“Can’t wait.” Reluctantly, I let him go.
The end of the day can’t come quickly enough. Somehow, I drag myself back to the café, entirely distracted through the rest of my shift. And Ben disappears off to do mysterious Ben things until we meet.
If he turns up.
Best not get my hopes up about that, at any rate. I don’t exactly have a great track record with guys turning up, even for hookups. Besides, it’s just one night. Nothing more, even if he does show up. That’s the rule. He doesn’t need to know anything else about me.
Chapter Seven
When 3:00 p.m. arrives, I have a not-so-small panic as I hang my apron in the stockroom where Ben and I had our tryst just a few short hours ago—a stockroom it took me a good hour to completely clean afterward. What if I’d imagined the whole thing? A hallucination from sex deprivation and far too many lattes? What if it’s a side effect from flocks of owlish hipsters with oversize glasses wanting special variations on their achingly affected orders, trying to outdo each other and do in a barista’s head?
What’s wrong with me? It’s nothing more than lust. That’s it—a lust-related altered state of reality.
As I stretch my arms overhead, my lower back aches from the relentless way I’d done Ben—or my hallucination earlier. The cascade of coffee beans that had spilled across the table and the stockroom floor provided proof as I’d cleaned it all up that I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. At least, the manifestation of my hallucination was messy. God, the mess. Fucking heaven. Remembering that will get me through some cold winter nights.
No wonder I don’t get laid nearly often enough. Too much thinking.
But never mind all that—what’s important is figuring out what’s happened to Ben. Because odds are he was real. And I could do with more sex. I need to get going in case he arrives and doesn’t see me and then thinks I stood him up. What sort of arsehole would I be if he thought that?
No guarantee he’ll turn up again next Saturday, Charlie. Christmas is coming and everyone will be out of their routine. Including and especially you. Hurry up. Limited-time offer.
After grabbing my coat hanging from the corner of a metal wire shelf holding boxes of supplies, I hurry out the side door, crunching through the snow-covered alley to the pavement in front of the café. It’s precisely 3:02 p.m. when I leave. I tug on my coat as the brisk wind cuts through my clothes. It’s a short walk to Ben’s studio, but I’m already late.
God, I better not be too late. I should have left early, had Jasmine cover.
There’re too many people around to run through the crowd or to easily spot Ben. The narrow street where Ben’s studio is heaves with a pestilence of shoppers seeking bargains. Outside the studio, I stop short. I check my phone for the address, check the buildings. I’m in the right place. This has to be it.
But there’s a problem.
He’s not here.
Shit. Oh shit. Iamtoo late. It’s 3:05 p.m.
Chewing my lip, I stare futilely at my phone, as if through sheer force of will I could set the clock back to 3:00 p.m. I wouldn’t be late, standing alone out here.
Before I have time to launch into a full-scale panic, I remind myself that even if I had Ben’s number, there’s no guarantee that he hasn’t lost his phone again in the last few hours, given his track record. I try to make myself breathe.
My chest feels tight. Like I’m being smothered. I look left and right and oh God, he’s left already—
But that thought’s cut short with a tap on my shoulder.
I spin, breath stuck in my throat.
Ben stands there on the worn concrete step outside of the studio door, looking terribly amused, like he knows perfectly well how he gets to me.
He reaches out to brush snow from my hair. “Hi.”
“I was worried you thought I’d stood you up,” I blurt, too worked up for witty banter. There’s no wits left to rub together, just jumbled-up nerves and angst, and the few remnants of my former social skills.
Breathe.
Snowflakes drift down to land on his striped wool hat, melting as soon as they land. His eyes dance. “Had the same thought,” Ben says. “I was a little bit late getting out. Probably got here around 3:04, I’d guess. The commute was fierce.”
“Comedian.”
“You don’t even know the half of it,” Ben says. “I once thought about doing a stand-up routine, but I don’t have the chops or the thick skin for comedy. I’ve got the late nights down, though. I’ll stick to gigs.”
“Fuck, I hope so. Your fans—never mind your bandmates—would be devastated if you didn’t turn up,” I quip back, stuffing my hands into my pockets to retrieve my gloves for London’s chill. Probably should have done that sooner. “Never mind all the ticket refunds and bitter reviews online. You’ll be panned on social media.”
