Page 85 of The One That I Want

Though, if he did, I doubt Poppy would have matched him withme.

An older woman passes, catching me talking to myself. She gives me an odd look.

‘Good evening,’ I say, but she scurries away, shaking her head.

I glance back at Harrison and now he’s looking across the road, right at me. He’s squinting slightly as if he’s trying to decide if I’m the person he’s supposed to be meeting.Orhe just witnessed me scaring away an elderly woman and he’s plotting his escape.

‘Hello!’ I call out, lifting my hand in a wave. ‘Harrison, it’s me.’ He doesn’t react right away, so I wave my arm and shout, ‘It’s me –Greta.’

He waves, his smile faltering.

‘Oh my god, you right bloody idiot,’ I say through my teeth, which I realise too late probably reads as a grimace from thirty feet away. I step into the road, and the immediate blare of a horn stops me in my tracks. A car whizzes past so closely, I can see the white of the driver’s horrified eyes, and I leap back onto the kerb.

‘Are you all right?’ Harrison calls.

I meet his eye with a fake smile. ‘Smashing. Just forgot how to cross a road without getting run over,’ I call back.

His deep laughter is audible from here, but my heart is still racing when I look both ways, then to the right a second time, and safely cross the road.

‘Hi,’ I say, a little breathless.

‘Hello, Greta,’ he says, flashing me a warm smile.

After only a handful of syllables, I’m already in love with his richly timbered voice. With those dulcet tones, he could easily be afull-time voice actor – none of this part-time nonsense.

He bends down to kiss my cheek, but I’ve stupidly stuck out my hand for a handshake and my hand collides with his chest – more specifically, his right nipple.

Good grief. Is it too late to go home and start this again?

‘Sorry about that – touching your nipple,’ I say. ‘And saying “nipple” three seconds after I’ve met you,’ I add, my mouth operating without permission.

He chuckles again, his russet-brown eyes alive with laughter. At least he finds me amusing.

‘Shall we head in?’ he asks, turning towards the entrance. ‘And thanks again for coming out to Islington. Normally, I’d have suggested somewhere more central, but my private students had a recital this afternoon not far from here.’

‘Oh, no problem at all. My best friend lives in Islington, so I’m a frequent visitor to this hood.’

I have never said the word ‘hood’ in my life. I am officially losing it.

‘Have you been here before then?’ he asks as he holds the door for me.

I cast my eyes about the cosy, French-style bistro; it has almost as much greenery as The Daily Grind, an unwelcome thought I dismiss immediately. It’s also the type of place couples go for romantic dinners, so, no, Tiggy and I have never been. The Indian restaurant down the road? Absolutely! Our names are carved into our favourite table (JK, not really).

‘First time,’ I answer cheerily.

We’re shown to a table by the window and when we’re seated facing each other, my nerves kick into high gear. This is Harrison, the man whose face has been indelibly inked on my brain for almost a month now. He smiles, then his gaze drops to the menu, so I look at mine.

‘It’s my first time too,’ he admits. ‘My sister recommended it. Perfect for first dates, apparently.Although…’ He says this in a way that makes me look up, and he meets my eye, his brow creased. ‘How she knows that is a little baffling. She’s been married for sixteen years.’

I doubt he’sactuallyconcerned his sister is stepping out on her spouse but just in case, I respond with, ‘She probably googled it. You know, “Romantic restaurants, Islington”.’

Romantic? Ugh. Presumptuous much?

Harrison appears unbothered by the ‘romantic’ part and laughs.

‘You’re right. Emily’s so fixated on my love life – or lack of – she’s probably mapped out a whole slew of perfect first-date locations across London.’ He laughs again.

I inhale sharply and keep my gaze fixed on my menu.

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