Page 102 of The Life-Changing Magic of Falling in Love

‘Or will I get so caught up in working again that I don’t prioritise that?’

‘Maybe you’ll meet someone at your brother’s wedding?’

He looks at me as if he’s deeply considering the idea and then says, ‘Bit soon don’t you think?’

My hand on the album cover relaxes. I wasn’t even aware it had tightened but it was probably the shock of having a deep and meaningful in the middle of a vinyl shop and the strange reality of how easy it is. How natural. How enjoyable.

We go back to contentedly looking through the covers, but my gaze keeps straying to him.

Why can’t I stop these furtive sneak-peeks?

I don’t need to see what his hair is doing this minute.

Or study his large hands as they flip through the record covers.

I’ll count to one hundred before I look at him again.

…twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…

I am so crap at this because I’m now studying the laughter creases at the corner of his eyes and, yes, his hands that are drumming out the beat that’s being played through the speakers and now his lips that are moving silently to the words.

‘You look like you’re about to burst into song,’ I tell him.

His gaze slides to mine and then he shocks me with, ‘What would you do if I did?’

I tip my head to the side in consideration. Feel my hair in its habitual ponytail slide over my shoulder. My hand moves up to play with the ends of it. ‘Depends,’ I say. ‘Can you sing?’

He grins and it’s everything.

‘Wow,’ I whisper. ‘I’m going to need you to sing.’

He snaps his fingers with disappointment. ‘Sorry. The moment’s passed.’

‘Easily solved,’ I say and start walking backwards as if I’m rewinding time and damn if he doesn’t copy me so that we’re forcing people to step to the side as we end up back at the doorway.

And then, damned again, if George doesn’t burst into song like he’s a singing Tony Manero.

Right here in the shop.

In front of people.

Some of whom, also grinning, whip out their phones and start filming.

I can’t believe this is George, singing as he struts down the aisles of the shop like he’s in a musical version of Saturday Night Fever, pretending to comb his hair back and fix his tux.

So amazingly cheesy yet…

So confident.

So at ease.

Sooo good.

His voice is a rich nerve-smoothing, nerve-tingling baritone layered over the higher pitch of the Bee Gees.

He plucks a plastic daisy out of a groovy seventies-style vase on the checkout counter and passes it to me while he sings and the customers in the shop start to applaud.

I become aware I have the goofiest grin on my face as I accept the flower and press it to my nose to inhale its non-existent scent before falling into a pretend swoon.

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