Chapter Twenty-Two
Theo takes me to a bakery near London Bridge, for which I am entirely overdressed.
“Really?” I ask, as I shift in my black dress on a stool, and he smiles at me.
“Give me ten minutes,” he says. “If you’re not convinced by then, we’re out of here.”
Ten minutes later, I would quite literally fight someone to stay.
The place smells like cinnamon and sugar and something warm and buttery that feels like a hug you didn’t know you needed. It’s busy in an effortless, unbothered way, with people in coats and boots, scarves half-unwrapped, chatting over coffee like this is just another Tuesday.
Meanwhile, I look like I’m waiting for a proposal somewhere between croissants and the éclairs.
I don’t care though, because—
“Oh my God,” I say, as Theo sets a plate in front of me.
There are so many pastries to choose from.
Light and golden, dusted with sugar, glazed, filled — each one somehow more perfect than the last. I take a bite of a strawberry tart that is at once both buttery and sweet.
The kind of pastry that practically dissolves the second you bite into them.
I make a noise of contented pleasure, and Theo laughs.
“Convinced?”
“Yes,” I say, already eyeing an apple turnover so light I’m surprised it’s not floating three feet off the floor. “I’ll never doubt you again.”
I take another bite of the strawberry tart and close my eyes, briefly considering cancelling all my future plans and moving into this bakery permanently.
“How did you even find this place?” I ask, opening my eyes again. I don’t even bother pretending to be composed any more.
Theo shrugs, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I came across it by chance.”
“Lucky chance,” I reply immediately.
He nods, watching me with quiet amusement. “Yeah,” he says, softer now. He leans forward, and before I can quite process it, his hand lifts, his fingers brushing, light and careful, against my bottom lip.
I freeze.
“Crumb,” he murmurs, brushing away a stray flake.
His hand lingers a fraction longer than necessary, and my brain, which had been functioning perfectly well up until this exact moment, completely shuts down.
“Oh,” I say intelligently.
Smooth. Effortless. Truly the height of charm.
Theo grins at me before his hand drops back down.
“Like I said, I found it by chance,” he explains again.
“I got caught in the rain once. My blood sugar dropped and I needed glucose. I dashed in here looking for a place to hide for ten minutes and ended up spending two hours here trying every cannoli they made. Pure chance.”
“A happy accident,” I reply, and he nods.
“Yes. Just like meeting you.”
He looks at me then — properly looks at me — and something in his expression shifts, quiet but intent, like he’s trying to memorize me. Heat rises in my cheeks before I can stop it, but still, I don’t look away.
And neither does he.
I clear my throat, looking down at my plate for a second before daring to glance back up at him. “You’re very good at this, you know.”
“Good at what?”
“This,” I gesture vaguely between us, nearly knocking over a pastry in the process. “The . . .” I hesitate. “The whole date thing.”
He smiles slightly, but there’s something more thoughtful behind it now. “I don’t date enough to be good at it,” he admits. “Maybe I’m just good at being on a date with you.”
I blush even harder now. “You need to stop being so sweet,” I tell him. “You’re outcharming the pastries, at this point.”
He laughs. “Did you know I wasn’t even meant to be there that night?”
“What night?”
“The Halloween party.”
“Is that why you weren’t in a costume? I mean, other than the clothes you borrowed from Apple’s head office?”
He laughs. “Yeah.”
I tilt my head. “Then why were you there?”
For the first time since I’ve met him, Theo looks . . . a little flustered. It’s subtle. A small shift, a flicker in his expression, but there all the same.
“I was checking something out,” he admits. “Saw something odd. Thought I better take a closer look.”
“Oh?” I take another bite, watching him over the edge of it. “Something odd? What was it?”
He shrugs. “Nothing really. Just someone behaving strangely. I was concerned. Tried to be a good Samaritan.”
“And?”
He shrugged again. “It was nothing.”
I swallow slowly, relief running through me. “Right.”
That makes sense. Well, kind of. I take another bite of pastry, because that feels like the only reasonable response to any of this, and try very hard to ignore the strange, creeping feeling that’s just settled at the back of my mind.
I clear my throat, trying to swallow down my unease. “So. What do you do, when you’re not crashing strange office parties?”
“Statistician,” he says.
I blink. “Is that like maths or something?”
“Or something,” he replies with a smile. “I work for the BBC.”
My sister was right. He checks out clean. Relief runs through me, and I relax a little.
“Okay. So, like, do you count viewers or something? Decide which shows live or die?”
Theo laughs. “Not quite that dramatic. Normally I work for BBC News, analysing or finding data for news reports. Occasionally, I’ll analyse audience data, too.
You know, viewing patterns, engagement, trends.
Basically, I look at numbers and try to figure out what people like, what they don’t, and why. ”
“So you’re the reason my favourite shows get cancelled?” I give him a look. “If you had anything to do with the demise of Torchwood I may actually walk out.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” he replies with a confidence that is both borderline irritating and deeply sexy.
“The pastries here are too good. Besides, at the BBC I’m part of a vast and complex system.
There are probably multiple reasons for Torchwood’s cancellation, not least John Barrowman himself. ”
I can’t argue with that, and so I pick up another pastry. “These are good. Cinnamon is my favourite.”
“I’m going to remember that.” He smiles, leaning slightly closer. “What about you? What do you do when you’re not cosplaying as an animal you purport to hate?”
I hesitate for half a second before answering. “I, uh, work in a shop.”
“Right. What kind of shop?”
“Antiques. Oddities. Questionable objects with questionable histories.” I gesture vaguely. “The usual.”
His brows lift slightly, interest flickering across his face. “I hate to tell you this, but that’s not the usual.”
“Depends on your outlook,” I reply easily. “It has its moments, though. Occasionally, something tries to kill me. Keeps things fresh.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking, but I just take another bite of pastry and let him wonder.
We talk about small things after that — music, terrible films, the kind of books you pretend to have read and the ones you actually have.
He tells me about his family, about the mother who died when he was a child and the father he’s now estranged from.
I tell him about my family, about my favourite customers, and he laughs in all the right places.
It’s all so effortless. So natural. That’s the strange part.
There are no awkward pauses, no frantic searching for something to say next. The words just come, one after another, easily and without second guesses, and somewhere in between the third pastry and the second coffee, I realize something.
I really, really like him.
And when he smiles at me over a roll so thick with cream cheese and cinnamon that it should be illegal, I realize something else.
He likes me, too.
* * *
By the time we step back out onto the street, the air is cooler and the night sky darker. London hums around us, cars and voices intermingling, the distant wash of the river light in the background. It all feels slightly muffled, though, like the world has been turned down a notch.
Theo pauses beside me. “So,” he says.
“So,” I echo.
There’s a beat. Then he leans in. It’s not rushed, but not uncertain, either. Just incredibly careful. Incredibly gentle.
His hand brushes lightly against my arm, like he’s giving me time to pull away, if I want to.
But I don’t.
His lips meet mine, soft and warm, the kiss brief but deliberate. When he pulls back, I’m a little breathless, my heart beating just a touch faster in my chest.
“You smell like cinnamon,” I tell him, before I can stop myself.
He laughs, low and surprised. “So do you.”
I smile, a little crooked. “An occupational hazard of dating you, apparently.”
“Did you like it?” he asks lightly.
“What? The kiss? The date? The overwhelming scent of cinnamon?”
“All of the above.”
“Hmm.” I tilt my head, pretending to consider. “Well,” I say slowly, stepping just a fraction closer, “the data’s still coming in, but . . .” I let my gaze flick briefly to his mouth, then back up to his eyes, “. . . but initial results are extremely promising.”
Theo’s own eyes travel to my mouth, but he makes no reply. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets and regards me with open interest.
“I’d like to analyse that data. What do you say we do this again sometime, and go over it together?”
It takes me exactly half a second to realize what he’s doing. He’s asking me out again, and not in a grand, dramatic kind of way either. Not with any kind of pressure. Just like this, easy and certain. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world that there would be a second time.
“Hmm,” I say, like I’m still considering, yet I already know the answer. We both already know my answer. “Well, if we’re being rigorous about it . . .” I glance past him briefly, checking for witnesses, then lean in just a little. “I suppose we should allow for a larger sample size.”
His lips twitch.
“For accuracy,” I add.
“Of course,” he agrees. “What sort of statistician would I be if I tried to draw conclusions from insufficient data?”
I nod, very serious. “So, we should meet again. For the sake of statistics.”
“Well, for that,” Theo agrees, before he steps closer to me, leaning in and whispering hotly in my ear. “But also because you look fucking incredible in that dress.”
There’s a pause, small, but charged, and then I meet his eyes properly.
“I’ll wear it again,” I say, softer now. “If you would like that.”
Something in his expression shifts. “I would like that,” he says, his voice still low, almost unbearably throaty. “I would like that a lot.”
“Okay,” I say, and then I reach up to run a hand down his cheek. He leans into my palm, and his skin is hot, the moment between us electric.
“Okay,” he agrees, before he leans down to kiss me again and—