Chapter 16 #3
Just attention.
“No?” he says.
“No. I love Samantha and Jamie. I like children generally. Some more than others, obviously, because I’m not a saint. But I don’t want my own.”
“Right.”
“That’s it?”
“What else should there be?”
I lean back. “Usually there’s at least a polite pause.”
“Ah.”
“Sometimes a question about whether I might change my mind.”
He winces. “Bloody hell.”
“Sometimes the right person speech.”
“The right person should believe you.”
The answer is immediate.
So immediate I cannot quite breathe around it for a second.
I look at him.
He looks back, as if he does not realise he has just said something that has quietly rearranged the entire table.
“You?” I ask.
“No children,” he says.
“Same kind of no?”
“Same kind of no.”
“Not yet no?”
“No.”
“Wrong time no?”
“No.”
“Secretly waiting for a woman to unlock your paternal destiny no?”
His mouth curves. “Definitely not that one.”
I laugh again.
It comes easier this time.
“Okay then.”
“I like kids,” he says. “In manageable doses. I’m good for jokes, sweets and returning them to responsible adults.”
“Exactly.”
“But I’ve never wanted to be a father. Not in the deep, certain way I think people should want it if they’re going to do it.”
That settles something in me I had not realised was waiting.
Not because we are planning anything.
We are not.
This is breakfast after a night shift with a man who leaves after one more night.
Still.
There are some answers that make a person feel less like a negotiation.
“I agree” I say.
“I thought you might.”
“Because I look emotionally unavailable?”
“No.” He pauses. “Because you know the difference between caring and wanting to be responsible forever.”
That is annoyingly good.
I point my fork at him. “Stop being perceptive. It’s unsettling before nine in the morning.”
“I’ll try to be shallower after coffee.”
“Please do.”
He picks up his mug. “You have egg.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Sorry. Tiny bit. Corner of your mouth.”
Of course.
Of course this is what I get for having an honest conversation before I have slept.
I grab my napkin and swipe.
“Gone?”
“Other side.”
I swipe again.
His mouth twitches.
“Worse?” I ask.
“A little.”
“Excellent.”
“Do you want me to—”
He stops.
The question is unfinished, but I hear the rest of it.
Do you want me to get it?
Do you want me to touch you?
Do you want me to cross this very small, very enormous distance between us?
I should say no.
I definitely should say no.
We are in public. We are tired. We are already standing too close to a cliff edge built entirely out of bad timing and worse judgement.
Instead, I sit very still.
“Yes,” I say.
His face changes.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that my skin wakes up everywhere.
He reaches across the table slowly, giving me every chance to move away.
I do not.
His thumb touches the corner of my mouth.
Light.
Warm.
Careful.
It should be nothing. It should be a practical gesture, the sort of thing you forget in five seconds.
It is not nothing.
His thumb brushes once, and heat moves through me so quickly I have to press my fingers against the edge of the table to stay still.
His eyes lift to mine as he sucks the egg off his thumb.
“There,” he says.
His voice is lower.
I should thank him.
I should make a joke.
I should do something that puts us both safely back where we were.
Instead, I look at his mouth.
Just once.
But he sees it.
His hand lowers, but his fingers rest on the table, close to mine.
“Pippa,” he says.
I am beginning to think my name in his voice is going to cause me serious emotional damage.
“Yes?”
“If I am misreading this, now would be a good time to tell me.”
I breathe in.
Coffee. Bacon. Cake. Him.
I could still step back.
I could tell him this is overemotional. I could say he is leaving after one more shift. I could say I am his supervisor, sort of, and he is a journalist, definitely, and there are at least six excellent reasons not to do this.
But his thumb has just been on my mouth.
His eyes are on mine.
My flat is across the road.
And I am so tired of only ever being sensible.
“You’re not misreading it,” I whisper.
His jaw shifts once.
“Good.”
It is not enough.
Nothing about that word is enough.
I lean back slightly, not away, just enough to let myself make the choice properly.
“I live across the road,” I say.
“I remember.”
“This is probably a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“You should not agree that quickly.”
“I’m trying not to argue with my watch manager.”
“Coward.”
“Only professionally.”
His mouth curves, slow and knowing.
There is nothing uncertain about him now.
Nothing boyish.
He looks rumpled and far too sure of the effect he is having on me. He also looks like a man who knows exactly what he wants and is waiting for me to say whether he is allowed to want it.
Heat moves through me, low and steady.
I put my napkin on the table.
“Pay the bill,” I say.
AJ does not move for half a second.
Then he grins.
Not smug.
Not polite.
Hot.
Absolutely, catastrophically hot.
“Yes, Watch Manager.”
I stand before that can do any more damage than it already has.