendship. I want to see her outside of work. I want to find a way to have her in my days. If friendship is the container for that, so be it.
“I accept your friendship offer,” I say.
“Good. Now, let’s talk about something besides work,” she says. “As friends do.”
Well, since this is the new us, I’ll begin again.
“How about . . . London?” I sweep an arm toward a double-decker bus trundling along, encompassing the red phone booth up ahead and the silhouette of The Savoy Hotel in the distance. “Why on earth don’t you love the best city in the world? We have great art. Wonderful shops. Diverse culture. Theatre, museums, music, history, and all of Europe just across the Channel. And yes, the food gets a bad rap, but that’s only if you don’t know where to go. London actually has fantastic cuisine.” We cross the street, nearing a nouveau Middle Eastern restaurant. “Take that spot. When my friend Griffin was here a few months ago, we had the best lentil and falafel dishes there, as well as braised asparagus and olives that were simply divine.”
Jo presses a hand to her stomach. “Mmm. Don’t say such tempting things.”
I sense an opportunity I don’t want to miss. Nodding to the restaurant, I ask, “Do you want to get a bite?”
Her lips curve up. “The thing we weren’t going to do on a Friday night?”
The plans we cancelled because it was such a bad idea to do otherwise. But if you’re both hungry at the same time and there’s a restaurant right there? That sounds more like serendipity.
“Friends have dinner, Jo.”
“Well, that is true, Heath.”
“And you can just think of it like . . . we’re just happening upon the café. It’s not planned like a date would be,” I say with a bit of cheek.
“Ohhh. Just, say, coincidental dining?” Her grin says she likes this loophole. A friendship exemption.
“Exactly. That’s all it is between friends,” I say, ever so casual.
“Between friends,” she says, wholly flirty.
I set a hand on her back. “Then let me take you to some coincidental eating. May I?”
She raises her chin to meet my eyes.
Hers glimmer with yes, and my chest . . . flips.
That’s something I haven’t felt in ages.
Or maybe since Sunday night.
I want that feeling again and again. That heady buzz like she and I are the only two people in a city of millions.
Perhaps that’s the déjà vu tonight—these feelings I’d almost forgotten . . . until her.
“You may,” she says.
I guide her into the restaurant and ask for a table for two.
“Ah, you’re in luck,” the hostess says. “We just had a cancellation.”
Almost like this is where we were supposed to wind up tonight.
Almost like fate.
After we order, I return the conversation to London. “Tell me why your relationship with my homeland is complicated. You said you were here for grad school. Did something happen?”
As soon as I ask, her mood shifts. Her eyes darken. “A lot of things happened.”
“What sort of things? May I ask?” I’m wildly curious, aching to know her more, but I don’t want to pressure her. I simply hope she wants to share.
She glances behind her as if checking for eavesdroppers then leans closer over the table. “My father lives here.” It comes out like a heavy confession.
The admission surprises me, too, because it seems a contradiction. Family in town should be a good thing. I like being near my parents, seeing them from time to time.
“There’s a lot to this story,” I say.
Her eyes are shadowed with sadness, perhaps regret. “Yeah, there is.”
“I presume he’s one of the reasons you don’t like London,” I say, concern thrumming through me. “Do you have a strained relationship?”
She drags her lower lip along her teeth, eyes swinging away from me, then back. “He’s hard on me. Always has been. My mother was the you can do it type, and he’s the you’ll have your work cut out for you type. He likes to tell me that I’m biting off more than I can chew, that a VP position is out of my reach.”
Before I can do more than tut, she shakes her head as if shaking off my sympathy. “But that’s not the huge thing. That’s just him—professor and noted hard-ass. I can handle that.” She draws a deep breath as if she needs extra strength for the next words. “It’s his wife that I struggle with. Or, rather, it’s the two of them together.”