Page 35 of Clean Point

‘Do you watch football?’ My head nodded to the screen behind him. I reached for the nuts and deshelled one.

‘I don’t follow soccer, but I know enough to follow the rules,’ he corrected, his mouth turning up into a cheeky grin.

Forcing a terrible accent, I picked up the discarded shells and threw them playfully at him. ‘So American.’

He tossed his own shells over at me, one getting stuck in my hair and the other hitting me on the nose.

‘Such a Brit,’ he teased back, his eyes dancing playfully over my face. My fingers tried to dig the shell from my long, thick hair, but I struggled to pull it out.

‘Let me,’ he said, leaning over the small table. His fingers met mine, concentration focused on untangling my hair, his eyebrows locked. I couldn’t help but take in the line of his jaw, covered in a rough, unshaved stubble, his eyes unblinking as I took in their colour. He was so close I could smell his familiar aftershave, the scent mixing with the sweet air.

‘There you go.’ He pulled back, breaking the spell he had cast over me, the shell held in his fingers. I smiled, my mind still reeling from the close contact. Then, in an instant, the shell hit me again on the cheek as he pinged it over.

I sent him a flat look, suppressing a laugh. ‘We are children.’

He chuckled, relaxing back into his plastic chair, turning to see the screen again. I got distracted by the pull of his shirt sleeve around his bicep, eyes following his tattoo across the muscle. I took another drink, hoping the liquid would be enough to cool me down from a sudden wave of heat, before my attention moved to the opposite side of the street.

‘It looks like your friends are back.’ Lined up along the pavement sat a trio of cats, their attention squarely on Nico. ‘Did you roll in some catnip before we went out?’

He swallowed another gulp of beer, his throat bobbing. ‘It’s the same back at the villa. They won’t leave me alone.’

‘Maybe they know their power over you.’

‘Have you somehow trained a legion of cats to take me out so you can steal my hat again?’

‘Oh, that’s unnecessary.’ I smiled knowingly. ‘I’ll get it back next time you leave it lying around.’

‘It’s my lucky hat. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.’

‘Maybe I could use a lucky hat of my own.’

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his grey eyes teasing. ‘We could get you another hat.’

I met his gaze, arms folded over as I sat up. ‘But I’m quite attached to yours.’

We stayed like that, staring straight at each other, waiting for the other to look away or blink. Anything. But instead, his teasing look turned deeper, and his eyes a little darker. I couldn’t look away. At that moment, I found the curve of his face and the sharpness of his jaw the most fascinating sights in the world

Did he have to be so damn handsome?

His eyes were similarly assessing me, but I couldn’t read what he saw in my face. It was as if he was marking each freckle splashed across the bridge of my nose, connecting them with invisible lines.

Then the table shuddered as a waiter squeezed past us with a tray full of food, and we found ourselves disconnected again. Nico cleared his throat as we both took a drink, washing the moment away.

He moved on. ‘When did you visit France?’

‘Last year. I watched your US quarter-final there.’

‘Against Oliver Anderson?’

I nodded. ‘You were still good then.’

He laughed, the noise loud and bright, catching my insult.

‘I mean,’ I added, ‘for your age.’

His attention switched from the TV back to me, the cheap plastic of the chair underneath him creaking. ‘I remember your French open semi, what was it? Three years ago?’

It was my turn to laugh before I took another sip of beer to drown the sting of that match. ‘Yeah, I lost.’

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