Page 41 of Weekends with You

I also decided I was well on my way to drunk, but in the good way.

“You have good mates,” Oliver mused once Raja had returned to the rest of the lot.

“They’re definitely something,” I laughed. They were playing some sort of drinking game, and Finn’s beer was foaming over the top and forming a puddle at Liv’s feet.

“Are you here with friends, or...?” I wasn’t exactly sure what I was asking, but I figured it was best to make sure he wasn’t trolling the bar for single women alone. Or worse, that he’d come with a date and abandoned her.

“Well, I was, but one’s in a fight with his girlfriend and the other was invited to smoke a joint in the alley with a coworker, so... They aren’t quite as considerate as yours, I have to say.” His candor was disarming.

A giggle that I was certain didn’t belong to me escaped my lips, but I let it slide in the spirit of new beginnings. I raised my glass to his for a toast. “Pleased to meet you, then, Oliver.”

“I’d say the same, but ‘pleased’ doesn’t do it justice,” he said, clinking our glasses. “So, Lucy, tell me about yourself.”

“I’m a florist,” I said, a sense of pride creeping into my chest, followed closely by anxiety that I might not be able to say this with such confidence for much longer. “I work at an independent shop in Islington.”

“How romantic,” he mused. “That must be hard work, then, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, perhaps with a bit too much enthusiasm. “Sorry, people usually assume it’s really easy, but in fact, it’sthe opposite. And keeping the job is sometimes as difficult as doing the job, if I’m honest.” I didn’t mean for that bit to slip out, but something about his face made me want to tell him things.

“Nothing about that seems easy to me. Your clients are all undergoing something emotional, right? It must almost always be either celebration or mourning, if I had to guess. And it must be intense to be surrounded by that.”

“Do you happen to also be a florist?” I laughed. “You’re bang-on, really.”

“I’m in the restaurant industry. A chef, actually. So at work, people come to me with the same range of emotions, but I get to handle them from behind the scenes. Not quite as difficult as being front and center, I imagine.”

“Seems plenty difficult in its own right,” I said.

“I’ll drink to that,” he said. “Fancy another?” He nodded to my empty cup, and I realized I hadn’t gotten in on the last round with my roommates.

“Please,” I said.

I watched him order for us, forcing myself not to remember the times I had watched Henry do the same.

“So, that accent’s American, is it?” he asked, handing me my cocktail.

“Embarrassingly so,” I said. I’d been living in London long enough that I seldom seemed like an out-of-towner, but the accent was a giveaway.

“It’s charming,” he said.

“Is that code for something?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“If you’re asking because you don’t think you’re charming, Lucy, then we’re going to have a problem here.” He sipped his drink, keeping his eyes on mine. “And I quite like you, so I’m not keen on having a problem just yet.”

“Duly noted,” I laughed. Any other response was escaping me, but he didn’t seem to mind.

He asked about my background, what had brought me to London, what I liked to do when I wasn’t working. I asked about places he’d traveled, what had led him to the kitchen, how else he liked to spend his time. We told bad jokes, ordered shots, touched each other’s arms. We whispered about other people at the bar, commented on the music. We watched the clock.

The impending pressure of midnight mingled overhead with the lights strung around the rafters and the scents of beer and cinnamon. People kissed at midnight on New Year’s. He knew it and I knew it. And my friends constantly glancing over at me from the fireplace knew it. But his charm might have been the sort of effortless kind men like this use with everyone, regardless of their interest, and my head wasn’t clear enough to decide if that was the case with me.

In the forty-five minutes we’d been standing together, we’d all but closed every inch of the gap between us. A deep breath would put my chest against his, and I could feel the heat of his body, warmer than that of the crowded bar.

“You don’t want to get back to your friends before midnight?” I asked, nodding to the clock that signaled there were only a few minutes to go.

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“Hardly.”Trying to give you an out in case you want onebefore I embarrass myself, is more like it.

“Good,” he said, running his fingertips up the length of my arm. “Because I’d much rather ring in the new year with you, if that’s all right. Unless, of course, you’d like to get back toyourfriends?”

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