. . . a cruel confession
We barely spoke on the coach ride back. Not in a weird, awkward way, but in a way that I think we both really needed.
He took the window seat this time, leant against it the whole journey as I quietly rested my head on his shoulder.
I couldn’t sleep with him on me. Every time that I tried I felt a surge of electricity, shot straight from where he lay.
So, after a while, I stopped trying, hooked my headphones up and let my five-hour-long travel playlist keep me company.
He stared at me from his table, his confident demeanour drawing me in from the moment our eyes met.
He had a dignified air about him, but little did I know just how far that air would stretch.
The more we spoke, the more I learnt that Johann is not only incredibly cultured, but filthy rich.
He paid for both my and Noah’s drinks for the rest of the night, sent us home in a car with mirrored windows, and invited me to the opera with him tonight, for which I realised I’ve packed nothing formal to wear.
I refused to let that stop me, however, waking up bright and early and dragging Noah with me to the Golden Quarter, Vienna’s premium designer destination, packed full of shops I could only dream of.
We grabbed fifteen-euro coffees and strolled into a couple of the big hitters, before realising we’re not quite Golden Quarter ready.
Then we made a prompt U-turn back down the street and found ourselves in H I’m sure that I’d cry if I even dared to look up the prices.