Page 16 of The Meet Queue-t

“I’m not on my last legs yet. And someone has to shut my nephew up before he wakes the dead with that snoring. No matter how much fuss this country makes over the Queen dying, now she’s gone, they won’t want her back.” She gives a wicked cackle and heads back to her nephew, whom she prods with her stick. Poor guy.

Oliver’s perched on the wall again by the time I reach him, and I hop up beside him, this time with fractionally more grace. “Here,” I say, offering him my queue-issued blanket. “You look cold.”

“I’m fine.”

I roll my eyes and thrust it into his arms. “Yield some of your moral high ground and just accept it.”

“Mymoral high ground?” He raises an eyebrow, but takes the blanket, shaking it out and draping it over both our shoulders. “Who’s your friend?”

“Thelma. She’s . . . a character.”

I’ve been looking for a man like that all my life.

Stupid thing to say. She doesn’t even know Oliver.Idon’t know Oliver.

“Hey,” he says, and his shoulder grazes mine as he leans over to look down the line. “I think we’re moving again.”

People cheer. I don’t, but a noise escapes me that’s partway between a sigh and a groan. Oliver hops off the wall and offers me his hand. I use it to jump down, but let go as soon as I’m safely on solid ground again.

“Who taught you to be such a gentleman?” I tease. “Is there anything you don’t do?”

He glances at his hand, then at me. “This is your idea of being a gentleman?”

“You offered your blanket to those people.”

“I run hot. And you offered your blanket to me, so who’s the gentleman now?” When I scoff, he raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think it has anything to do with beinga gentleman, Tessa. I think it’s just not being a piece of shit.”

Like Brandon.

“Well, I dunno,” I say. “You’dthinkthat basic kindness shouldn’t be too hard to find, but I’ve dated plenty of other losers. The bar is practically underground at this point.”

“Apparently,” he mutters. We’re still under the blanket together, and although we’re not touching, I can feel his body heat. We move forward one step at a time, left then right, totally in sync. “Okay,” he says, and it’s a challenge. “Worst first date.”

“Oh man, you want me to pick just one? Impossible.”

“Fine, I’ll go first. Picture this—me at twenty-four. On a Tinder date. She walks in and looks younger than her picture, but she insists she’s twenty-one. Right until she orders a drink and pulls out fake I.D.”

I cringe, already knowing where this is going. “How old was she really?”

“Fifteen. The second I found out, I left.”

“Oof.” I purse my lips as I look up at him, trying to figure out how many years twenty-four was for him. “How long ago was that?”

His dimple winks at me. “Trying to getmyage?”

“Well, for all I know, you might be averyyouthful fifty-year-old.”

“Ouch. I’m pretty sure that was an insult.” He deadpans it, but there’s a curl at the corner of his mouth that gives him away. “I’m thirty-two.”

Eight years. “Huh. Fifty would’ve been a stretch, then.”

He pulls a face. “I’d like to think so. What about you?”

“You already know. Twenty-four. Same age as you were on your disaster-date.”

“No, I mean worst first date,” he says, and I want to smack my forehead.

“Oh, right.” So many to choose from. I think for a minute. “Probably when he brought his mum along. This was—hmm, about six months ago now? Thought I should get back out there, try dating casually, have a bit of fun. I wasn’t ready for anything serious, especially with Mum declining, but after everything blew up with Brandon, I think she just wanted to see me happy. So yeah. Tried online dating.” I drawl the words out, stretching them. “Let’s just say it didn’t go well.”

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