“Yeah, kind of the same here.”
I think of me and Lucas, fully clothed in the swimming pool, splashing each other wildly. Not sure anyone would accuse us of conducting ourselves appropriately.
We watch the film in silence. I wonder why Lucas asked about colleagues being romantically involved. I wonder if it’s about me. I wonder if we’re about to cross a line that cannot be uncrossed, and whether I care about that, and I already know that I don’t.
Lucas turns onto his side, facing me. I shift my head to look at him. I let myself really take him in: the serious brown eyes, the straight brows, the faint hollow beneath his cheekbone. We’re close enough that I can feel his breath ghosting over my cheek.
“You have always told me what you think of me,” he says eventually. His voice is low. Behind it, the telly chatters on. “You’ve always been honest.”
“That’s true.” I shift so I’m lying on my side, too. I tuck a hand under my cheek. He echoes the gesture, other hand tapping restlessly at the covers between us.
“Will you tell me what you think of me now?”
I’m not expecting that question. I don’t know what I think of Lucas these days. I think he’s too stern and doesn’t know how to laugh at himself; I think he’s pedantic and rude. I think last Christmas he behaved like a dickhead. But I also think he’s sexy and complex, and that there’s a warmth somewhere in there, behind all the scowling.
“I think maybe I don’t really know you at all,” I say slowly.
His expression shifts infinitesimally. I wouldn’t have noticed it if we hadn’t been so close. All of a sudden I’m hit with an urge to just . . . shake him. He’s so controlled. I want to make him let go.
I lift one hand to rest against his jaw, framing his face, the heel of my hand against his neck. His stubble is rough under my palm. I feel his jaw clench, but he stays very still, just watching me with dark, liquid eyes. The heat I felt on the dance floor starts up again deep in my belly, a low, wild beat.
The decision I’m making is a bad one—I know it even as I lean towards him, eyes on his parted lips. But I don’t care. I don’t care. I want this, and I’m sick and tired of trying to work out why.
I kiss him. That heat grows tenfold inside me, like I’ve blown on a flame, and for a second, maybe two, Lucas kisses me back.
Then he’s pulling away, spinning to sit with his back to me. I stare at his hunched shoulders, how they rise and fall with each breath. I’m breathing hard, too, and my cheeks are hot.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Sorry. I thought . . .”
“It’s fine.” Lucas’s voice is sharp. “I just . . . That wouldn’t be a good idea.” He glances over his shoulder for an instant before returning his gaze to the carpet. It’s too fast to read anything into his face.
“I’m not looking for a relationship, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say, stung. “I know you’re not going to be flying someone like me back to meet your mum.”
He turns at this, shifting to see me properly. Love Actually rattles on between us and I reach impatiently for the remote, switching it off.
“What do you mean, someone like me?”
“I’m just saying, your type is probably women who work out with you in tiny gymwear and drink green juice. But also like serious films with subtitles. And football. And have really long legs.”
I’m floundering, hot with desire and embarrassment in equal measure. I need to get control of this situation again. At last his expression is one I recognise: he’s wearing the faintly exasperated face he uses when he’s humouring me. Fine. At least that’s not pity.
“You know nothing about my type,” he says. “Evidently.”
“Well, I know a little bit, don’t I?” I sit up and shift to the edge of the bed. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t like you, you don’t like me, I thought maybe we could just have some fun for a night, you didn’t want to, the end. I’m going for a walk.”
“In central Woking? In a snowstorm?”
I glare at him for parroting my words back to me.
“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin as I grab my coat and head to the door. “See you at bedtime.”
God, that’s going to be awkward.
Lucas
It is hard to imagine how that could have gone worse.
Why would she kiss me right after saying she doesn’t know me at all? Why then, of all the moments? It was a sentence that simultaneously hurt and gave me hope: she has never tried to know me, but perhaps if I could get her to try, she might . . .