Page 8 of The Meet Queue-t
“Honestly, it’s fine. It’s no big deal, just a birthday.”
He comes back up with one of those four packs of chocolate muffins you can buy at the supermarket. “Here,” he says, offering the squashed plastic box to me. “It’s not a cake, but it’s the best I’ve got.”
“Oliver.” I don’t quite understand why there’s a lump in my throat. It’s a totally irrational reaction, especially considering one of the chocolate chips has smeared across the inside of the plastic. The muffins look half melted and squashed and . . . kind of perfect, actually. “You really don’t have to do this. I chose to be here.”
“And you can choose to accept my humble offering.” He pops the lid and takes one out, offering me the other three. “Just have one, Tessa. We can eat it together.”
“Tess,” I say. “My friends call me Tess.”
“And my friends let me buy them terrible food and then pretend it’s good.” He offers it to me again, waving it in front of my face so the scent of chocolate and processed baked goods floods my senses. “Unless . . . Crap, are you vegan? Gluten intolerant? I didn’t even think.”
Ugh, he’s even cuter when he’s flustered, and before I can let myself regret it, I pluck a muffin from the box and take a bite. It’s warm and soft and chocolatey, melting on my tongue a little, and even though by any normal standards it’s subpar, it still manages to be the best muffin I’ve ever eaten.
“Thanks,” I say, running my tongue along my teeth before I smile at him. “This is amazing.”
“You don’t need to be polite, you know. It’s about the worst birthday cake I’ve ever offered anyone.”
“I wasn’t expecting any birthday cake at all this year, so.” I take another bite before I can show him how weirdly emotional this entire thing is making me. ClearlyI’m sleep-deprived, because no supermarket muffin should make me feel like this. Chocolate or no.
“I wonder what the hold-up is,” he muses, moving to the wall beside the Thames. It’s not a particularly high wall, maybe waist height for me, but in one smooth movement, he’s clambering up until he’s standing on it, towering over the rest of us. He peers along the line, looking for the source of the disturbance.
“Get down,” I say, filled with visions of him tumbling backwards and dying before my eyes. “You’d have more luck finding out what’s happening online.”
He grins at me, and there’s something wicked about the expression that makes me flush. Also, it reveals his dimple again, which is an extremely dangerous weapon that should only be deployed in matters of emergency.
I stuff the muffin in my mouth before I can think too much about that one dimple and the way it gives him an adorable, lopsided expression. To my relief, he sits back down. To my not-relief, he pats the stone beside him. “Come on up.”
I eye the wall, but there’s no dignified way I’m getting up there without either scrabbling around or falling to my certain death. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“Here.” He holds out a hand. “Let me help.”
“Do you crave your immediate demise?”
“Tess.” He laughs at my expression and I fold my arms, tucking my hands away so they won’t be tempted to take his. “I won’t let you fall.”
There should be a law against being so beguiling. I am an independent woman who can make her owndecisions, but when he looks down at me through his lashes, I’m apparently stripped of all autonomy, because I take his hand and allow him to power me up the wall.
“Ouch!” I crack my elbow against the stone and that weird, tingling, hollow feeling shoots through my arm. Cursing, I topple sideways into him, my forehead smacking against his chest, and he catches me with his other arm. I feel him tense to hold us in place.
Shit. He smells incredible. I’ve face-planted his chest, but the only thing I can think about is breathing more of his scent in. He smells like the cosy corner of a full library—all new ink, old pages, and macchiato steam. Underneath it all is the fresh scent of laundry. I flush, again, and I’m glad it’s mostly dark as I shove myself off him and regain my balance. Not my dignity, though—that has long gone and I doubt I’m ever getting it back.
My elbow still throbs.
“You okay?” he asks, even though I almost headbutted him off the damn wall.
“I am so sorry. Are you okay?” I wince. “I knew at least one of us would get injured.”
The corner of his mouth tips up in a little half-smile and I swear my heart misses a beat. “I think I still have all my ribs.”
“Intact?”
“Pretty sure.” The smile widens. “How’s your elbow?”
“Uh.” I hold my arm up, forearm swinging loosely. “I think it’s still attached?”
He runs his fingers across my arm in assessment, and the contact is so unexpected, I freeze. “Looks fine to me. Couple of minutes and it should be back to normal.”
I flex my fingers experimentally and shift away from him (knowing me, I’ll get distracted enough I’ll fall into the Thames, and that really would be a disaster) to look around us at the queue. Along with the air of hushed excitement, there’s a sense of solidarity.
