Page 67 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

“Perfect.” I can hear her grin over the phone.

I hang up and spend a few minutes chewing my lip, sighing wistfully and alternately scowling. I need to send an apology. I also need to send the bean of the day. I’m sure this is how mature people adult and make up, through legumes.

The train travels for a while and then glides to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Because of course it does. If the first train back had carried on as it should, it would have been an express service to London. Now I’m stuck on the milk-run train that doesn’t even want to deliver milk.

While we wait, I scroll through an image search of unusual beans, wanting to stump him. Wanting him to know that I’m interested in things that matter to him, even if beans are a symbol of that.

I want him to know he matters to me.

And then I text him with a photo of exotic black and white dry beans, along with:

I’m sorry about our fight and not telling you about Eli’s call. I understand you’re angry and hurt. I realise that you have my dad’s guitar—could we arrange for me to pick it up before you go? Also: gratuitous bean du jour. xx

A few minutes later, my phone buzzes with a reply, much faster than I would have expected.

I’m sorry. You matter to me too. Where’s your train getting in? I’ll meet you. B.

I gulp. He wants to see me right away? Am I ready for that? He obviously made better time getting back to London with a car than my changes on the train and delays.

Euston Station in an hour. x

Silence. Then:

See you there.

When the train pulls into Euston Station, my stomach’s tap-dancing, wrapped around my backbone from hunger. Nuts will only go so far. I down the last handful of them for courage. I have enough presence of mind to at least remember my overnight bag stashed by my feet, determined not to leave my belongings scattered across England. My bag’s light since I’m still wearing my hiking boots, and I’ve only brought one slim book I’ve barely touched, rereading the same page several times over as my thoughts keep returning to Blake.

London’s muggy and hot. Already, I miss Cumbria, especially the part pre-fight. Like greedily having Blake to myself. Or making out in bed like teenagers, all tangled up in each other’s business, like we had all the time in the universe.

The sweltering day hits me as I reach the concourse, with a mix of emotions at once. Anxiety. Anticipation. Hope. Embarrassment. Okay, maybe not all the emotions on offer, but plenty enough to keep the adrenaline pumping. And enough to forget my hunger, at least temporarily.

Euston Station bustles with commuters and tourists. People drag suitcases and cluster in inconvenient places, while commuters deftly weave through the crowd on their familiar paths. Through all of this, somehow I spot Blake, holding the guitar in its battered hard case with familiar stickers. Definitely my guitar.

Definitely Blake.

Though I can’t call him mine. Not quite. And maybe not ever.

There he is, gorgeous as ever, but uncharacteristically rumpled from the day of travel. Blake’s got his backpack from the trip. He’s obviously not had a chance to have a shower or get back to his hotel, but he still looks brilliant, tousle-haired. I don’t think he could ever look terrible. He’s in a light blue shirt, khaki shorts, Adidas trainers.

Blake looks at me anxiously, wide-eyed.

I gulp, approaching him.

Don’t faint. Because seriously.

We stand facing each other. Blake grips the guitar case’s handle like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth. As for me, I’ve forgotten to breathe again and the blood pounds in my ears as I gawp at him, the rawness on his face, the toll of the last few hours that have felt like a year and more.

It’s too soon for someone to get all up inside my guts and mind and, worst of all, heart. And especially if that someone’s from the other side of the planet. I shouldn’t have fallen into serious like.

God, Aubrey, you’re one sucker for impossible scenarios.

Too many fantasy books as a teenager has left me running full tilt to unreality, some secret romantic part of me. And that secret part of me seems to be all about the rom-coms, because I can’t stop reading them lately.

“Hi,” I say softly, searching his gaze.

It’s Blake who anxiously chews on his lip.

“Here’s your guitar,” he says unnecessarily, making no move to hand it over. “I’d say it was a shameless ploy to see you again, but let’s be real: I was too all over the place to take credit for that kind of planning.”

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