Page 9 of Keep It

“It’s May.” The dry voice pipes up.

I groan, glaring at the seat in front of me. “Barely. And I run cold.” I pull off my hat.

Finally, the announcement of departure blares over the speaker and the train begins to pull away from the station.

I pull a tattered paperback out of my backpack and settle in, I only peek at C25 once and see him leaning back with his eyes closed. His moodiness at mysitting in a seathas momentarily ceased, and my eyes linger on his face. His long lashes brush against smooth cheekbones and a strong jaw. When he’s not sneering, C25 is actually rather handsome, I guess, although his personality has made that dry up like a good tea towel.

The train speeds through the countryside and from previous trips, I know the tunnel is coming up. I turn my attention to the window, pointedly not looking at the man sitting in front of it.

“Although you might believe it, you can’t actually see any fish through the tunnel.” C25 perks up sarcastically. He’s watching me through the glass reflection.

“I know that,” I say with as much venom as I can – despite the fact that I definitely did think you could see into the ocean when crossing the tunnel connecting the UK to mainland Europe, and had thought that until I was well into my teens.

I don’t know what it is about this stranger that makes me want to be as childish as possible, but I’ve ridden the wave too long to stop now.

He raises a brow, his mouth twitching.

We emerge from the tunnel and the countryside outside the window passes in a blur that I watch out of the corner of my eye, refusing to acknowledge the man beside me. Pulling out my phone, I scroll through my emails, intending to get ahead of my first day tomorrow. I try to refresh, in case someone has sent me fresh instructions or the call sheet has come through but the signal is sluggish.

Huffing, I reach into my bag for my charger. The socket is underneath the seat so I reach between me and the stranger. Unable to see, I fold myself in half, fiddling until I can get the wire plugged in. The man’s denim clad leg shifts uncomfortably. Straightening up and barely able to avoid hitting my head on the seat in front, I settle.

“Are you done?”

“Yes,” I reply in a prim voice.

The man shifts some more and clears his throat. “Can I borrow your charger?”

I raise my eyebrows, “Excuse me?”

He shakes his phone in front of my face. “My phone’s dead.”

“You didn’t bring your own charger?” I ask incredulously. “To a different country?”

“I forgot it,” he bristles.

“Not my problem.” I reply, folding my phone underneath my arms protectively. The audacity of this man.

He blinks at me as if he’s never been refused such a request before. “Come on, you’re on like seventy percent.”

“Still have thirty percent to go.”

He huffs and slumps in his seat, his head resting on the window like a petulant child.

I cross my arms over my chest and tuck my phone between them securely. I lean my head against the seat and attempt to get some sleep.

I blink awake some time later. From the corner of my eye, I see he is still slumped against the window, his eyelashes dusting his cheekbones. Glancing at my phone and it’s full battery, I spot his sitting on the tray table. Deciding to be the bigger person, I quickly unplug my phone and put his on charge. I glance at him to ensure he is really asleep. He doesn’t move but I swear I see his lips twitch.

The announcement rings that we are arriving soon, and the man wakes up. He starts using his phone, not acknowledging the charger that has suddenly appeared.

As we pull into the station, I glare at the phone in his hand still plugged into the seat beneath us. I try to catch his eye but he is steadfastly ignoring me. No ‘thank you’ incoming, then.

Huffing slightly, I grab his hand, the cool metal of the sleek phone in sharp contrast to the warm skin of his knuckles. I ignore the tingle that sparks at my fingers. I avoid his smirk as he turns his body towards me and the feel of his large, warm hand still under mine. Without looking at him, I tug my charger until it’s free from his phone. I sit up, fighting back my blush. I just manhandled a complete stranger. I think I might have left my common sense on the other side of the tunnel.

At least when I get off this train, I won’t ever have to see him again.

I get up to pull my bag from the overhead, but before I can, C25 stands in a fluid motion. His arms lift, his muscles bunching under his sweater as he grabs my bag and drags it down, handing it to me. My pulse races at the movement, who does that? Who is this man who is so rude one minute and almost swoon-worthy the next?

“Thanks,” I mumble, pushing my hair behind my ear.

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