Page 59 of One Wrong Move

Even though they never really were.

Nate eats more popcorn than I would have expected. When I reach in for another handful, right when the hero on screen is jumping out of an airplane, Nate’s hand brushes mine.

We both pull back.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. Tilts the bucket toward me. “Ladies first.”

I reach in, and he murmurs something close to my ear. I can barely make it out. “I can’t remember when I was at the movies last,” he repeats.

That makes me smile. “Maybe you should go more often,” I whisper back.

I curl up, tucking my legs under me. I rarely sit in the back row. It’s surprisingly nice up here, and private, with the seats on either side of us empty.

I glance down at Nate’s hand a few times. It rests on the armrest between us, palm curved over the edge. No ring on his left ring finger. Only a wrist watch, peeking out beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

He has nice hands.

Broad across the backs. Long fingers. Blunt nails.

When the movie ends, we walk out of the theater along with the two dozen other people who showed up for the midnight showing. I yawn but stifle it quickly.

Nate catches it anyway. “I hope you’re not tired.”

“I’m not. Well, a little. But it’s worth it. I’ve never gone to a midnight movie before.” I nudge him. “Have you?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “No.”

“So, when was the last time you were in a movie theater? Let’s get numbers on this.”

He lifts both eyebrows. “You want to embarrass me.”

I nudge him again. “Answer the question, Connovan.”

“Probably… five years ago. I do go to the movies. Just not very often.”

“Once every five years.”

He tweaks my nose. It’s so surprising that I blink at him. “Yes, wiseass, once every five years. Now come on. I have an idea.”

“We’re not going home?”

He holds up the building door for me. The streets of Mayfair are calmer than before, but by no means quiet.

The early May weather is warm, and despite the lateness of the hour, I don’t feel cold. Not as I watch Nate walk out backward onto the sidewalk.

“What do you have planned?” I ask.

A crooked smile spreads across his face, making his eyes crinkle. “What’s item number twelve on your list?”

It takes me a moment, but only one, before I realize what he’s asking. The same energy from earlier, of possibility and excitement, spreads through my limbs.

“Stay out all night.”

Nate

London isn’t asleep, not yet, but it’s starting to snooze. It’s almost 3 a.m., and the streets are scattered with a variety of people you wouldn’t find anywhere else. Drunk tourists. Partygoers. A random group of cyclists dressed in sports gear and racing down the street.

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