Page 43 of Handle with Care
“Rain or shine,” Will confirms. “There’s a slight chance of the weather changing, so be prepared.”
“Okay. I’m in your hands tomorrow,” I say cheekily, and Will blushes. “I’ll text you my address.”
I can only hope I’m in his hands literally, but time will tell. After a pretext of busying himself with his bag before we head out our separate ways on Friday, I’m left imagining what Will has in store for me tomorrow. And then the thought hits me that we’re still both interns at the museum, vying for the same job. And I can’t forget that or get too carried away.
My latest date is already one for the record books. I message Stephen back in Vancouver at some random hour because I’m trying to avoid a meltdown, yet I clearly am in the midst of one when I text him from my safe hiding spot beneath the duvet.
Red alert on my next date. I’m getting involved with the enemy.
I hit Send, groan, and burrow my head under my pillow.
When I unburrow a couple of hours later for the routine of coffee and preening, Stephen has helpfully messaged me back.
It’s not too late to cancel. Everyone loves a quitter.
Jerk.
You’ve got this. Remember your London dating strategy.
I snort and toss my phone on my duvet. So much for my mates having my back in a time of great need. Little does heknow that I’m officially screwed. Except not literally screwed. And God, I’d love to be literally screwed?—
Definitely not helping.
By 10:30 a.m., the stomach butterflies are in full force, flapping and pirouetting in some aerial dance that will be the end of me.Get a grip, I tell my reflection in the mirror after a cool shower to freshen up and to stage an anxiety intervention. After all, it’s Will. Mr. McLaren. We come from different planets. There’s no way?—
Just one date. That’s it. One, like we agreed. Fraternizing or not, what’s the harm in one date?
Then we can go back to our regularly scheduled rivalry because, after all, the whole reason I’m in London is for my museum work experience and chasing the dream of such a job. And there’s only one position on the line. If I were the diabolical sort, I’d take advantage now to find out Will’s weaknesses and exploit them mercilessly to my advantage. He’s probably thinking the same thing, really.
It would be sensible.
I run the tepid water from the tap, wishing it were ice water, and scrub my face with a washcloth for good measure. Doesn’t hurt to be extra clean. I carefully shave.
By the time 11:00 a.m. rolls around, I’m twitchy by the front window, watching for Will. Without any real direction from Will on where we were going, Russell gave me the sage advice of smart casual: black jeans, a coral linen shirt, a lightweight yellow anorak jacket with a hood, and trainers. And my tie-dye sunhat in my bag. After another check for the usual—keys, wallet, phone—I gulp when I see Will’s green Land Rover pull up to the curb. I put my sunglasses on, yell bye to Russ, and head out.
I fumble the keys when I lock the door.
He’s only a person, I tell myself.
When I reach the SUV, I brighten into my best smile and get in without incident.
“Hey,” says Will. His dark hair is in that sort of pristine tousle that a stylist would approve of. I also approve, along with his white shirt and dark jeans. Russell would also clock this as smart casual, so at least we’re on the same page. He gives a broad smile that thrills me. I try not to fidget or drum my fingers against the seat, all of my nervous energy eager to manifest.
“Hey.” I give him a sidelong glance. “So, I’m dying to know what we’re doing if not going dancing.”
Will laughs, adjusts his phone for music. “We’re going on a drive. Getting out of London.”
“How’s the migraine report?” I ask, giving him a glance.
“None on the horizon. And I’m still mortified about last time.” Will chuckles and looks remarkably carefree for a mortified man.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to remortify you in some terrible faux pas. Chalk it up to another cross-cultural misunderstanding—or, more likely, me going directly to sticking my foot in my mouth.”
“Best to stick to what we know.” He’s grinning as he puts on the turn signal and pulls out onto the road.
“Hey! Don’t make me turn the car around.” And I’m grinning too. For a moment, even a couple of transcendent moments, it’s blissful. Then I revert to my go-to strategy of making things awkward because my brain can’t keep up with my mouth. “Speaking of, what happened to the McLaren anyway?”
Will’s still smiling, but some of the spark has instantly gone out of him, even though to an outside observer, he would look the same. Which is glorious. “Well… interesting story, that.”
