Page 66 of Holiday Romance
“So, you’re going to woo me with food, is that it?”
I blink away the image of us, clearing my throat for good measure. “Are you complaining?”
“Absolutely not. That sounds right up my street.”
“I can do it after the ax throwing,” I say airily, and he smiles.
“Sold.”
Our eyes meet and there it is again, the spark of something that seems to happen more and more.
And Andrew knows it. He stops along the walkway, pausing to lean against the railing. In the distance, Big Ben looms across the river, while directly behind him the market continues in all its festive spirit. But it’s quieter here, mainly couples and solo visitors wandering like us, taking pictures of the lights as they eat roasted chestnuts and lick melting marshmallows from their fingers.
But I’m not looking at them. I’m looking at Andrew, Andrew who’s gazing at me with such a serious expression that I suddenly feel like I’m being pulled in front of the school principal. And I know he’s going to ask me about it. About the kiss. About us. He’s going to ask the question and I don’t know the answer and I get so panicked, so worried, that I distract him with the first thing I can think of.
“Take my picture.”
“What?”
“Take my picture,” I repeat, more confident this time.
His brows rise. “You hate having your picture taken.”
I do. It wasn’t just because I looked like a wreck in Paris. I’ve always been uncomfortable in front of the camera. I can barely stand the professional headshots they make us do at work and my Instagram feed doesn’t have a single selfie of me. Not even when I was rocking that bob cut everyone complimented me on but that was way too much maintenance to keep up. I don’t do pictures. But my distraction is working.
“I feel pretty,” I say. “And I want to document this ridiculous day.”
He doesn’t respond at first, as though waiting for the punchline. I just stand there.
“Okay,” he says, reaching for his camera.
“You also could have told me I always look pretty,” I tell him.
“I could have,” he agrees, and gestures for me to pose.
Predictably, I feel instantly self-conscious.
What do I do with my hands? How do I pose? Do I tilt my head? Do I smile? Do I jump into the river and swim far, far away?
Andrew glances through the lens and makes an adjustment, eyes flicking up when he sees me flailing.
“You’re terrible at this.”
“Andrew!”
He laughs and some of my awkwardness changes to annoyance.
“Never mind,” I say. “Put it away.”
“Oh, absolutely not. I’m having too much fun now.”
I almost pout, squirming under his attention as he gets ready.
“Put your left hand on the railing,” he says. “Not like you’re holding onto theTitanic… Perfect. Look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“Look at me like you did before.”
