Page 22 of The Likelihood Of You

“You know you’re brave, right?” My head darts back towards him, a single tear still sitting on my bottom lashes. “You had your life crushed right in front of you, and you travelled halfway across the world and started over. You’re stronger than you think you are, Florence. Trust me.”

The tear that was resting on my lashes is now halfway down my cheek, shining light on how utterly wrong he was. I silently curse that I focus on that rather than swipe the pesky thing away, because Jacob’s whiskey eyes make a beeline for it. It shocks me that he thinks I’m brave for leaving and starting over, and it startles me even more when I notice his hand rise to my face, only to wipe away the tear that had escaped. His warm fingers brand my skin, making my cheeks flush.

I gather myself, silently telling my heart not to run away with what he just did, as I whisper a hushedthank youto him and return a smile.

I keep my eyes trained on his, watching as his gaze burns down my face and onto my neck, his hand hovering over me as he brushes the gold heart I always forget is fixed there. "This is beautiful." He whispers, like he's talking to it.

"My Mum's, the only thing I have left of her besides tons of photo albums."

A hint of a smirk invades the corner of his mouth, pulling my attention to his lips.

After that, we let the silence grace us again, our attentions returning to the lake.

It felt nice, weirdly, having gotten all that off my chest. Even though he scared the shit out of me, I’m actually grateful for his surprise appearance. If he hadn’t shown up, I’d probably be halfway back to my apartment by now, rushing my steps to unleash my emotions in private and avoid making my tears the secret ingredient to my signature brownie recipe.

I’ll bake him some, tear free ones, because no matter what language you spoke, brownies were always the best way to say thank you.

“I know we barely know each other, and you’re, like, ridiculously famous, but I think you’re the closest thing to a friend I’ve had since arriving,” I say, turning my head to face him again. “Thank you for that.”

He turns his head too. “Florence Dayes’ first N.Y.C friend. What do I win for such an honour?”

I laugh. “The pleasure of hearing about my oh-so fascinating and slightly troubling life whenever I need to talk to someone who isn’t my Nanna.”

“How did I get so lucky?”

His words make my soul slip from its holding place, like the feeling you get when you go down the first drop of a rollercoaster or when you finally read the plot twist line that you’ve been trying to guess for three hundred pages: that was what his words did to me.

But, the longer I stared at him while he stared back, the happy feeling quickly bordered on panic, at the realisation that there was the slightest chance my feelings for him were growing.

I pull the plug in my head, draining those thoughts, reminding myself that he is, in fact, stupidly famous, and there was no way he was thinking about me in that way, not when I’d just trauma dumpedon him, and certainly not when he had everyone else in the world to choose from.

I run my hands down my jeans and grip my thighs before turning my body inward, being careful not to clash my knees with his. “Well, I think I’ve disturbed your moment with this amazing view for long enough. So, I…I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” I say, before standing up and making my way behind the bench. I offer him a small smile before turning my back to him and heading back toward the main path.

I get a couple of yards of distance between us before I hear him call my name.

“Yeah?” I shout back.

His head drops as a smile appears on his lips, like he doesn’t want the world to see it. Our stares meet a second later, as he lifts his hand to the side of his mouth, and utters words so perfect I wondered if he’d pulled them from an old script.

“Next time you speak to your Nanna, tell her I said thank you for suggesting New York.”

How my heart reacted to that scared me more than when he made me jump earlier.

I somehow managed to walk home after that, with my jaw still hanging open, my legs shaking, and my body urging me to make a U-turn and spend the closing moments of the lavender hour telling him my whole lifestory…again.

Chapter eight

Jacob

It sounds stupid, but I sometimes forget I live in this apartment.

I sometimes swing the door open, walk in here and expect to see damp walls, a dingy brown couch that Nate and I plucked off the street and the tiniest refrigerator that had ever existed.

But what smacks me in the face with a reality check is the skyline view of the city I called home through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’ve only been living in this building for less than a year, so it’s no wonder this lifestyle still catches me off guard sometimes.

And the windows are just the tip of the iceberg.

I don’t mind the little things anymore, the daily fan meetings I can handle, the paparazzi you can avoid once you figure out where they like to manifest, and although I’ve only done two red carpets in my career so far, I kind of dig them. The only thing that I hate about leading this life, what I well and truly wish it wasn’t a thing, is how hard it is to trust people now.

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