He folded the tie up neatly and put it in his jacket pocket, then opened the bag of salt- and-vinegar chips. She wondered if it would be possible to surreptitiously fan herself without him noticing.
The train burst into the sunlight. Cath ate her chips and considered what made City smell faintly of cedar. Cedar hangers in his wardrobe at home? A cedar coat rack at the office? Was it his jacket or something underneath? She could find out if she leaned over a few inches and pressed her face into his shoulder. She managed to restrain herself by shoving a handful of chips into her mouth.
The train stopped at Heron Quays, then carried on.
“These are loathsome,” she observed.
Nev reached over and fished one out of her bag. His fingers brushed hers, and she liked it. “You don’t have to eat them.”
“I know, but they’re irresistible. Loathsome and irresistible is a perfect combination in junk food. Have you ever had an Oreo?” She reached for one of his chips. She didn’t even really like salt-and-vinegar, but she wanted an excuse to touch him again. She’d been reduced to flirting like a thirteen-year-old.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“I can’t find them here. They’re these hard chocolate sandwich cookies—biscuits,” she corrected.
“I know what a cookie is, Mary Catherine.”
She hated her name, but she loved the way he said it. Like an endearment. Oh, she had it bad.
“And in between there’s a layer of white … frosting, I guess, though it’s a stretch to call it that. It’s a sort of sweetened, whipped hydrogenated oil paste that the good people of Nabisco refer to as ‘Stuf.’ That’s Stuf with one f, City, if that gives you any idea of what I’m talking about. Anyway, they’re really gross. I love them.”
Nev smiled. Reaching up, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his eyes never leaving her face. “Have dinner with me.”
“No.”
“Let me walk you home then.”
“No.”
“Give me your phone number?”
She smiled, looking down at her lap. “Sorry. No. It would be a mistake.”
“Would it help if I promised not to be?”
Startled, she looked directly at him then. His eyes were earnest, and she wondered what sort of life he’d led that he could even say such a thing. What would it be like to be so sure of yourself that you could promise not to be a mistake? She didn’t know. Couldn’t remember a time when she’d been sure. “You can’t.”
“I can,” he said without blinking. “I will. I promise you, Cath, you won’t regret me.”
“But I already do.” Or she should, anyway. She was trying to. Her conscience regretted him, but her body didn’t. And her heart … Well, what did her heart know? Her heart was always getting her into trouble.
“You regret what happened on Saturday?” The idea deep
ened the line between his eyebrows.
“Sure. Of course. Don’t you?”
“Absolutely not.”
Her heart beat faster, delighted with his answer, and Cath acknowledged with dismay that it had already picked a side. So much for fortifications. So much for keeping her distance. It was brain against body from here on out. Mind over matter. Reason versus sentiment.
Reason said she ought to regret what she’d done—every moment of it, from the concert to waking up in his bed to heading back there later on and spending the rest of the morning tangled up with him, skin to skin. How could she not? Why didn’t he?
“But what happened— It was …” Her mother’s voice supplied her with a few choice words: Wrong. Sordid. Immoral.
Except it hadn’t felt like any of those things.
“Incredible?” he suggested.