‘Oh just, you know, where you grew up. That kind of thing.’
‘I have three older sisters,’ he says. ‘Which means that I fully understand the subtext in what you are asking.’
He has no idea. Menfellas simply have no idea what we clever women really mean. No idea at all.
His eyes are dancing with merriment.
Surely not. He’d be the first man in the history of men to ever figure…
‘I’ve been single for just over a year,’ he adds, giving me a look. ‘I’ve never been in love because until now, I’ve not managed to find a funny, clever, entertaining woman who makes standing in a bank queue for hours, even remotely worthwhile.’ He squeezes my hand and fixes me an intense sort of look, ‘Anything else?’
‘No,’ I whisper. I have to avert my gaze from his burning stare because my heart is going like the clappers.
Suddenly, he starts rubbing his thumb seductively across my palm. It is a loaded action. The electricity between us is building.
Then a miracle happens. Our number is called. I fly over to the desk to find the lady speaks English, and rapidly beg, beg, BEG, her to activate the direct debit for the rent. I nod towards Oliver, who is standing across the waiting area in a splendid display of handsomeness. The girl gives me an appreciative nod and an unnecessary pantomime wink, immediately getting my drift.
‘And while you’re at it,’ I plead. ‘Why isn’t any money going into my account from the business or the money I transferred two bloody weeks ago from the UK?’
She taps away and looks up questioningly to say nobody (me) has bothered to authorise the online transfers or the Paypal.
‘Do it! DO it!’ I hiss, nodding frantically. We both take a beat to admire Oliver, who is looking at us from afar with a bemused grin. He straightens up so that his pecks strain against his shirt buttons. The girl lets out a slow breath.
Two minutes later and we are out of there.
‘Lunch?’ he says.
I nod. Not because I’m hungry, but because I don’t want to be parted from him or this energy that is crackling between us.
I’d love to know what colour my aura is right now. Probably neon sky blue pink.
‘I know a place you might like,’ Oliver says, leading the way.
Walking side by side is excruciating. We try not to walk too close to one another yet, there’s a magnetic force pulling us together, and every now and then, our arms brush causing shoots of electricity to run up my spine.
We arrive at SnappySnacks to hear lots of dogs barking.
Oliver looks super-pleased with himself. ‘I know you like dogs.’
‘Not to eat,’ I say.
Oliver looks at me and bursts out laughing. ‘No, it’s a petting café. You get to pet the pooches while you eat.’
I peer through the window to see lots of puppies and dogs bounding around, leaping onto people’s laps. There’s a huge sign up on the wall announcing which dog is star of the week (Daisy because she waits politely for treats and doesn’t bark for them) and which dog is in the doghouse (Pickles because even though he’s tiny, he keeps jumping up onto people and farting out loud sulphuric fumes).
‘I remembered you told me you worked at an animal shelter. These little guys are all rescues.’
I am taken aback at Oliver’s thoughtfulness.
‘Fancy a Yappy burger?’ he asks. ‘Or are you more of a hotdog lover?’
After thirty minutes of joyful petting and stroking, Oliver and I have bonded over a shared love of sad-eyed puppies. They were all over him, and seeing his caring nature and the way he handled them all so gently, made my feelings for him balloon out of all proportion. When I picked up one of the puppies and diagnosed a swollen kidney, Oliver went on as though I’d saved its life. Which I might have done, but didn’t do it for any sort of fuss to be made. We ended up getting some free doggy biscuits to give out, and I couldn’t help offering to volunteer a few hours a week.
Oliver is giving me big cow eyes.
‘So, you have one of those fancy whitewashed townhouses, do you?’ I breathe huskily when we break out onto the sunny street. No sooner are the words out of my mouth, than he has grabbed my hand, and we are almost halfway to his house.
We scurry past the marina and its bobbing yachts, past Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen’s restaurant and over to the start of the cobbled lanes that wind their way up to the church. All the houses are centuries old, whitewashed stone with hanging baskets outside spilling over with bright pink and purple flowers. The picture-perfect scene would have any normal personoohingandaahingbut the beauty is lost on me, because I am a person blinded by carnal lustings.
