Page 66 of The Unlikely Pair
I might not know how to fish, but I’m fairly decent at hunting down maggot-like creatures. I’m sure there’s a parallel there to be made about having to deal with maggot-like creatures in Parliament.
“That’s perfect,” Harry says, and I try to stop the flush of pride that goes through me. I mean, I’ve simply pulled apart a rotting log, not won a Nobel Peace Prize.
Although, right now, grubs are actually far more useful to us than a Nobel Prize would be.
I scavenge some more out of the decaying log.
“Some of the grubs could be potentially edible as well. A good source of protein,” Harry muses.
I look down at the squirming grubs in my hand. “Do you know for sure whether they are safe to eat?”
“No, I don’t know for sure.”
“I mean, I’ve already proven I’m not discerning about what I allow in my mouth, but I might draw the line at grubs.”
Harry’s forehead crumples. “What do you mean you’re not discerning about what you allow in your mouth?”
“Well, your tongue was in my mouth earlier today, wasn’t it?” I say.
Somehow, joking makes me feel better. This is the only way I’m going to cope with our encounter and Harry’s subsequent rejection—by playing the carefree, laissez-faire Toby, who will use the interaction to score points against Harry.
And sure enough, my words cause a flush to go up his neck and spread across his face, tinging his cheeks pink.
“You didn’t seem to mind at the time,” he rallies.
“Oh, trust me, I wasn’t complaining. In fact, it was the first time I was in total agreement with what your mouth was doing.As I’ve already said, I’m up for exploring other ways your mouth can actually be useful.”
And there it is. A pulse of heat in Harry’s icy blue eyes. Unmistakable. Unmissable.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“Shall we just focus on getting this line in the water?” he asks.
“Sure. I’m all about getting our rods wet.”
This time, I don’t get a chance to clock whether there’s heat in Harry’s eyes as he’s too busy rolling them.
Our trousers are now dry enough to put back on. Harry studiously averts his gaze again as I’m getting dressed.
I pack up the contents of the survival kit to bring with us, trying to suppress my grin. Harry Matheson still wants me as much as I want him. Which means it’ll be fun to poke at him about it.
Poke him about how much he wants to poke me. There’s a certain poetry to it.
We cut through the pines towards the river. It’s more meandering here than further upstream, the sun sparkling on the river’s surface.
Despite the circumstances, I can’t help admiring the raw, quiet beauty. The air is so clean and crisp that it’s like breathing in a mint refreshment. It’s a stark contrast to London’s unique blend of exhaust fumes, kebab shop odors, and the occasional whiff of the Thames at low tide.
I follow Harry to where a flat rock juts out over a calm pool.
He edges out to peer into the pool, then looks up at me.
“Are there fish there?” I ask because, as usual, Harry’s poker face gives nothing away.
Harry nods. “Looks like a school of perch.”
I’ll take his word for it. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered fish anywhere but on my plate in a restaurant.
My barren belly rumbles at remembering all the meals I’ve eaten without a second thought, always assuming I’d never have to worry about where my next meal was coming from.
