CHAPTER 19 #2
‘Guess so.’ I wince, putting my hand to my temple. My head is really throbbing now. Though that may just be the champagne catching up with me.
‘Want me to do a head-injury assessment?’ he asks. ‘You might be concussed. Sit on that thing,’ he says, pointing to the laminate bench.
I hoist up my dress to lever myself onto it and Archie stands in front of me, putting his hands on the bench on either side of my hips so he can lean towards me.
I’m abruptly conscious of my breathing, and I try to quieten it down.
He’s so close I can see the smattering of freckles across his cheekbones and the tiny flash of a silver scar at the end of his left eyebrow.
His eyes are a deep brown—almost black—with flecks of gold around the pupils, and his eyelashes—I would kill for those eyelashes.
It’s quite hilarious, actually. Up close, Archie Cohen is a really pretty guy.
‘What?’ he asks as my lips start to twitch. ‘Tell me.’
‘Nope.’
Archie readjusts his grip on the bench and leans in closer, as though he thinks he can find the answer in my eyes.
A grin blooms across my face, which I try and fail to wipe off.
Archie is grinning too and his eyes crinkle into half-moons.
It’s quite the novelty, this game of chicken.
There is no way I’m telling him he’s a pretty guy, and there’s no way he’s taking no for an answer.
It’s spatially impossible to get closer without touching so I guess we’ll hover like this forever, or at least until one of us falters—and it won’t be me.
Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Archie rolls his shoulders as if to relax into his pose.
He’s preparing for the long game. I decide I should do the same.
I tilt my neck from side to side, pressing my lips into a close-lipped grin.
The challenge in my eyes is clear. Try me, Archibald. I’ve been keeping secrets for years.
Our noses are almost touching; his warm breath is feathering my jaw.
Our eyes are locked in battle, and that’s how I see it: the infinitesimal flicker as his eyes move to my lips.
It’s so fast it almost never happened, but I saw it, and I can’t unsee it.
My breath involuntarily hitches. Archie’s deepens.
I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. If I accidentally inhale too hard, my cleavage will brush his chest. His hands are inches from my butt.
‘I need to blink!’ I yelp.
Archie pulls back, startled. ‘Your pupils look fine,’ he mutters. He shakes his head like he’s trying to empty it of something. ‘The concussion must be mild.’
On cue, my temple unleashes an almighty throb. ‘It still hurts,’ I whimper.
‘Use this,’ says Archie, pulling a glass from the windowsill that has an unlit tea candle inside. ‘An icepack would be better but at least the glass will be cold.’ He grabs a paper towel, wipes the dust from the glass and hands it to me.
My forehead creases. ‘Has anyone told you you’re like the Bear Grylls of Northern Beaches bathrooms?’
Archie waggles his eyebrows. ‘I have some skills.’
‘Do you mean skills with a “z”? Like, skillz? Footy players always have mad skillz, don’t they?’
‘I didn’t have any,’ says Archie. ‘That’s why I didn’t last.’
I scoff. ‘As if, Archie. The nation’s sports journos spent the whole off-season mourning your loss. I’ve never seen the words “anterior cruciate ligament” mentioned so many times in mainstream media.’
‘You read those stories?’
I feel my cheeks flare with heat. ‘It’s my job to read the news.’
Archie turns away, a smile creeping across his face. He tugs a paper towel from the dispenser, wets it under the tap and stands in front of me. ‘Give me your arm.’
‘Why?’
Archie doesn’t bother responding. He grabs my hand in his and uses his other hand to start wiping the bloody mess off my forearm.
‘Ooh yuck,’ I say, shifting on the bench to give him better access. I hadn’t realised I was still covered in blood. ‘You don’t have to do that,’ I add weakly, as I continue pressing the cold glass into my temple with my other hand.
‘It’s fine,’ replies Archie. ‘Gives me something to do.’ His palms are moving up and down my arm, sliding up, sliding back.
His fingertips are remarkably soft. I know he hasn’t played rugby league for years but I figured he was the kind of guy who’d go home and chuck a ball against a wall for six hours. I was expecting calluses.
‘This feels very …’ Intimate is what I’m thinking, but I need another word. ‘Weird,’ I decide.
Archie shrugs, throws the paper towel into the bin and grabs another, wets it, and resumes his position.
‘Next,’ he commands.
I switch the jar into my now-clean hand and place my dirty one in front of him.
Archie takes it and starts gently circling the paper towel over my palm.
He’s going so slowly and carefully, it’s like he’s trying to read my fortune.
I watch him intently. For such a fidgety guy, he’s laser-focused.
He takes my pinky finger, wraps the damp paper towel around it and carefully presses the moisture into my skin, then he rubs the paper up and down.
After each finger, he stops, lifts my hand to his eyes, and inspects his work before moving on.
As he slides the paper towel over my forefinger his eyes flicker up to mine and he smiles.
I can’t help it; I smile too. Wisecracking tough guy, Archibald Cohen, is basically giving me a hand massage.
His movements are so purposeful, this would almost be erotic if I didn’t have a homemade tampon stuck up my nose.
‘Is this part of the New Friends Game?’ I ask, unable to help myself. ‘Do you do this with all your new friends?’
‘No, I have much better moves for my new friends.’
‘Blergh.’ I pretend to vomit. The movement dislodges the tissue paper from my nose and I find that the bleeding has stopped so I quickly throw the dirty paper in the bin.
‘I bet you have a satin dressing gown that you save especially for first dates. Or do you find a way to get shirtless? Do you show them your football trophies?’ I wrinkle my nose and shake my head.
‘You don’t need to answer that, actually. I don’t want to know.’
Archie chuckles and turns my hand over. ‘What would be acceptable to you on a first date, Ms Hatton?’
My temple has stopped thumping so I place the glass jar on the bench, as Archie continues rubbing my knuckles.
I shrug. ‘My first dates are pretty PG,’ I admit. ‘Eye-gazing is good. Some hand-holding. Possibly a cheeky kiss—but only if I’m really feeling it.’
Archie lifts up my fingers and runs his thumb over a crease in my palm. ‘You realise we’re way past the hand-holding stage, right?’
My automatic reaction is to laugh but then I notice Archie’s eyes.
They’re dark and focused and he’s not smiling, which makes no sense because Archie is always smiling.
A strange sensation flutters down my spine.
Archie shifts closer to the bench. His body is perilously close to mine.
My spare hand tries to grip something but there’s only the cold white laminate underneath me.
Is Archie …?
WHAT?!
I think I’ve stopped breathing. God damn those rapid-fire champagnes and Archie’s stupidly conventional good looks, I have no idea what’s going on. This is Archie, this is my nemesis, the man whose apparent mission in life is to destroy me and my boss, this is too—
OHHHH!
It’s like a floodlight has flicked on, and I’m blinded by the realisation of what’s really happening. He’s messing with me. Like always. This is what we do. It’s a constant game of chicken.
Give me your story.
Give me your deadline.
Give me your scoop.
Give me your source.
We’re always calling each other’s bluff.
Aha! Well, two can play at that game, Archibald.
‘I guess we are,’ I say, my voice syrupy sweet.
I present my free hand to him with my palm facing the sky like an offering—a Trojan horse—and watch as a tiny crease forms on his forehead.
Ever so gradually, he lifts his own free hand.
I have never seen him move this slowly. Is he giving me time to back out?
If so, he’s significantly underestimated who he’s messing with.
He places his palm carefully on mine. I tilt my head, amused.
Suddenly his thumb and forefinger squeeze the pressure point in my palm.
I inhale sharply. That was cheating, Archibald.
That move was almost pornographic. I concentrate on my exhale to steady my breathing.
The air around us is taut with tension but I can’t have him thinking he’s winning.
I part my legs slightly and the fabric of my dress swishes to the side, exposing my thigh.
Archie glances at it and I see a muscle tense in his neck.
Ha! I decide to amp it up. I wiggle towards him so I’m at the point where I could basically wrap my legs around him and order him to take me right now, right here, in the white-tiled bathroom.
Archie swallows hard. I wonder when one of us is going to speak.
Normally we both have so much to say—especially to each other—but this is a brand-new game.
I don’t seem to need to blink. In fact, I couldn’t care less about blinking.
My eyes are deadlocked on his and they’re not moving until I memorise his every eyelash.
I am going to memorise those lips and that nose and that jaw and those cheekbones.
I will memorise the wave in his hair, and the slope of his shoulders.
If you quiz me tomorrow, I’ll be able to describe every part of him.
I could file a police report, and the constable would shake my hand to commend me on my powers of recall.
Archie’s eyes crinkle and I know he’s about to smile.
He inches closer and my breathing wavers.
I feel his legs press against mine and there is a sudden heat below my belly button that I will definitely never mention to anyone—ever.
These are the sneaky moves of a Tinder expert, and I am capitulating like a novice. I need to refocus.
I incline my head backwards, craving the space to regather my thoughts, but it’s a rookie move.
My throat is exposed. He could go in for the kill, and he does.
His fingers cup my neck and his thumb strokes the skin behind my earlobe.
His smile has vanished, replaced by an expression I’ve never seen before.
I’m going to combust. My body is on fire.
I hope to dear god this full-body response isn’t visible to the naked eye because there’s nowhere to hide.
My heart is hammering in my chest. My bloodstream is a chaotic, bubbling mess.
I can see the faint five o’clock shadow on his jaw and the smile lines around his eyes.
I am very unclear on how to proceed when our hips are in such close proximity.
Back away and he’s won; get any closer and I’ll burst into flames.
My body makes the decision for me: I go on the offensive.
My fingers slide into his hair, and immediately everything is better.
This gloriously thick hair will help me think straight.
My fingernails scrape his scalp and his eyes roll back in pleasure as he sinks a little, as though his legs can’t hold him.
I move my hands to the nape of his neck to rub tiny circles behind his jaw.
Archie responds quickly. He grabs my butt and pulls me closer. His fingers sweep up my back, onto my bare shoulders and down again.
This may be the most messed-up game we’ve ever played but holy dooley, I haven’t been held like this in forever. I have forgotten the joy of good old-fashioned hands-over-clothes touching. I can’t help it: I giggle. This is ridiculous. We’re losing our minds.
‘Millsy,’ Archie moans, which makes me giggle more. ‘Don’t do this right now. Don’t ruin this moment.’
I can’t help it. The laughter is ricocheting through me and it’s building exponentially with every second.
I’m laughing so hard that I might snort but I’m still clinging to him.
I can’t let him win because I got the giggles.
I knot my fingers into the cotton of his shirt, as I try and fail to calm myself.
My head falls into his chest as I lose any remaining self-restraint.
‘There’s only one way,’ I wheeze, ‘to make me stop.’
Archie jolts upright, then grins and drops his mouth to my ear.
‘If you say so,’ he whispers.