Page 11 of The Meet Queue-t

But he glances back at me like he can’t help it. One arm is still around Gracie still, but his eyes are on me. Probably pissed that I’ve found someone else after telling him he was my one and only.

Kind of ruined that for yourself, Brandon.

Then he’s lost to the crowd and Oliver leans back so he can look at my face. “So,” he says. “What was that about?”

Chapter Four

Howdoyouexplainto your very new fake boyfriend that your ex-fiancé was a cheating asshole who deserves to be shanked by a prison inmate making do with a toothbrush?

Or that your mother recently died of cancer and you’re still trying to figure out what life means without her?

I realise I’m still clutching his hand, so I release him and stare back over the Thames like it’s going to give me all the answers. To no one’s surprise, it doesn’t. Beside me, Oliver sits quietly for a second, letting me sort through my feelings. I have too many—again, to no one’s surprise—and I’ve never been good at expressing them in any sort of healthy or sensible way.

He told me about his mum. I should be able to do the same. But the words just don’t come.

After a few more minutes of silence, he nudges his knee against mine. “I know I’m just a stranger,” he says. “But if you want to talk about it, it’s not as though I have anything better to do right now.”

I lace my own fingers together in my lap. “Sorry about—all of it. Brandon is a douchebag.”

“Were you together a long time?”

“Four years. Eighteen to twenty-two. We broke up last year.”

“Good.” He pauses. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it is a good thing. He wasn’t very nice to me.” I loosen my hands and reach for my hair again, twirling it between my fingers. “Sorry I made out like you were my boyfriend. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.” His shoulder bumps mine. There are so many places our bodies are touching, and it feels as though at some point he’s going to release and pull away, but he doesn’t.

“I held your hand,” I point out.

“Wow, better call the police,” he deadpans.

I sigh, but it turns into something approaching a laugh. When I glance at him, though, my laughter fades. My gaze meets a soft brown one, framed by thick lashes partially obscured by his glasses. I have the sudden urge to take them off, see what he would look like without them.

Maybe I really would drown in him then. Maybe his glasses are the only things tethering me to sanity.

“Thanks,” I say. “I really mean it.”

“You’re welcome.” His mouth twitches into that lopsided smile, dimple popping. “I really mean it.”

I don’t know when his face got so close to mine, but I can see every tiny mark on his skin. Smile lines around his eyes. It’s like looking through a door and seeing a hint of what he might look like when he’s older. There’s a mark on the side of his nose where his glasses have dug in.

His hand comes up, taking my wrist and drawing it down from my hair. I’d forgotten it was still there, still twisting. When I was a kid, I used to twirl my hair into knots as I was going to sleep every night. And every morning, Mum had a nightmare brushing them back out again. Guess it’s a habit that’s never gone away.

I feel his breath on my lips. His fingers flex on my wrist, and I expect him to let go, but he doesn’t. Skin against skin. Goosebumps break up and down my arms. His eyes are a mystery, but that tiny twitch of a lopsided smile isn’t. I can’t look away. He doesn’t seem to want to, either. Even though there’s no need to keep pretending, he hasn’t created any more distance between us. If anything he’s closer, closer, leaning in until our noses almost brush. My heart is pounding in my chest, a jackhammer into concrete, and every place he touches me burns.

I want him to kiss me. To silence my thoughts with his mouth and the release of tension in my gut. Anticipation twists in my stomach.

His gaze drops to my lips.

I stop breathing.

A yell slices through the darkness. Oliver glances away, and the moment is gone. He leans back, dropping my wrist, and I cradle it against my chest. All around us, unease spreads through the crowd, people shifting and muttering. Something has gone wrong.

Oliver clambers to his feet. “Stay here,” he says, even though if I attempted to walk along the wall, there’d be a whole new reason to scream.

I say nothing as he leaves to see what’s going on. My body is still buzzing from that almost-kiss, but the new tension around us submerges that feeling under a layer of uncertainty. The queue wasn’t moving anyway, but now there’s a sense of stifled momentum. I wrap my arms around myself.

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