Page 85 of Unstitch

‘So, Darcy’s coming later, is she?’ he asks, hands in pockets as he turns away from the view, reluctantly, it seems. I’ll take him out to the terrace for our aperitifs.

I’ll do anything he wants.

‘She is. She wants to give us some time to chat first.’ She wants me to have some time to sink my claws in and, ideally, for you to locate your backbone. ‘Beer? Champagne?’

‘Beer, please,’ he says, following me at a safe distance to the bank of sleek black cabinets housing the fridge, freezer, and any number of cupboards.

I grab a couple of bottles of Peroni from the fridge and, having cracked them open, hand him one. We clink. ‘Shall we go outside?’ I suggest.

He’s already chugging his beer down. I stand and gape helplessly at the fine, fine sight of his head cast back, throat working, of the slender, stubbled column expanding and contracting as it does. At the way his upper lip purses around the mouth of the bottle while his lower lip cradles it.

His jeans are faded. His polo shirt may be the kind of white that’s worthy of a detergent ad, but I love that he hasn’t shaved for me. It’s a realer, rawer Dex than the buttoned-up version he presents to the world.

He lowers his beer and bows his head. ‘Wait.’

I wait.

When he looks up at me, it’s through downcast lashes, and while I know he’s not doing it to be coquettish, I wish he fucking wouldn’t do it at all.

‘I wanted to say, up front that’—he rubs at one of the purple-hued shadows under his eyes and sighs—‘I’ve come here in the spirit of, I don’t know, trying. The past couple of times, I’ve been on the back foot a bit.’

He raises his head and looks me in the eye properly, and I see an unspoken accusation there.

Fair enough.

I nod to show him I understand.

‘Anyway, I assumed tonight was a chance for us all to… talk it out, but then Darcy said she’d leave us to it for a bit, and so…’ He clears his throat. ‘What I mean is, this is… a date, right? I haven’t misunderstood?’

I stay very, very still, not really sure how much of a flight risk he is tonight. ‘I’d like it to be a date,’ I say carefully. ‘Very much so. But I’m just glad you’re here. And if you’d rather it was a chance to clear the air instead of anything more, that’s fine, too.’

Only, if it wasn’t a date, I wouldn’t have strained the yoghurt for twenty-four hours or risked setting the smoke alarm off by charring aubergine over a naked flame. I would have ordered in from my excellent local Persian restaurant, you twitchy, perfect thing.

‘Okay then,’ he says, which is the least helpful response ever, because what the fuck does okay then mean? Okay then, you can go ahead and fuck me now we’re on the same page, or okay then, it’s a relief to know my options are wide open.

But, because I’m me and because someone leaving the tiniest chink of possibility is akin to them throwing the door fully open, I take the pitiful advantage and press it home.

‘Have you thought about how you’d like this evening to go?’ I enquire. I take a step towards him, putting my beer bottle to my mouth.

He scoffs. ‘Do you honestly think I’ve thought about anything else all week except how I’d like this evening to go?’

Who is this forthright guy with his clear, tired eyes and his unforced admissions? What’s happened to the slippery little fibber from Monday who couldn’t admit a single truth until I clamped a persuasive hand to his dick?

‘Is that a fact?’ I murmur.

‘I’m so tied up in knots I can barely remember a single thing I’ve done at work this week.’

The realisation of what he’s said hits him at the same time as my laughter.

I take another step forward. ‘That’s very disappointing to hear.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’ To his credit, he doesn’t back away as I close the space between us. ‘Obviously, that’s the only thing I remember from this week.’

‘Which brings me back to my question: how would you like this evening to pan out?’

I stop a couple of steps away from him.

I have no intention of blindsiding him this time.

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