“Will you see them while you’re here? Your father and his wife?”
My jaw tightens. My teeth click. “I’m seeing him on Sunday. I don’t know if I want to see her.”
“That’s understandable. And, for better or for worse, he’s family, so perhaps it’s easier to see him only.”
“I suppose so,” I say. My gaze rests on our hands, locked together on a Friday night as I tell him about the soap opera period of my life. The best part is, he doesn’t judge the fact that ten years later I’m still unsure how I feel about my father and Poppy.
“Thank you for telling me about them,” he says, “and what it all means to you.”
“I don’t usually tell men on the first date,” I reply with a sparkle of returning levity.
“Oh, this is a date now?” Heath asks it like a challenge. A good challenge. “I thought we were just friends?”
“It’s sooo just friends coincidentally dining,” I say, as I pick up my fork and dive in.
“It definitely seems to be,” he says, a little hint of a smirk in his lips.
After I take a bite, I choose more honesty. “You know, Heath . . .?”
“Yes, Jo?”
“You keep doing this thing.”
“What thing?”
“Where I think I miss New York, but you come near and I don’t miss it at all.”
His smile is electric, five thousand watts. “Bet I could make you like London after all.”
I take another bite of my salad, chew, then set down the fork. “Is that a challenge?”
He lifts his water glass, drinks, then leans closer, his elbows on the table. “Perhaps it is. You said your friends are trying to get you to like it. What’s their plan?”
“They gave me a book—Most Instagrammable Spots in London. I’ve been checking them out and taking photos.” He cringes visibly, and it cracks me up. “Oh, excuse me. What is wrong with that?”
He sighs, sounding so aggrieved. “Let’s see. Peggy Porschen’s. Tower Bridge with you holding it. The London Eye.” He stops, stares levelly across the table. “I could go on.”
“Oh please, that won’t be necessary. I can smell your disdain from here.”
He laughs buoyantly; his eyes crinkle with laugh lines. “Good. Just wanted to be clear.”
“You’re crystal.”
“Look, what’s the point in Porschen’s? The food is mediocre. It doesn’t deserve to be photographed just because it’s pink. And Tower Bridge is lovely, but there are other prettier bridges that aren’t so crowded. And if you’re in mad love with Ferris wheels, I’ll take you on the London Eye, but if you’re not, why bother? Besides, I bet I can get you to love . . . my London. Want to take me up on it?”
His London?
Sign me up.
“Yes,” I reply.
“And two miles later, here we are,” I say, gesturing to the dark blue wooden door into my building.
Heath cranes his neck upward. “Fourth floor, you say?”
“Yes, why? Are you going to serenade me?”
Shaking his head, he laughs. “No. I have a terrible singing voice. I just want to picture you.”
“Then wait here. You don’t even have to picture me in your mind’s eye. I’ll be at that window,” I say, pointing to the one lined with plants, “in about two minutes.”
He hums, his eyes narrowing as he calculates something. “Maybe make it three.”
“Oh,” I ask, arching a brow. “What are you going to do for that extra minute?”
“Give you a gift.” He reaches behind himself, pulls a pair of socks from his back pocket, then dangles them in front of me. “For you.”
I’m absolutely enchanted—by socks.
He hands me the gift, and I unfurl them, delighting at the illustration. It’s a woman lounging on a park bench with a book. The caption below her says: Fuck off, I’m reading.
My heart handsprings. “Am I truly supposed to not kiss you after this?”
“I don’t know. Are you?” he asks, tempting me.
As if I need any more of that. This time with him is nothing but temptation.
And yet . . . we work together.
We’re competing for the same job.
We’re rivals.
We aren’t dating, but we are becoming friends.
I hesitate, and in my pause, he holds up a hand as if he’s read my thoughts. “You’re right. Best that we keep this at ‘coincidental dining,’” he says.
“And touring. Don’t forget your promise to make me love this city.”
“It’s a tall order. So, we’ll start at eleven sharp tomorrow,” he says, then gives me a location.
With the socks in my hand, I throw my arms around Heath, my chest pressing against his, my nose sliding along his neck. He smells so damn good. I want to bury my face in his shoulder and kiss him all night long.
Seems he wants the same, since he tugs me close, his breath catching as his arms wrap tight around me.
And we linger.
He’s stealing hits of me too.
I wrench away from him, since otherwise I’ll spend the night like this, pulling him closer, wanting him again.