Promised (One Night 1)

‘You deserve it. Put me down.’

He places me on my feet and straightens me out. ‘I’m headed in the other direction, so I’ll love you and leave you.’ He leans down and pecks my cheek. ‘Be good.’

‘That’s a really stupid thing to say to me.’ I jab his shoulder in an attempt to restore our normality.

‘Well, yes, it usually would be, but my best friend has developed a stupid gene in recent weeks.’ He jabs my shoulder right back.

He’s right; I have, but I’ve also lost that gene again, so he has nothing to worry about, and neither do I. ‘I’m going on a friendly date, that’s all.’

‘And a little snog wouldn’t hurt, but no hanky-panky until I’ve met him. I need to check him out.’ He grabs my shoulders and turns me around. ‘Off you trot.’

‘I’ll call you,’ I say as I start to leave him behind.

‘Only if you’re not too busy,’ he calls back, earning himself a roll of my eyes that he can’t see to appreciate.

It’s ten minutes to eight when I arrive at Selfridges. Oxford Street is still bustling, even at this hour, so I prop myself up against the shopfront and watch the world go by, making my best effort to look casual and at ease. I know I’m failing.

After five minutes of waiting, I decide that fiddling with my phone will make me look much more relaxed, so I rootle through my bag and start a text to Gregory, just to pass the time.

How long do I wait?

I click send, and my phone starts ringing almost immediately, Gregory’s name flashing up. ‘Hi,’ I answer, grateful he called because actually being on the phone is an even better way to appear relaxed.

‘He’s not there yet?’

‘No, but it’s not even eight.’

‘Doesn’t matter!’ he exclaims. ‘Damn it, I should’ve made you late. It’s the number-one rule of dating.’

‘What is?’ I ask, changing my standing position to lean on my shoulder rather than my back.

‘The woman has to be late. Everyone knows that.’ He doesn’t sound happy.

I smile to the crowd of strangers scurrying by. ‘So what happens when the two people dating are men? Who’s the one to be late then?’

‘Very funny, baby girl. Very funny.’

‘It’s a perfectly reasonable question.’

‘Stop diverting the conversation to me. Is he there yet?’

I glance back, my eyes darting around briefly, but find no Luke. ‘Nope. How long should I wait?’

‘I hate him already,’ Gregory grumbles. ‘Two pricks in two weeks. You’re on fire!’

I laugh to myself, silently agreeing with my aggravated friend, although I’ll never tell him so. ‘Thank you.’ I roll onto my back against the glass and sigh. ‘You’ve still not answered my question. How long should I—’ My tongue dries up in a second as I watch a car cruise past, my head turning to follow its path down Oxford Street. There must be thousands of black Mercedes driving around London, so why am I so drawn to this one? The tinted windows? The AMG plate on the wing?

‘Livy?’ Gregory snaps me back to the present. ‘Livy, you there?’

‘Yes,’ I say, watching as the Mercedes slows and then pulls a highly illegal three-point turn in the road before driving back toward me.

‘Is he there?’ Gregory asks.

‘Yes!’ I squeak. ‘I should go.’

‘Better late than never,’ he mutters. ‘Have fun.’

‘Will do.’ I barely push the words past the lump in my throat and quickly hang up, turning to face the other way, like it might look as if I’m unaware. Should I leave? What if Luke turns up and I’ve gone? You can’t park on Oxford Street so he can’t stop. If it’s even him. It might not be. Shit, I know it is. I push my body away from the glass and quickly weigh up my options, but before my brain makes an informed decision, my feet are in action and carrying me away from my distress. I walk with purpose, taking deep breaths, concentrating hard on maintaining my even pace.

I close my eyes when I see the car pass me slowly, and only reopen them again when I’m barged from the side by an impatient businessman, who proceeds to ridicule me for not looking where I’m going. I can’t even find the power to apologise, instead picking up my stride again, but then I notice the car has stopped and I stop, too. I watch as the door to the driver’s side opens. His body flows from the car like liquid, rising to his full height before pushing the door shut and buttoning up the jacket of his grey suit. His black shirt and tie compliment his dark waves, and his jaw is covered in stubble. He looks magnificent. I feel conquered, and he hasn’t even made it to me yet. What does he want? Why has he stopped?

I fight some balanced thoughts into my mind and I’m in action again, turning away from him and walking fast. ‘Livy!’ I can hear his footsteps coming after me, the sound of expensive shoes beating heavily on the concrete behind me, even over the bustling sounds of London surrounding me. ‘Livy, wait!’

The jolt of surprise that kicked my feet into action turns to irritation as I listen to him shouting my name, like I owe him the time of day. I stop and face him, feeling more determined than irritated when I finally meet his eyes.

He skids to a stop on his fancy shoes and straightens his jacket out, just standing in front of me, making no attempt to speak. I’m not saying anything, because I have nothing to say, and, in fact, I hope he doesn’t speak because then I won’t have to encounter those lips moving slowly and listen to the smoothness of that voice. I’m safer when he’s silent and unmoving . . . or remotely safer than when he’s touching me or talking to me, at least.