9. Willow
9
WILLOW
There are butterflies in my tummy as Zane leans over and does my belt for me in the helicopter. I’m wearing the long, slinky white silk dress that I pulled from the rack earlier with a pair of utterly impractical but gorgeous blue-green shoes with an ankle strap. I almost chose flats, but Zane promised to carry me, and despite having changed into a formal suit again, did just that, striding across the grass to the helicopter carrying me chest to chest, his arms beneath my bottom.
As the sun is lowering in the sky, yellow-gold we land on the top of Zane’s London tower block headquarters, which are as stern and simple as his country house is grand. We ride down in the elevator, and he tells me my options for where to eat, detailing who owns each restaurant, how long they’ve been there, and how good they are at paying their protection fee.
“Protection from what?” I ask as we walk into the lobby. It’s modest, but there are armed guards who nod deferentially to Zane as he passes. They’re not men in suits, they’re in black T-shirts and dark jeans, and have tattoos like the ones under Zane’s suit, and they look at him as though he’s one of them, but more than.
“Essex,” Zane says baldly. His hand hovers at the small of my back when he ushers me out onto the street, where a limo is waiting. “And this is London. There are a few unsavoury characters.”
“Oh.” I blink up at him. I’m not dressed for running away. Again. You’d think I’d learned my lesson, but despite this silk dress, I feel so dainty next to Zane, and I can’t take seriously the idea of any threat that could get through him. “Is it dangerous?”
I glance around us. The serious grey tower block is surrounded by old red-brick houses and trees line the street. There are kids playing down by a park, and under a railway bridge is a bright mural of a tree with black and red berries.
“No.” He pauses at the limo and looks down at me. “You know the saying that there used to be a Bobby on every corner, so if you were lost, ask one for directions?”
“Uh, no?” I hide my embarrassment with a little laugh. “You got another first from me. I have literally never heard that.”
“You really are young.” He winces. “A policeman. Police were in the street, as a public service almost.”
The limo door is being held open for us as we stand in the warm evening street.
“And now?”
He shrugs. “Now it’s Bethnal men. And we don’t allow any woman to be harassed.”
I think of his rage in the church. It all seems genuine.
“So what do you want to eat?” he says lightly.
“Um. The first one.” I choose at random. It’s like my decision-making skills aren’t fully developed since my family didn’t give me choices. Or maybe just that I think that any of what Zane offers I would like.
“Good choice. Sita’s, please Levy,” he says to the driver and slides in beside me.
The restaurant turns out to be the sort of place where you’re met at the door with a drink, and they welcome Zane with what seems like genuine enthusiasm that’s baffling to me because there’s respect behind it, not fear. Bethnal isn’t like Maldon. Not at all.
The whole dinner date is a warm hug. We’re both dressed too fancy—Zane in his suit and me in the white silk dress—but it doesn’t matter, because there’s so much to say. The menu is all things that make my mouth water, and when I can’t decide, Zane just sends the waiter away time after time, never hurrying me, then eventually suggests he just order one of everything for himself and I can share, which forces me to make a choice. Because that’s excessive.
I have a couple of regrets though, since the food is as amazing as Zane promised. Delicate and fresh, but with chewy bread on the side.
It’s a small table, and the restaurant is intimate, with lighting just over each table that makes the burble of voices and low music around us fade away. Is it an excuse when he passes me the butter and his thumb strokes down my palm?
We sit and talk, him asking again about my imaginary bookshop. What’s weird is how much he wants to know about me. His eyes flare ice-cold whenever I let slip about how things are with my family. He looks like a snowstorm when I mention the time my brothers stole all my books and burned them.
Boys will be boys, my mother said at the time.
I try to change the topic, and he tells me about Bethnal’s history, from boxing to the markets and parks. It’s not enough though, and leaves me desperate to know more about him, not just the territory he’s rightly proud of.
When I steal a French fry from his plate, he rolls his eyes and nudges the rest over to me, and there’s a flirtatious edge when he dips his finger into my dessert and licks it clean.
I blush. I totally blush.
He talks easily about his territory, but doesn’t offer much about himself, and I dare not ask, though curiosity builds in me.
This man. I like him too much. He’s gruff and hard, but charming.
“How was your first date?” he asks as we leave, walking out into the velvet night glowing with orange lights.
“Really good,” I admit, and our eyes meet.
“They’ll all be good. All your firsts.”
And suddenly, I can’t breathe, despite us being out in the cool, fresh air. He hasn’t kissed me all evening, and although his protective hand is at my back, I need more.
“Where shall we go?” he asks casually. “There are bars.”
“Can we go home?” I blurt out.
He tilts his head. “You want…”
I need to touch him. There’s an energy shimmering between us that has to have an outlet soon or I might burst.
“To the house,” I say. I don’t even know what it’s called, and I don’t want to explain to him or to myself why that place feels like it’s ours . Bethnal is gorgeous, but it’s his London territory. Here he’s a kingpin, through and through.
There, I think he’s Zane. And he’s mine .
He tips my chin up with his forefinger and strokes his thumb across my lips. “Home.”