Chapter 9 #2
“Even at that age, a man should know how to treat a woman. It’s frustrating you had to go through that.”
“He’s still the same way now,” I reply. “I don’t think he’s ever going to change.”
“Now?” His tone shifts—tight, almost offended. “You’re still in touch with him?”
I shake my head, and he relaxes in his seat.
“No, not in touch. I still hear about him and his antics through friends. He calls them sometimes, trying to reach me. He even called my mom once. Luckily, she didn’t pick up.”
“That’s terrible,” he says, sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Julia.”
“It’s okay. Your situation is much worse. Half the world thinks you’re this jealous ex out for blood.”
“I think she was out for my blood,” he says, pensive. “The funny thing is, it was my first night out since…” He pauses. “My PR team told me to lay low, to let it blow over. But it’s like the storm’s permanently over my head now.”
“And yet here you are,” I point out. “I wouldn’t blame you if you had started it. I mean–––I’m not even mad about the breakup anymore. I’m just angry it’s taking me so long to find myself again. Angry enough to get physical, maybe.”
“I’ve never liked contact sports. Or public displays of testosterone,” he says with a faint smirk. Then, more seriously: “I think you don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re in another country, by yourself, and no matter what led you to be here, you still came.”
“It’s not that. It’s more up here.” I tap the side of my head. “I’m scared of getting involved with anyone new; I don’t know who to trust. I don’t even know if I want to believe in love anymore.”
I trip over my words slightly. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Easy. I was never in love to begin with. What I felt with her, that wasn’t it,” he says. “Once you let yourself feel again, you’ll realize the same thing.”
“Maybe I’ll give it a try.”
We finish the rest of our food between conversations about what life looks like when we’re not on a break from acting or away from home. I tell him about Emma—how she’s my rock, my voice of reason.
He, in return, tells me about Tony. About how outside of his family, he’s the only one he really trusts.
It makes me sad. But when I tell him that, he reassures me that it’s okay.
“I’d rather have one true friend than a million fake ones,” he says.
“I agree.”
By the time the plates are wiped clean, I’m stuffed. The kind of full where you swear you’ll never eat again. Unless it’s dessert—I always have room for dessert.
“Moment of truth,” I say, dead serious.
Harrison’s eyebrows scrunch down, concerned. “Hit me.”
“Are you a dessert person?”
He pauses for dramatic effect. “Unfortunately…”
I look at him wearily.
“I’m a sucker for dessert.”
We share a homemade tiramisu. Fluffy, creamy, and soaked in the perfect ratio of espresso and Amaretto.
Besides Joshua himself, it’s the best part of the night. I haven’t had a meal like this since I moved to London. All the nerves were worth feeling.
When the check comes, we argue for a full ten minutes about who’s paying. He refuses to even let me cover my half.
“It was my idea. My restaurant choice. My bill,” he insists. “Next time, you can plan the evening, and then I’ll let you pay.”
I look at him questioningly. His cheeky smile is all but convincing. Still, I know there’s nothing I can say to change his mind.
“Fine,” I huff. He chuckles, sliding his card into the check holder.
He stands up and puts on his jacket. I don’t want to, but I stare. There’s no stopping it—not when he looks this good.
He comes over to me and holds my jacket open like a true gentleman. His fingers graze my shoulders, making me shiver.
The waitress stands by the front desk. Harrison hands her the bill. She flashes her sexiest smile at him. How rude, I think. But the smile fades the moment she realizes he’s not paying any attention. Instead, he’s turned, solely focused on me.
He doesn’t say a word, but I can tell his brain is turning. His gaze is tender, something I can’t hold for long. I look down, hoping to hide my impending blush.
“I hope you enjoyed your meal,” she says, handing back his card.
He nods and takes my hand, fingers intertwining with mine.
I glance down, before looking back at her. “We sure did,” I say with a smile.
He opens the door for me without letting go. We step out into the cold, laughter bubbling between us.
“Her face,” I say, chuckling. “That was hilarious. Thanks.”
“No, thank you for coming with me,” he says softly. “I had a wonderful time, even with the not-so-polite waitress.”
I smile and nod. “I should probably call a taxi.”
“I can give you a lift home…” he offers, “or we could take the underground.”
I shake my head. “Not a good idea. There’s only so much a cap and glasses can do.”
“Oh, come on, love. It’ll be fine. It’s such a waste to take a taxi every day. And this way, I make sure you don’t have another pervert taking you home.”
“So, a train full of strangers is better?”
He tilts his head and pouts adorably. “I could always come myself.”
“Subway it is then.”
We walk back to The Anchor. I spot the Mavericks’ building as we pass. The closest station is a few streets ahead. The entrance bustles with people coming and going. I don’t have any faith this will end well for Harrison.
He keeps his head down and pulls me through the crowd toward the nearest ticket machine. He doesn’t seem worried.
“Where do you live?” he asks.
I shrug and pull out my phone, showing him the address saved in my maps app.
He rolls his eyes. “Chelsea. We could get off at Sloane Square. It’s not that far away. Better than dealing with traffic.”
He starts pressing buttons on the screen until the machine spits out two cards stamped with ‘Oyster.’ Without warning, he pulls me to the line panels. Two choices: left or right.
“This is the only tricky part with the subway,” he explains, pointing at the stairs on either side. “Only one will take you home. Where to?”
I take a close look. I remember him saying we’re getting off at Sloan Square, and there is only one of them that has that stop. “To the right?”
“See? Not that hard, was it?” Harrison smirks. “You’re a quick learner.”
He leads the way down. We wait for the train as far away from the crowd as we can. The ground trembles slightly, and the speaker crackles, announcing its imminent arrival.
My worst fear materializes as an almost full train screeches to a stop in front of us. We squeeze in through the last door, pressed against the back end of the passenger car.
Harrison stands in front of me, and as if we weren’t close enough, more people get in, pushing him the rest of the way into me.
He keeps his head down. Our eyes lock, and I feel like I’m slowly hypnotized. The train starts moving, and he jolts forward, bringing his right arm up to lean on the wall behind me—the second time today.
I scramble for something to steady myself—anywhere—but there’s nowhere to grab.
“Hold on to me.”
I tease. “Wouldn’t you like that.”
“Under any other circumstances,” he says, “I most definitely would.”
I huff, but I slide my arm behind him, gripping his jacket. I can feel all of him—the intoxicating scent radiating from his body is mixing up my brain.
It all seems like a dream. I thought no one could make me feel this tingly, this excited.
No matter what Emma says, London was never for me to find someone else.
It was about giving myself some space. Room to breathe.
And yet, here he is. Planning the perfect evening, caring more than any first date I’ve had.
I used to think guys like these were myths. Urban legends passed down but never real. Caring, charming and so hot… This might be the jackpot of my life. Can I really say no?
“I know what you’re thinking,” he whispers in my ear. “And it’s not what friends do. So please, stop biting your lip. I can only control myself for so long.”
My mouth drops open. Words fail me. But, surprise, it seems I can have the upper hand whenever I want. I smirk, bringing my other hand up to his chest.
“Get a grip, Harrison.”
His eyebrow lifts above the frame of his sunglasses. “This is how you want to play it?”
Just in time, the speaker announces our stop.
“Oh! Time to go,” I say, scurrying out of the train. I glance at the signs and start walking in what I hope is the right direction. He strolls behind me, not a word, so I assume I can’t be far off.
Night falls into silence. We walk side by side, lost in our own thoughts. I’m trying to hold on to every detail, dreading my front door. It’s been ages since I’ve had an evening like this. Longer even since I enjoyed anything without my past nudging me.
I sneak a look at him. Even if this is the last time I see him, Harrison has already left his footprint in my life. He was right—the more you dwell, the more you miss.
“This is me,” I say, leaning against my building’s door. I know I can’t stay long. If I do, we’ll both end up upstairs. “Now your stalking skills are way better than mine. My job, my apartment…”
“You’re going to find me out here when you least expect it,” he jokes, raising an eyebrow. “I’m happy to even the playing field whenever you want.”
“I know you are,” I smile.
We stand there, time stretching like a breath held too long.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say softly. “I haven’t had this much fun in ages. Even if it wasn’t technically a date.”
“As long as you keep showing up, I’ll keep trying to offer the best entertainment possible.”
“Friends then?” I tease, opening my arms for a hug.
He nods before pulling me into a tight embrace. I sigh. I could stay like this forever.
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and whispers, “If this is what it’s like being my friend, imagine what it’ll be like when you’re mine.”
He kisses my cheek and walks away, leaving me stunned against the door.
I watch him go. He knows I’m watching. He doesn't turn, just strolls with his hands in his pockets until he disappears around the corner.
I stand still, wondering if he’s as weak as I would be—and he comes back.
My phone chirps.
Harrison
Go inside.
This man already knows me better than I know myself. What am I getting myself into?