Page 11 of Surprise Me Tonight
I almost argue, but think better of it. He’s already heading for the hallway, so I follow, the silence stretching between us like a taut thread.
He doesn’t say a word as we pass through the half-unpacked house. He just walks ahead, hands in his pockets, his steps precise. Controlled.
At the front door, he opens it and steps aside. I pause, unsure if I’m meant to say something. Apologise? Smile? Pretend none of that just happened?
He meets my gaze for the first time since we left the office. “We’ll call you.”
Then the door shuts before I can reply.
I stare at the wood for a beat too long.
Right.
I step back out onto the path, the cool air hitting my face like a quiet reprimand. I make it halfway down the drive before the certainty settles.
I’m not getting the job.
And honestly, I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed.
Possibly both.
By the time I reach the village green, the cold’s settled into my skin. I should go home, but my feet turn towardSteam & Bloomwithout asking permission.
Francesca’s behind the counter when I walk in, wiping down the glass with one hand and already eyeing me with suspicion.
“Well?” she says, before I’ve even reached the till. “You’ve got that ‘emotionally bruised but pretending to be fine’ look.”
I huff a laugh. “Charming.”
“I try. Cappuccino?”
I nod and find our usual corner table. By the time she joins me with two mugs and a scone we’re probably going to pretend we didn’t mean to eat, I’ve already started picking apart the morning in my head again.
“So,” Fran says, settling into her seat. “How did it go?”
I sigh, blowing gently on the coffee. “Odd.”
“That bad?”
“No. Not... bad. Just—awkward. Jess was lovely, but the man barely spoke. I think he’s allergic to conversation.”
Fran smirks. “He usually just grunts his order when he comes in here to get his coffee. He's not a small talk person, that's for sure. That’s why I was so surprised when he told me about the job. He gives off strong ‘emotionally constipated’ energy.”
“Fran.”
“Well, it’s true. You know the type. Probably has a colour-coded wardrobe and a panic attack if someone moves his stapler.”
“He didn’t have a stapler,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyebrows go up. “Oh? You were paying attention, then.”
I shake my head. “No. I mean. His office wasn’t finished. That’s all.”
“Right. So? What happened?”
I give her the rundown. The questions, Jess’s friendliness, the fact that I felt about as confident as a sixth-former pretending to be a grown-up. I leave out the bit where I snapped at him. Mostly.
Fran listens, sipping her coffee, eyes narrowed with delight. “So, what you’re saying is... it wasn’t for you?”
