Page 5 of The Meet Queue-t
A lopsided smile crosses his face, giving me an excellent view of my Achilles heel. He has a dimple. Just one, and I canfeelthe way my heart does its best to clamber out of my chest. No men should be allowed dimples. “You mean you wouldn’t jump in there after me?”
“You already gave me your coffee,” I say, holding up the little cup. Steam rises into the air, tickling my face. “What more could I need you around for?”
“My scintillating conversation?”
“What person even uses ‘scintillating’ in a conversation?”
“Me, evidently.”
Evidently. He even talks like a professor. It’s weirdly endearing.
I take my first sip of the coffee and close my eyes. It’s bitter and dark and caffeinated and it’s everything I need on a cold Thursday evening. Maybe I even groan a little.
“Good?” he asks, amused.
“You’re in luck. I might not awkwardly fall asleep on you after all.”
A beat. “You say that like I’d mind.”
I open my eyes and look at him sceptically. “You wouldn’t mind a strange woman with blue hair and a nose piercing falling asleep on your shoulder?”
He tilts his head, giving me a slow up and down that makes heat curl in my toes. “You say that like I wouldn’t mind someone whodidn’thave blue hair and piercings falling asleep on me.”
“I’m not exactly everyone’s cup of tea,” I say.
“Maybe not everyone’s, but . . .” He lets the thought trail away, and another thrill runs through me. I’m used to people looking at me disapprovingly, like somehow my aesthetic choices have some kind of moral implication. Strait-laced Oliver didn’t strike me as someone who’d be into my vibe.
But maybe he is. Maybe I’m judging him the way I hate other people judging me—making assumptions based on physical appearance. The thought that maybe he might be interested makes my stomach twist with anticipation.
Stop it. We’re in a queue. Nothing’s going to happen, and you’re still recovering from your broken heart, remember?
“I like it,” he finishes. “It’s nice.”
I snort. “Nice?”
“Bold? Daring? Exciting?” He gives me a deprecating smile. “What adjective would you prefer?”
“Anything butnice. It’s such a bland word.”
He scans my face, but I don’t know what he’s looking for, and he doesn’t give me any indication as he jams his hands in his pockets. “If you say so.”
In my brain, Henry Tilney from Northanger Abbey resurfaces, ready to do battle.Oh, he says.It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. He was right then, and it still applies now. It’s a get-out-of-jail-free card when people aren’t sure what else to say.
I wind a lock of my blue hair around my fingers and look at it. Mum would’ve hated it. She was all about fitting in, about being part of something greater andnot drawing attention to yourself, and that I could do something that so goes against those values would’ve grated. Blue isn’t exactly subtle.
When she died, I felt as though I lost myself. The hair was a step on the way to finding myself again.
Tossing the rest of the coffee back, I hand the flask to Oliver. “My granny hates my hair,” I say, to stop my mind’s endless wandering in circles. It’s not like I haven’t thought about this stuff before, but I could happily go a while longer without thinking about it again. “And my nose ring. And my lip ring—I’ve taken that one out, but maybe I’ll change my mind.” I shrug. “But anyway, I like blue, so why shouldn’t I dye my hair to match?”
Oliver nods, like this all makes sense to him—the university lecturer who lights up when talking about ancient diseases and still wears an old-fashioned wristwatch. “It suits you,” he says.
“If you say it’s nice again, I’ll throw you into the Thames myself,” I warn.
He grins. “I mean it. Not everyone can pull off blue hair. I couldn’t when I tried.”
That’s so unexpected, I stare at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “You dyed your hair . . . blue?”
“Purple, actually, though it was a while ago now.”
