Page 34 of On Circus Lane

“Tell me exactly what they look like, seeing as they’re so perfect.”

There’s laughter in his voice, and even though I hate being laughed at more than anything, Tom’s merriment invites me to join him. It isn’t cruel.

“I can’t,” I say, slightly breathless.

He pulls his hand away and I blink up at him. Any trace of laughter has left his face. He scans my face, his eyes hungry. I sway towards him, but he draws in a deep breath and steps back. He winks at me and then gestures at the racks and racks of boots.

“Okay, let’s do it this way.” He clears his throat.

I’m riveted by his Adam’s apple, the strong line of his jaw which is dusted with the perfect level of stubble, and the way his cheeks are now dappled with red.

He catches my eye, and mutters, “Hussy.”

I burst into startled laughter. “I’ve never been called that before.”

“You do surprise me. Okay. Back to business. How about I find a few boots that will be good for walking, and you can look at them and choose the pair that you like?”

“Okay.”

“What’s your budget?”

I tell him and then settle down on a bench to watch as he wanders the racks. His full lips are pursed, and a strand of brown hair has fallen over his forehead. I pretend to check the messages on my phone but end up watching the way the muscles in his thighs bunch as he crouches to grab a boot and the glorious sight of his bottom as he bends—full and perfectly round and no doubt a testament to all the exercises I never do.

He approaches me with his arms full, and I slide away my phone.

“What about this one?” he says, holding up a boot.

I eye it dubiously. “It looks like something I’d be laid to rest wearing.”

He gives a startled laugh. “So, not that one, then?”

“Erm, no.”

“What about these?”

“Are you serious? I’d look like an accountant having a midlife crisis.”

His lip twitches and his eyes twinkle as he produces one after another, all of which I shoot down.

I’m thoroughly enjoying myself and patting myself on the back. I knew he wouldn’t find anything to suit me in this shop. I’m a Converse or combat boots boy. Sensible shoes are not my jam.

Then, with a knowing smile, he produces a pair of boots that I immediately fall in love with.

“Oh mygod,” I breathe, holding out grabby hands. “Gimme them.”

He laughs and hands me the boots before settling down on the chair next to mine.

The boots are dark grey and sturdy, but they have a bright orange midsole and the same-coloured laces. They manage to look both functional and funky. I look up at him. “How did you know?”

A strange expression runs across his face. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Those ones screamed Bee to me.”

The thing is, I’ve known Ivy for twenty years, and even she couldn’t have picked these for me. I’d like to think that’s because I’m mysterious and enigmatic, but it’s probably because I never let anyone fully in.

“Okay?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh yes,” I say quickly. “I love them.”

His smile has a bad-boy quirk but the sweetness of sugar. “Let’s try them on first.”

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