Page 15 of When London Snow Falls

“That’s me. A model of modern responsibility.”

It’s not even a lie.

His laugh thrills me, and I shiver, and it’s not because of the threat of a London snowpocalypse. The adrenaline-seeking part of me is in control, but this is harmless.

He’ll show me something silly and nothing else will happen. And we’ll go our separate ways and that’ll be that.

“C’mon, then. Time’s getting on. Especially if you’re expecting a phantom queue.”

“Now, now.”

He leads the way outside, still looking rather pleased.

Outside, the sleet has officially changed over to snow, falling lazily in tufts, transforming the street. Traffic hisses on the wet road as it starts to stick on the pavement. I’ve come out only in my thin black pullover and jeans. I’m underdressed for the occasion.

The wind blows wet snowflakes direct from the Arctic onto the nape of my neck and ruffles Ben’s fringe as he turns to face me in front of the café, a broad smile on his lips. I shiver.

For once, my brain draws a blank as I fully take stock of him. In the daylight, pale freckles cover his nose and cheeks, pink with cold. And he looks so genuinely pleased to have me come outside. He stretches his arms out in the falling snow.

Yeah, he’s definitely hot.

Even a cynic like me can see the beauty in this rare London snowfall, this moment before it turns to grime in gutters. Right now, there’s an unusual charm in Soho, muffling the city. But all of it pales in comparison to him, and he’s glorious. Something sexy and playful.

“Thought you might need to see this.”

“You might be right,” I concede.

“Naturally.” He grins, looks up at the sky, then at me. He sticks out his tongue to catch a snowflake.

“Naturally,” I echo, flushing at the sight of him.

I can imagine a thing or two he could do with that tongue.

He unwinds his colorful scarf and puts it around my neck, pulling me close. The wool is soft, though damp. The shock of the chill of snowflakes melting on the nape of my neck, of his closeness, gives me an uncontrollable shiver.

I stare intently at him. His body radiates waves of heat. There’s that inferno Dante promised. Hell will be so much more fun than my hectic schedule.

“Kiss me,” he orders with a grin.

“God, you’re demanding. Make me leave my work, come outside, now a kiss. What’s next?”

“Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?” he says teasingly. “I can’t wait to find out, personally.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you think there’s something more?”

“Oh, you know. This and that.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

I shiver, a combo of cold and lust. His gaze is unwavering. I can’t look away either.

And of course I kiss him, because, fuck, I’ve been wanting to do that since he first turned up three weeks ago. His lips are hot and soft and delicious, far better than my daydreams in lectures or anywhere else.

I’m kissing him because I want the kiss as much as he does, and I’m kissing him not because he’s the singer from an up-and-coming band, but because—well, because of the way he looks at me. On the basis of what exactly, I don’t know. And this can’t lead to anything else, but an impulsive stolen kiss, his mouth against mine, is a Christmas gift come early that I’ll take. His mouth tastes of mint and snowflakes, too.

God. Help me.

---