Page 2 of Away With You
“How are you?” he asks, like it’s been days and not years since we’d last seen each other.
Another orange makes an escape and I scramble to retrieve it. I may appear slightly mad trying to track down my errant fruit, but I paid for them and they’re my ticket out of scurvy-ville. And also, I need to not be looking at Nathan right now. Because for my corneas, it’s the equivalent of looking directly at the sun.
“Here, let me help you.” He bends his oversized body in half and plucks up two oranges, reaching to grab another two from the roadside with a flick of the wrist. I’m aware that F1 drivers need quick reflexes, but this is next level.
“Someone likes their oranges,” he comments, handing two back to me. I put them back in a bag while he tucks the other two into his jacket pocket.
Is he stealing my oranges? Does he fear scurvy, too?
I lean down to pick up the leftover groceries puddled at my feet. Tampons, high fibre digestives and a tub of ice cream. Could my shopping be any more embarrassing? It may as well be screaming ‘single lady living on her own.’ Who’s also on her period.
Excellent.
“Um,” I stammer. I hope the dim evening light will hide both my flaming cheeks and my sad Friday night trip to Sainsbury’s.
The bag in my left hand takes this moment to tear at the bottom, dropping my box of tampons back down at his feet, and I groan out loud.
“Seriously?” I say to the universe.
Nathan chuckles, retrieving my tampons and placing them in the overstuffed laptop bag hanging off my neck and across my body.
“So, do you live around here?” he asks, his blue, blue eyes glued to me.
Feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare, I whip my beanie off my head, freeing the mop of hair that had been secured under there. It cascades over my shoulders and down my back, like a warm blanket.
“Better,” I mutter. I’ve been both blessed and cursed with a lot of hair. Like, copious amounts, the sort of hair that has the hairdresser taking in a gulp and rescheduling their next appointment when they see me in their chair. It’s what theydescribe as lots of strands of coarse hair, which is supposed to be a good thing. I never have to invest in volume-boost hair products. But it also means it’s often unruly, rarely stays in place, and I get headaches if it’s up in a ponytail for too long. “Much better.”
I massage the roots of my hair near my forehead and groan, my noise almost drowning his swift intake of breath.
“Are you okay?”
I stop massaging and peer up at him.
He leans in closer to me, a smile tickling his lips. “I can’t believe I’d forgotten all of this.” He motions around my head, and I smooth my hair back from my face, pulling it back behind my head and securing it with the last elastic I have on my wrist. I go through like five of these every day.
“I’m surprised you remember anything of this,” I say, waving up and down my body.
His head tilts, his gaze sweeps over me before landing on my face. On my cheek. “Ah, how could I ever forget this?” He reaches out a finger and stops just shy of touching my face. And yet my skin still tingles like his hands are all over me. “I’d never seen a heart-shaped freckle like this before. Or since.”
I release a huff of air, shifting my face away from his almost touch. My olive complexion—thanks, Italian genes—is smooth and freckle-free, except for just the one. Right under my left eye; and yes, it’s weirdly shaped like a love heart.
“Right.”
We stare at each other. His face is warm with amusement. In the years since we’ve seen each other, he’s gotten even more handsome. I mean, I see his face every other weekend while watching the F1 from my couch, but it’s something different taking in his raw beauty up close. The man has the whole Austin Butler thing going on, but more rugged. His face is perfectly symmetrical, with high cheekbones and a luscious bottom lipthat is fuller than the top one. He has a thick layer of stubble on his cheeks, which is absent most of the F1 season, and his hair is a mess of tangled waves, honey-coloured and begging for my fingers to run through them. And his eyes? Don’t get me started. Light blue and warm, if that’s possible. Most blue eyes can be described as icy or piercing, but Nathan’s remind me of a crystal-clear lake. Calm, still and inviting.
“Ah, okay. So...” I tear my gaze from him and break the silence by stringing a few random words together. “What are you doing around here?”
He’s a global superstar athlete. From my general internet knowledge (notstalking), I know he lives in London during the F1 off-season, but I’m assuming the London he inhabits differs greatly from the one in which I live.
“I spent the afternoon helping a friend move,” he says.
He has a friend who lives around here? Interesting.
“Must be a good friend. Moving is the worst.”
“She is. Cherry helped me get through some tough times, so I owe her one. She’s moving out of London and in with her boyfriend…”
He rambles on, and I can’t absorb any of his words after he saidthatname. “Are you talking about Cherry Brenner?” I interrupt. “From Cherry’s Corner? Nicky Dimitrios’s girlfriend?ThatCherry?”
