10. Fancy napkin #2
So much gold to choose from, but one particular memory stands out. “One time we popped by the Scandinavian shop just up the road from Oxford Street.”
Aiden shrugs. Of course he’s never been. Why would he?
“Anyway, Jamie and Sophie love the Norwegian chocolates, so we bought tons and were going to go home and gorge on them while watching a movie.”
“You need to get me some of that one day.”
“Aiden has a sweet tooth. Noted.”
“Keep going,” Aiden says, the sides of his mouth twitching.
“Well, we got thirsty and bored with walking on the way to Waterloo station and stopped for drinks at this random bar in Soho. And we had the best night.” I press my lips together, trying to contain the joy that bubbles up in me at the memory.
“Happy hour cocktails, dancing to reggaeton. It was great. But we ran out of cash before we ran out of steam, so we started bartering our chocolates for beers and shots from bartenders and other patrons.”
“It worked?”
“It did. Turns out chocolate is a currency.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It wasn’t all that fun the next day when we were painfully hungover and didn’t have any of the snacks to eat.”
Aiden chuckles and drains the rest of his gin.
“One more?”
“I’m okay, still working on this one.”
“I’ll be right back.”
The space feels colder suddenly, as if Aiden had been blocking a breeze. I drape my cardigan over my shoulders and take in the life of this place. People laughing, cheering. I miss that time with my friends. Those carefree days.
I let my gaze travel across the growing crowd in front of the bar, and I spot Aiden.
It’s not hard. He’s taller and wider than everyone around him.
In the light of the bar he looks like he’s from a different world.
I mean, he kind of is. The world of Mayfair, glamour, and champagne fountains.
But he’s almost shimmering, he’s so beautiful. Objectively, of course.
Women and men stare at him as they pass, and I chuckle into my plastic cup.
The man can’t go anywhere without attracting attention.
No wonder he’s turned into a shallow charmer—the world wants him that way.
Everyone wants a little piece of him. I guess that’s where I disagree with the blogger’s earlier post. Aiden’s not exclusive, not from my perspective.
He approaches our picnic table with his easy smile.
“Enjoying the view?”
“Pardon me?” I touch a hand to my hair to check my ears are hidden. They’re definitely hot right now.
“Caught you staring at me.” His smile widens, it’s like he can’t contain it, and I do my absolute best not to react to it.
“Arrogant, are we?” I say, stifling my smile, but it breaks free as a smirk. “You’re so massive, it’s hard to avoid looking at you.”
I can’t deny where my eyes had landed, but he doesn’t need to hear about what I was thinking.
“Well, it’s hard to avoid looking at you too,” he says, his eyes intense as he eases into his seat.
“Are you calling me massive?” I point at him with my gin cup. “I refuse to give up my pickles.”
Aiden laughs. “That’s absolutely not what I said, and you know it. Please continue enjoying your … pickles?”
I sip my gin slowly. More slowly than I need to. Such a flirt.
What am I supposed to say to that?
Oh, giggles, thank you. Excuse me while I go fan myself.
Blargh.
“I prefer if you didn’t comment on my looks, Aiden, I’m not in need of flattery and it’s best if we keep this as professional as possible.” Or I’ll just get annoyed.
He nods, those blue eyes more piercing than ever.
“I’m sorry.”
I almost breathe in an ice cube and clear my throat. He’s effectively disarmed me. I expected him to tell me to lighten up. Or that I’m overreacting.
‘Stop being so dramatic.’
“So. Umm. I’ve only seen Pretty Woman,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood again with a topic he likes. “What happens in the other rom-coms on their various dates?” I feel silly about shooting down his compliment (as fake as it may have been), and I just want us to have a good time.
He hums, sipping his gin, seemingly unaware of my mental battle.
“They usually do well,” he says after a beat. “Convincing everyone they’re a couple. People ask classic questions like ‘how did you meet’, ‘how long have you been seeing each other’, blah blah.” He waves a hand and continues on his gin, the ice cubes clinking merrily in his plastic cup.
“Okay, so we said two weeks. Let’s agree the rest tonight. What else?” I sip my gin, the cold ice meets my warm lips, and I can’t help but hum in enjoyment. This is bloody delicious.
“There’s a certain level of PDA.” He holds up his free hand. “But as I said, only what you’re comfortable with.” He shifts on his bench. “And usually, in the movies … they fall in love.”
I spray my mouthful of gin and tonic.
All. Over. Aiden.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, covering my mouth. Frozen.
He’s drenched.
His face is scrunched up, and he looks … cute. Not handsome, not a businessman or Mayfair empire builder, but like a young man with gin all over his face and just fucking adorable.
I start laughing as I’m about to apologise.
“I’m … so … sorry,” I manage to get out between breaths and laughs. Without thinking, I scramble out of the picnic bench, pulling my cardigan off my shoulders and hurrying around to him to wipe his face. It’s too far to run to the bar for napkins. I can’t leave him like this.
Still laughing at his face, I stand next to him, while he grabs the cardigan with both hands and buries his face in it.
He blinks his eyes open. “Wow, a gin shower.” He disappears into the cardigan again, breathing deeply. His laugh muffled by the fabric.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, and another laugh forces its way out. He straightens up and stares at the navy cardigan in his hands.
“Why am I wiping my face with your jumper?”
“It’s a cardigan. And I don’t know. The bar seemed too far.” I shrug and huff. “It’s pretty much water, and I assume you’re not wearing makeup, hah. I just didn’t want to leave you like that any longer.”
He shakes his head and laughs again. “Thanks for the … fancy napkin.”
I sit down next to him, but with my back to the table so I can see him properly in this darkening space. The huge gin and tonic is definitely relaxing my normally awkward self.
“Nice to hear you laugh,” he says. “Even if it’s at me.”
“Please, tell me about your mum,” I say, feeling uncomfortable again under his gaze.