Page 58 of On Circus Lane

“That makes me sound like a Tupperware container.”

He shrugs. “It’s a very valuable character trait in life.”

The man’s lip is twitching. “So, could we possibly come in?” I ask.

He sighs in a regretful fashion. “I’m afraid it’s deep cleaning. They’re steaming the curtains and polishing the floors.”

“Couldn’t they just spray Febreze? I’ve found that’s the answer to most of my housework problems.”

“We’re going now,” Tom says to the man, who is not even bothering to hide his smile now. “Happy Christmas to you.”

I wave my hand limply. “Oh yes, definitely.” I follow Tom disconsolately. “Oh my god, this holiday iscursed. Why did I not pay attention to Ivy and the group chat? Why did I think my DPhil was more important?”

“Because it is,” he says calmly. “There’ll be other days.”

“Not on this holiday.”

“You’ll come again,” he says with a surety that comforts me even though he can’t possibly know that. “You’re determined.”

I come to a stop, and he pauses obligingly, watching as I draw out my trusty sheet piece of paper. I look up at him. “So, do I need tickets for all the other things I mentioned?”

He considers the question and nods reluctantly. “Probably all of them, apart from the monument, although that gets very busy. I thought you had tickets.”

“When on earth did you get the impression that I’m in the slightest bit organised? Certainly not onthisholiday.” A smile plays on his mouth, and I stare at him as a sudden thought occurs to me. “So, haveyougot tickets for anything?”

“Nope.”

I stare at him. “So, what were you intending to do while I visited these places?”

He scratches his head. “I thought I’d wait outside for you.”

“You’d have waited outside for me in the snow? Why?”

“You’re good company.”

“I am?”

His mouth twitches. “Has no one ever told you that?”

“Well, Ivy, but she doesn’t count. She’s biased.”

“What about your men?”

“You make it sound like I have a stable of them.” I consider his question. “Not really. Most of them said my arse was the tightest they’d ever had, if that helps.”

He groans and adjusts himself quickly. “No, it really doesn’t,” he grumbles.

I eye him. “So, if I can’t do tourist things, we could always go back to the flat.”

He studies me, and the temptation in his eyes is so hot that I sway towards him.

Then he clears his throat. “We can still do tourist things,” he says hoarsely. “I hate that you’re disappointed.”

“But we haven’t got tickets for anything.”

“That doesn’t matter.” He pauses. “Do you trust me?”

“Strangely, I do.”

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