Page 41 of The One That I Want

‘He’s adorable – Oscar, he’s called. Obsessed with trains. I’ll call over tomorrow and take him something for his Thomas the Tank Engine collection.’

‘Aww, how sweet. Sorry,’ I say, realising he’s still standing, ‘did you want to join me?’

‘Oh…’

‘Only if you want to,’ I hasten to add.

‘I’d love to. It’s just… I’m reallynotstalking you.’

I laugh. ‘I know. And I’d love some company.’

I don’t explain it’s because I want to expunge ‘Marcus’ vibes from the atmosphere.

He climbs onto the stool next to mine.

‘So, what brings you to one of my favourite spots in London?’ he asks.

I cast my eyes about, properly taking in Dalla Terra’s ambience. It’s cosy – so cosy, I’m amazed I didn’t see Ewan before he came over, but perhaps he and his friend were sitting outside on the terrace.

‘It’s lovely,’ I say. ‘And I just googled restaurants close to the office, so I—’ Oops, I was about to reveal therealreason I chose this restaurant.

I shrug. ‘I just wanted to try something new.’

‘Well, you’ve made a good choice. Their duck ragu is to die for. I was just about to order and… Did you want to stay and have dinner with me?’ he asks shyly.

My stomach rumbles loudly on cue, answering for me, and I laugh – from embarrassment more than anything else. Ewan joins in, but not mockingly, setting me at ease. I agree to join him, and we move to a table on the terrace near a topiary. When the waiter brings the menus, he seems to recognise Ewan and they share a brief but friendly exchange. Ewan must come here a lot.

‘What looks good to you?’ he asks, his eyes on the menu. I scan it, each menu item more tantalising than the last.

‘Everything?’

He laughs. ‘Well, yes. It’s all delicious. I can suggest something if you like?’

I look up and meet his eye, realising the stark contrast between Marcus, who showedzeroconsideration for me during our brief date, and Ewan.

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Great,’ he says with an enthusiastic smile. He goes back to the menu, a small furrow of concentration forming between his brows. ‘And wine?’ he asks, looking up again. ‘They have an incredible cellar – not overblown… carefully curated… especially if you love Italian wine.’

I glance at my half-drunk cocktail. ‘Well, I’m already nearly two drinks in…’

‘So, just a glass then?’ he asks without judgement. ‘They’ll bring it with our mains, if you like.’

‘Perfect.’

I sit back, relaxed, as I watch Ewan navigate the menu and converse with the waiter about the specials. He orders focaccia and the burrata to share as our starters, the ragu for me, and the tagliatelle for him.

By the time the focaccia hits the table, bringing with it the heady scent of rosemary, I’m ravenous.

‘After you,’ he says, gesturing at the generous slab of bread.

I tear off a small piece and set it on my bread plate.

‘It’s so good,’ he says, tearing off a much larger chunk. ‘I have to remind myself every time not to fill up on it before the rest of the food arrives.’

I take a bite and stop myself from groaning in pleasure. We exchange smiles as we eat, which would ordinarily feel awkward, but doesn’t.

‘So,’ I say, after I’ve swallowed. ‘You know what I do for work. And I know I should have asked before but what about you? What do you do?’

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