Chapter Sixteen #2
Slowly, slightly dazed, I look up. It’s Steve Jobs.
Of course it’s Steve Jobs, and for half a second neither of us move. His hands are still holding my arms, steadying me, and I’m close enough to see the faint crease between his brows. There’s concern in his eyes — eyes that are a breathtaking, wonderful kind of blue.
“Hey,” he says quickly. “Are you all right?”
His voice is warm, and much softer than I expected.
“I . . . yes,” I say, aware that the word comes out slightly breathless, my mind still somewhat lost in the gaze of those eyes. “I think so.”
He doesn’t let go immediately, which I’m both thankful for and deeply aware of.
“You almost fell,” he says.
“Almost,” I agree. “I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” he tells me easily. “I’m diabetic. I fall all the time when my blood sugar drops.”
“I don’t have the excuse of diabetes. But I’m very glad you were here to save me all the same.”
He grins a little, then carefully releases my arms, while his hands hover nearby for a second. It’s like he’s not entirely convinced I won’t immediately collapse again. To be fair, that’s probably a good call.
Because up close, he’s even more distracting than he was across the room.
Tall. Broad shoulders. That black turtleneck doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’s in very good shape. I shift on my feet, suddenly very aware of the awkwardness of the moment, and of the flashing pink ears on my head.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, and I nod.
“Yes, I really am. It was just my shoes. And I’ve had a few drinks. And I haven’t eaten much today either—”
I’m babbling, and I know I am. I snap my mouth shut in an attempt to look vaguely sensible, and he stares at me wordlessly.
“Umm, anyway, thanks again for saving me,” I finally say, trying to recover the moment. “Oh, and, you know, thanks for my iCalendar too, which I actually find really useful, even if I have scheduled a daily manifestation moment from five to five past five in the morning which I can’t get rid of.”
He looks at me blankly. “What are you talking about? Why are you thanking me for your iCalendar?”
I gesture to him. “It was a joke. About your costume.”
He continues to look at me oddly. “I’m not wearing a costume.”
“Sure you are, you’re Steve Jobs—” I snap my mouth shut again as realization floods through me.
Oh God. He’s not wearing a costume. This is just what he likes to wear on a daily basis.
Well, that’s it. I’ve done it. I’ve taken a perfectly attractive man who saved me from eating the lobby floor and immediately mocked his clothes, accused him of dressing as Steve Jobs, and thanked him for inventing my phone calendar. Flawless work.
I stare determinedly at a point somewhere near his collarbone, because making eye contact now feels like a risk I’m not emotionally prepared for, and there’s a small pause.
Then . . . he actually smiles.
“You think I look like Steve Jobs?” he asks.
I blink up at him, completely thrown by the fact that he doesn’t sound offended. If anything, he sounds amused. Maybe even pleased.
“Well,” I say, suddenly flummoxed, “not like his twin or anything.” I wave a vague hand between us. “But, I mean . . . What are the odds of looking identical to someone without actually being their twin?”
“That’s easy.” Without missing a beat, he then says, “One in a trillion.”
I stare at him, but he just grins, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should be, and something about it makes my stomach do a small, unnecessary flip.
“Cat fan?” he asks me suddenly, and for a second I have no idea what he’s talking about, before I remember the ears, and I glance down at my costume.
“Oh.” I tug lightly on the edge of my coat. “No. I hate cats.”
His eyebrows lift immediately. “You hate cats?”
“My sister had this costume in her cupboard,” I explain quickly. “It was either this or an inflatable dinosaur.”
“If you hate cats, you should have come as the dinosaur,” he remarks, and I shrug.
“If I’d come as the dinosaur I wouldn’t have fit onto the Tube.”
He studies me for a moment, then shakes his head slowly. “You really hate cats?”
“Yes.”
“But that can’t be true.”
I blink. “Why not?”
“Because no one hates cats.”
I fold my arms. “Well, I do.”
He considers this like it’s a complex statistical anomaly. “Are you allergic to them?”
“No.”
“Did one attack you?”
“No.”
“Did you perhaps grow up with a dog that encouraged bias against feline species?”
“No.” I stare at him. “You’re analysing my relationship with cats like it’s a dataset.”
“Well, I like datasets.” Abruptly, his eyes sweep over me. “And I like cats too. Especially when their ears light up.”
Something in his voice warms my blood, and I chew on my lip, trying not to let it show.
“So,” he carries on lightly. “You got a name, cat-hater?”
Oh. Oh.
It suddenly occurs to me that he’s flirting with me, and I think for a beat, wondering how to respond. Then another thought follows: if my sister can make out with the devil — I can definitely flirt with Steve Jobs. So, I tilt my head slightly, letting my ears wobble.
“Kitty, of course,” I reply coyly.
For a second he looks surprised, before he laughs. The sound is warm and genuine and does something deeply inconvenient to my stomach. God, this guy is just so cute.
“Well, Kitty, if I wanted to get in touch with you again, how would I do so?”
“Well, it’s Halloween. A crystal ball, maybe?”
He laughs again.
“Or you could try something less mystical,” I relent. “Though I can’t promise I’d be as easy to summon without candles and a full moon.”
“Why, what are you, some kind of witch?” he asks.
I give a small, teasing smile. “You have no idea.”
“I’d like to find out.”
My stomach flips again. He’s not just cute, I decide.
He’s gorgeous.
I decide to be brave. “Over dinner, maybe?”
“Deal,” he replies instantly, and a grin spreads across his face.
A small silence settles after that, but this one feels different from the earlier ones. It’s softer and so much easier.
“So,” I say, after another moment, “do you have a name? Or should I just keep calling you Mr Jobs?”
“Theo,” he says, before he adds, “Theo Manford. It’s nice to meet you.”
He holds out his hand, and the gesture is simple, polite, and almost old-fashioned. For some reason, it makes me smile. I reach out automatically to shake it, his hand warm and solid, and the moment our fingers touch—