“I feel seen,” I say with a smile.
He lowers the camera, tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You should.”
The double meaning flowing between us is almost too much.
We reach Southwark Bridge as twilight draws its curtains around the city. Strolling across, I take in its arches, lit up in orange, purple, and pink. They glow over the water, and it feels magical.
It feels like a miracle that I don’t grab Heath and kiss him, then beg him to take me home.
But I don’t because he’s fast becoming a part of my life here.
And I need this life. I need to feel at home in this still-new city.
How can I risk that for a kiss?
The question gnaws at me that night, and then again in the morning.
It hangs in my thoughts all the days at the office too. The weeks pass as we prep for the collection until it’s just around the corner.
The Friday evening of my third week here, Heath and I leave the office at the same time. It feels purposeful, yet it’s mere chance.
“So, this is coincidental, walking home together,” I say as we hit the sidewalk outside our building.
“Since we live in the same direction, that definitely applies,” Heath says.
Along our walk, we pass a shop that sells some books, but mostly cards and socks, like the ones he gave me. I’ve seen it a few times before, but the socks didn’t register till now. I point to the display. “Oh, they have my socks. The ones you gave me.”
“I’ll let you in on another secret. That’s where I got them.” Heath waves at the man at the register. “Good evening, Nigel.”
The man at the counter smirks then swings his gaze to me and says, “Your new co-worker?”
Rolling his eyes, Heath gives him a you cheeky bastard shrug, and we continue on.
“He knows we work together?” I ask.
Heath can’t seem to erase his grin. “I might have mentioned you to him.”
I’m all sorts of effervescent learning that he talked about me to someone. “What did you tell him?”
Heath lifts a brow. “Are you trying to get all of my secrets, Jo?”
“Is it a secret?”
“No. Not to you at least.” He pauses as we reach the corner. “I didn’t say much, except a few weeks ago I remarked that the woman I want is my new co-worker. But if I were to have said something, I would have said she’s bright and kind and thoughtful. She’s challenging and intelligent and beautiful, and I’m a little bit sad that I can’t take her home tonight, but mostly, I’m glad that she’s in my life.”
The tingles.
Dear God, the tingles. They become the dancing fountains at the Bellagio. My whole body bursts with sunshine and happiness.
It’s Friday night.
I don’t want the evening to end. “Do you want to get a bite to eat? Like the other week?” I ask, my nerves jumping. I want his yes so badly. I suspect I’ll get it, but the power of my want for it is staggering.
“We’re very good at this coincidental dining,” he says.
“We could write a book about it.”
“There’s a great Szechuan place near your flat.”
“It has our name on it, I bet.”
After we order, I ask about the book he was reading the day we went to the gardens. “So, did the butler do it?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” he says, lifting his chin, taunting me.
“So, you finished it?”
“I did. It was excellent.”
“Did it keep you up late?”
“Yes, and it’s possible I might have absolutely no regard for bedtime when I’m reading a good book. And what about you and the tale of love I found you with?”
“I finished the Hazel Valentine a week ago. It was wonderful. I’ve moved on to a new story. The one I had at the bridge. A woman takes the wrong laptop at airport security, and when she returns it to the owner, they have a hot night together.”
“But he turns out to be her new co-worker and they’re vying for the same post?” he asks, deadpan.
“Exactly.”
He lifts his glass, takes a sip of water. When he sets it down, his eyes are hungry, but not for food. “How does it end?” The question comes out almost desperate.
“That is a most excellent question,” I say.
“I guess we’ll find out,” he replies, then taps his lip. “We should trade books.”
I shoot him a curious look, intrigued by the suggestion. “I’ve never met a man who wants to share books before. I trade books with TJ, but he’s a writer.”
“You think I wouldn’t want to read what you do?” Heath asks.
I’ve never thought about it before. But now I can’t let go of this delectable idea. “So, I’d give you mine and you’d give me yours?”
“That’s how a book trade works,” he says drily.
“Let’s do it,” I agree. I can’t wait. There are so many things I can’t wait for with him. Like everything. Like every time we get together. Like every moment. “Just the two of us. We’ll form the coincidental-dining judgment-free book club.”