Page 25 of The Meet Queue-t

I know what I would rather be doing, but I have a sneaking suspicion it would be illegal in the middle of King’s Cross. So I tilt my head back and look up at him. “What now?”

He pretends to consider, but his hand slides up to the side of my face. “I think,” he says, like he hasn’t already made up his mind and I’m not fully on board, “I’m going to kiss you again.”

I stand on my tiptoes to make it easier for him. Never say I’m not accommodating. “You have my permission. That and more.”

Heat flares in his eyes, and he takes my bottom lip in his teeth, tugging gently. I gasp, the sensation unlocking something in me. “Is that so?” he murmurs.

“All we need is somewhere private.”

“Tricky here.” His lips ghost across mine. “I’m not prepared to get arrested. But,” he muses as he threads his fingers idly through my hair, “there is another train to York in three hours.”

Three hours. I can do a bit with three hours, so long as we find somewhere to go. A hotel room, maybe. I’ve never rented one, but—

“I was thinking,” he says, cutting off my thoughts before they can go too haywire, “that maybe you could get on the train with me.”

My mind goes blank. I gape at him. “To . . . York?”

“That is where I live, last I checked.”

If I go to his house—flat, whatever—for the weekend, I’ll basically be admitting this is going to be a longer-term thing than just a fling. But isn’t that what I want?

My phone buzzes in my pocket, probably Rosa confirming that I am in fact a full ten on the crazy scale.

“I’ll pay for your ticket,” he adds. “And I wasn’t saying that like Iexpectanything from you, I just—”

“Okay.”

He blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay.” I beam up at him. Risk officially taken. “I’ll go to York with you. And for the record, it isdefinitelyokay to expect things from me. So long as you ask nicely.”

“I think I can probably agree to that.” The hand in my hair slides to the back of my neck. “You’ll tell me if this is moving too fast for you?”

“I will,” I say, although there is basically no chance of that. No way am I going all the way to his house, taking the metaphorical plunge of staying with him to see where this could go, andnotsleeping with him.

His mouth tilts into another smile, and I can already imagine what his place is like—covered in books andcluttered in that warm, homely way that already makes my heart ache at the thought of having to leave it.

So maybe I have it bad. Maybe that’s okay.

Maybe I didn’t come to London for closure—I came here for a new beginning. I just didn’t know it at the time.

And maybe when I get home, I’ll start that webcomic after all.

I take Oliver’s hand, sliding my fingers through his. They tighten around mine, and I release a long breath. Happy birthday to me.

Chapter Eight

Veryfewthingssurvivein the face of sheer and unrelenting exhaustion. Including, as it turns out, my very noble intention of sleeping with Oliver. After we left King’s Cross and I gave Granny an update that I wouldn’t be back until Sunday evening, we found a small café that serves breakfasts. Eggs Benedict for me, and two croissants for him.

We sit in companionable silence as we eat. That’s another thing I’ve noticed about him—his ability to be silent. To make silence feel like achoice. One that’s comfortable, like it’s enough that we’re in the same space, occupying the same air. Only our fingers touch across the table, and it’s an absent gesture. He’s lost in his thoughts, and I’m lost in trying to keep my eyes open.

“We can nap on the train,” he says.

“Or,” I say, “we could nap here.”

“I don’t think that’s allowed.”

“Spoilsport.”

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