Unbreak My Hart (The Notorious Harts 4)

He nods thoughtfully, his eyes probing me. ‘Let me tell you about them.’

It’s dangerous though, like the opening of a door I don’t know if I’ll ever want to walk through.

‘I’d rather talk about you,’ I say honestly—surprising us both. ‘I mean, just while we wait for breakfast,’ I backpedal, shrugging, wishing I could draw the words back inside me.

‘I’m not particularly interesting.’

‘You’re practically royalty.’ I infuse my voice with lightness, reverting to the way I always behave when I’m flirting with a guy, because it’s easier to keep someone at arm’s length when you’re being charming. I shift away from him at the same time, and this time he doesn’t stop me. I move into the kitchen. Several tea bags have been plonked in the sink. The image of them all squished flat in a line is strangely amusing. ‘How long have you been awake?’

‘A while.’

‘Like—’ I count. ‘Seven teas a while?’

He laughs, a deep rumble. ‘Apparently.’

‘You want a coffee?’

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t drink the stuff.’

‘You don’t...drink coffee?’ My look is one of complete non-comprehension. ‘How is that even possible?’

He grins, a sexy grin that’s slow and speculative and makes my breath heavy. ‘I just don’t like it.’

‘But you brought coffee to my office the other day. Yesterday.’ Was it really just yesterday? So much has happened since, I feel like a different person.

‘Hot chocolate.’

I burst out laughing. ‘What are you, five years old?’

He responds with a mock-wounded look. ‘Hey, I know what I like, okay?’

I reach for a pod, inserting it into the machine then hit the button.

‘Another tea then?’

A slight pause, as though he’s surprised I can do anything as civilised as make tea and as polite as offer him one.

‘Sure. Thanks.’

‘Milk?’

He nods. ‘No sugar.’

I make our drinks, wondering at this small act of normality—one could almost describe it as domesticity—and imagine what it would be like to be someone who yearns for this. People do, right? Lots of people spend their twenties convinced of the soulmate myth that there’s some perfect ‘other half’ out there for them.

That if you just swipe right enough times you’re going to get lucky and find the person you’re destined to be with.

The person you could end up spending the rest of your life making cups of tea and pots of coffee for, sitting beside and, I don’t know, arguing about The Times crossword with or whatever.

But that’s never been my fantasy. It’s never even been close to my field of expectation. I carry our drinks back to the table, placing his carefully in the midst of his paperwork before taking up the chair opposite, hooking my feet to the edge of the seat, my knees beneath my chin.

‘So?’

‘So?’ He sips his tea then closes the screen of his laptop.

‘Why are you a lawyer?’

I don’t know if he’s going to answer me. I hope he understands that I need time—I can’t just rush headlong into talking about the Harts. I need to warm up t