“Do you want me to pull over?”
I shake my head, but he pulls over anyway onto the side of the road. He gets out of the car and comes over to my side, opening the passenger door and offering me his hand.
I keep shaking my head, feeling the humiliation reach my eyes, which have started to well up.
“Come on, don’t be a baby,” he orders, before taking my hand and pulling me out of the car.
His touch ignites something in me, bringing me heavily back down to Earth. His hand is huge, powerful, but inexplicably reassuring; rough, with deep grooves that show years of hard work. It’s warm, almost boiling. A hand that makes you dream of relaxing evenings on the sofa, and of fiery nights between the sheets.
I find myself thinking of something I put to rest a long time ago. Something that feels like a longing for someone to take my hand and tell me that everything will be alright; someone who knows how and when to pull you close. Something that resembles the life I once hoped for, the life I never got to live.
Something that feels likehome.
We take a few steps along the pavement and I breathe in the night air, which clears my thoughts, cools down my burning face, and – thank God – calms the wave of nausea churning through me.
“Better?” he asks, without looking at me or realising that he was still holding my hand.
I nod, embarrassed, but at the same time, full of desire from the unexpected contact. Before I can lose myself in the fantasy, he drops my hand, a painful reminder of my own loneliness.
“Let’s go back,” he says, heading towards the car.
I watch him walk away, noticing for the first time how tall he is, how defined, a mass of muscle and testosterone, absurdly seductive…and impossible.
That’s the right word.
Apart from his horrible personality, which I’d be happy to ignore for the sake of a few orgasms, I have to face reality and be honest with myself. He’s athletic, successful, fascinating and mysterious. I’m sure he has hundreds of women throwing themselves at him.
I’m just…me.
I have a sixteen-year-old son, a café which takes up all of my time, I’m not intelligent or ambitious. I can’t even make up for all this with my looks, because I’m nothing special. I have a messed-up life, a shit vocabulary and a whole host of disappointment behind me. It’s already difficult to try and keep someone on their third pint interested, let alone someone like him.
I sigh dejectedly, quickly pushing away any of the thoughts that had hit me so suddenly in the car, hoping to get home as early as possible to squeeze in one more drink. Maybe it’ll help me get rid of the memory of his damn smell.
