Chapter 7 #3
“Every day,” I confirm with a firm nod.
She stares at me like I've just sprouted an extra head. “The exact same sandwich every single day?”
“It's efficient.”
“It's depressing,” she counters playfully.
“It's consistent,” I correct.
As we join the queue, Rory shakes her head, but doesn't further critique my exceedingly efficient lunch order. We move along slowly, courtesy of the lunch rush, and I push down on a surge of frustration when the line crawls forward at a snail's pace.
When we finally reach the counter, I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding.
“One cheese and pickle, please.” Rory smiles brightly at the teenager behind the till, and my lips twitch with an almost grin when he blushes bright red right to the tips of his ears.
“Chicken and bacon,” I add.
The teenager nods and disappears to grab our sandwiches. A minute later, he returns with both wrapped and ready, then punches the order into the till. When he announces the total, Rory reaches for her bag, but I gently place my hand over hers.
“I've got it,” I say.
“You don't have to—”
I find and hold her gaze. “I'm getting it.”
She opens her mouth like she's about to argue, then seems to think better of it. “Thank you.” Her soft smile does strange things to my chest that I don't want to acknowledge.
The teenager rings us up, then fumbles with the card machine. His eyes keep darting to Rory, and he's gone slightly pink.
“Sorry,” he mutters, pressing the wrong button for the third time. “I just— Sorry.”
“No rush,” Rory beams with a smile.
The kid's flush deepens, if such a thing were even possible. He finally manages to process the payment and hands us our sandwiches, his hand shaking slightly as he gives Rory hers.
“Thanks so much,” she says.
“Yeah, no problem, have a great day,” he says quickly, the words tumbling out.
I know exactly how the poor bastard feels.
I'd been much the same last night, staring at her from across the bar like some sort of creep, utterly transfixed by her laugh.
By the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, and how she spoke with her hands. Every little thing about her.
I'm not much better today, to be fair.
Outside, the cold hits us again. A man in a suit shoulders past Rory without apologizing, nearly knocking her into a lamp post. I grab her elbow to steady her, and she turns into my touch, her face tilted up to mine as snowflakes catch in her long, dark eyelashes.
“Are you alright?” I ask, my thumb absently stroking the inside of her elbow through her coat.
“I'm fine.” She shakes her head, but doesn't pull away. Instead, she smiles up at me with a glint in those big blue eyes. “You and those heroic gestures. Keeping me alive seems to be your speciality today.”
“I have no doubt Smut Readers Anonymous will benefit from said gestures.” She grins when I throw back her earlier correction before my voice drops lower, rougher. “Though I'm not sure how the points system works on your compatibility rating spreadsheets.”
Her laugh is bright and unguarded, warming me from the inside out like the first sip of whisky. It's so quintessentially what drew me to her last night that I feel my chest ache with something I can't name.
“Oh, I can assure you, heroic gestures score very highly.” She leans closer, almost conspiratorially, and I catch another hint of vanilla and cinnamon. “Right up there with not judging my public smut reading habits.”
“Duly noted,” I say with a grin, finally—reluctantly—releasing her elbow.
She takes a bite of her sandwich, and her eyes widen with genuine delight.
“Oh, this is actually really good.”
“Told you,” I say, unreasonably pleased by her reaction.
“The pickle is so tangy. Are they a Pret thing or a British thing?” Practically bouncing on her toes, she takes another bite. “Can I buy a jar of these?”
“They’re Branston pickles. Every supermarket carries them.”
Her enthusiasm over a simple sandwich should be ridiculous.
Instead, it makes the corner of my mouth twitch upward involuntarily, as if somehow the volume on the constant, low-level irritation I carry around has been magically reduced.
Like she's turned down the noise of the world and left only this moment—standing on a snowy London street, watching her discover something as simple as Branston pickles.
She smiles around a mouthful of sandwich. “Perfect. I'll grab some this weekend.”
As we walk, she gestures with her sandwich, waving it about for emphasis. I keep waiting for pickles to go flying, but somehow, she manages to keep everything intact. She's clearly more coordinated with food than she is with London traffic.
“So what about you? Heading back to the office?”
“I have meetings,” I reply, coming to a reluctant stop outside the DeMarco Holdings building.
The sensible thing would be to say goodbye.
To head back upstairs to my colour-coded calendar and predictable afternoon.
To maintain the boundaries I've so carefully constructed between work and anything resembling a personal life.
The walls I built after Charity walked out aren't just for show—they're what keep things manageable. Predictable.
Safe.
But then she tilts her head, snowflakes catching in the blonde hair spilling out from beneath her knitted cap.
We're standing far too close for casual acquaintances, close enough that I can see the individual snowflakes melting on her flushed cheeks.
Close enough that I can count her quickened breaths in the cold air.
And when her tongue darts out to catch a snowflake on her bottom lip, my entire body goes taut.
All I can think about is how that tongue felt against my skin last night, the wicked things she did with her mouth that made me see stars.
How she looked so fucking beautiful on her knees for me, those blue eyes locked on mine while she took me deeper into her warm mouth.
My hands itch to thread through her hair, to pull her close, to taste the winter and pickle on her lips, to find out if kissing her in daylight feels as electric as it did in the dark.
I find my feet rooted to the pavement, utterly unwilling to walk through those doors and watch her disappear into London's crowds again.
The realisation should terrify me—it does terrify me—but not enough to make me move.
Not when she's looking at me like that, with possibility and challenge and heat all tangled together in her expression.
“Right. Of course you do.” Taking another bite, she chews slowly as she watches me with a glint in her bright blue eyes. “I'm going to Covent Garden. The Christmas market. You could come with me?”
The words hang between us like a dare, and I feel myself wavering in a way that's entirely foreign.
My mind immediately begins cataloguing all the reasons this is a terrible idea: the New York call at two, the merger meeting at four, the stack of reports that need reviewing, not to mention the fact that I simply don't do this.
I don't deviate from the plan. I don't take risks.
I don't let myself want things I can't have.
“I have meetings,” I repeat, but even I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice.
“So cancel them,” she replies simply, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. As if people like me—efficient, responsible, cautious, emotionally damaged people like me just...cancel their entire afternoon on a whim.
“I can't just—”
“Why not?” The challenge dancing in her eyes reminds me of last night. Of the way she looked when she slid that keycard into my palm—bold and uncertain all at once. “When's the last time you did something spontaneous, aside from last night?”
“This afternoon.” I quirk an eyebrow pointedly, and she laughs in delight. “I came to Pret myself instead of having my assistant collect lunch.”
“Oh wow,” she says, eyes wide with mock amazement. “That's practically skydiving in Cole-land.”
Sadly true.
“It's different from my routine.”
“Cole.” She bumps her shoulder against mine, and even through our coats, I feel the contact like a brand. “That's not spontaneous. That's tragic. Come on, Scrooge. Live a little. When's the last time you did something just for fun?”
Live a little.
There it is again. My mother's voice, Reed’s and Jace's teasing, and now Rory, all saying the same damn thing. All pointing out what I already know but refuse to admit: that I've built my entire life around safety and predictability, around never being vulnerable enough to get hurt again.
I open my mouth to say no. To explain that I have responsibilities, that people are counting on me, that spontaneity is for people who don't have a motherless four-year-old daughter depending on them for stability.
That I can't just abandon my work because a beautiful woman asked me to.
But the word doesn't come.
Because the truth is, I don't want to say no. I want to spend more time with her. I want to see her face light up at overpriced Christmas stalls and mulled wine. I want to spend time basking in her light, to allow myself one afternoon with her before we go our separate ways for a second time.
When did wanting something for myself become so foreign?
“I'm not Scrooge,” I mutter, but the protest sounds half-hearted, even to me.
Rory studies my face for a moment, and something in her expression softens.
Understanding, maybe. Or resignation. “Right. Well, it was lovely running into you. Literally.” Her smile is genuine yet wistful, tinged with something that looks like disappointment.
“Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll stumble into your path a third time. Preferably without the near-death experience.”
She's giving me an out. No pressure, no expectations, no guilt trip. Just an open invitation that I can walk away from, same as I did this morning. Same as I always do.
Which is precisely why I step away and pull out my phone.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the weight of what I'm about to do. This goes against everything I've built my life around. Everything that keeps things stable and predictable for Hollie.
But then I look at Rory again—at the hope in her eyes carefully masked by casualness, at the way she's trying not to show how much my answer matters—and I run my hand through my hair.
Fuck it.
My thumb hovers over Jane's number for just a moment—one last chance to be sensible, responsible, predictable Cole.
Then I think about going back to my office alone, eating lunch at my desk alone, spending another evening in that empty hotel room alone, which is only marginally less shit than going home to a Hollie-less house.
I think about the way Rory smiled at me this morning in her sleep, peaceful and content. About how leaving her felt all kinds of wrong, about how I've spent the entire day trying not to think about her and failing spectacularly.
I make the call.
“Jane. I'm not feeling well. Cancel my afternoon.”
There's a long pause before she hesitantly queries, “You're...not feeling well, sir?”
I can hear the confusion in her voice. In the three years since being promoted to CFO, I've never called in sick. I’ve never cancelled a meeting without rescheduling it immediately. I’ve never deviated from the carefully structured routine that keeps everything running smoothly.
“That's what I said. Reschedule the New York call for Monday morning. Push the merger meeting to next Tuesday.” I pause, glancing at Rory, whose eyes have gone wide with surprise, bottom lip drawn between her teeth to suppress a smile.
“And Jane? Excellent work on the Brennan contract. Very thorough.”
There's a beat of stunned silence. “I— Thank you, sir.” She pauses for a beat before I hear shuffling. “An email arrived from Harrington Helpers that you need to—”
“I’ll get to everything in the morning, Jane. Thank you.”
“Of…of course, sir. I’ll leave everything on your desk. Feel better.”
I hang up before she can question my uncharacteristic praise or apparent illness.
My phone buzzes before I can slip it back into my pocket. Then again. And again.
REED: Jane just texted me. You're SICK?
JACE: Cole Adams called in sick.
JACE: Everyone. Remain. Calm.
REED: Check the sky for flying pigs.
JACE: Check hell for ice skating.
REED: You literally NEVER call in sick. Are you dying? Should we plan your funeral?
JACE: I'll wear black. Very sombre. Won't even make it about me #yourewelcome
REED: Liar. You'll absolutely make it about you.
JACE: I’m kind of epic.
COLE: I'm fine. Just needed an afternoon off.
REED: Yeah, cause that makes sense.
JACE: Bollocks, mate.
REED: He needed an afternoon off?
JACE: It’s HER! Don’t lie to us. We’re your mates.
REED: Oh my God it IS.
JACE: Are you seeing her again?
REED: Cole Adams is DITCHING WORK for a woman.
JACE: This is the best day of my life.
REED: Better than when you scored the winning goal at Wembley?
JACE: YES. Cole being spontaneous is MORE IMPORTANT than my athletic achievements. And it takes a lot to admit that…
REED: Historic moment. Someone screenshot this.
COLE: You two are exhausting.
JACE: You're not denying it though.
REED: He's NOT denying it.
JACE: Proud of you, mate. Really.
REED: Don't fuck it up.
COLE: I'm muting this chat.
JACE: Hell fucking no you're not.
REED: You're going to read every message. And colour-code them by emergency level.
JACE: We'll be checking in later for a full report.
The dots are still blinking when I lock the phone and shove it into my pocket. Still, I can feel it continuing to buzz against my leg as I head toward Rory, the screen lighting up with what I can only imagine are increasingly ridiculous messages.
Their laughter follows me like a benediction. My heart pounds like I've just committed a crime rather than simply taking an afternoon off.
What the hell are you doing, Adams?