“That’s why I didn’t think you’d slip away,” I say. “Who’d want to give up such a great table?”
“Not me,” he adds, as if he’s trying not to smile.
A waitress swings by and asks us our poison. I pick a lager, while TJ opts for an ale. When she leaves, I’m tempted to confess I doubled back to Angie’s to see him again. But if I admit I chased him to the thrift shop, he might put me in an Uber like I’ve blubbered to him.
I’d deserve it.
I play it cool instead, opting for a safer topic. “So, how are you finding London so far?”
He shrugs, all no big deal, but keeps those dark eyes on me. “It’s not so bad. I guess we’ll see if you can keep me up.”
“That’s a tall order. But I think I’m up to the task. I happen to be a scintillating conversationalist.”
“Then, Just Jude, you really should keep scintillating.” Something about the way he says that—all faux naughty—rips a laugh straight from my chest. He cracks up too. “All right. Tell me for real about your first day in my hometown. Besides meeting a fabulous Englishman who has the same tastes.”
“Thank God for that,” TJ says, relieved.
“Same here. It’s always a welcome moment when you know you’re not barking up the wrong tree,” I say.
“I prefer the right trees. And England is . . . pretty good so far. Even though the airline lost my bags, my room wasn’t ready, and I had nothing clean to wear until this afternoon. Also, apparently, I can’t stop yawning.” Another one racks him as the blonde server returns with our drinks.
“Here’s your lager and your ale,” she says, setting down the glasses. “Shall I start a tab for you?”
“Yes,” TJ says, just as I say, “No.”
She holds up her hands to show she’s not getting involved. “I’ll let you gentlemen sort that out.”
I hand her my credit card. “Here you go, love. We’re all set.”
“Thank you,” she says, then spins on her heel.
I turn back to TJ, who’s crossing his arms. Oh, no, no, no. He’s not getting it. “You think when you said yes, and I said no, that I meant I was taking off straight away?”
He scoffs in denial. “It’s all good. I’m happy to call it a night,” he says, so damn nonchalant.
“I’m not letting you get away that quickly.”
Like that, his cool demeanor cracks. A smile breaks through.
I get up, move to his side of the booth, and slide in next to him. When we’re thigh to thigh, his breath hitches, then it catches as I drape an arm around him.
“Are you trapping me?” he asks.
“Yes. Is it working?”
“Depends on what you want to do.”
“Keep you here for this drink.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. “It’s working quite well.”
“Good. I’d hate to be presumptuous if it wasn’t working.”
He clears his throat. “You should be very presumptuous.”
“Then I’ll presume about other things too.” I curl my hand over that big, strong shoulder that feels so fucking good. I do like a man who’s bigger than I am, broader than I am. Who can climb over me and pin me down.
“What sort of things?” he asks, a little breathy.
Ah, fuck it. He’s probably only in town for a short while. Might as well enjoy this while it lasts. “Things like . . . tomorrow.”
That wins me the start of a smile, then the slight turn of his face toward me. “What are you presuming about tomorrow?”
“That I’ll see you again,” I tell him. “When you’re not falling asleep. When you’re not yawning into your fucking beer.”
With a laugh, he rolls his eyes then leans back in the booth. “I’m only a little tired,” he says, so much gravel in his voice now.
“That’s why I gave her my card. That’s why I said we were set. So we can have this one drink to your first night in town. And something more tomorrow.”
He nods a few times, clearly liking my plan. If he only knew all the dirty plans I have for him tomorrow. “I’ll drink to something more,” he says, and we lift glasses and clink.
“Cheers,” I say, then drink and lick my lips. “So, what brings you to London? Give me the two-minute version since I’m going to put you in an Uber soon.”
“I’m writing an exposé on bookshops,” he says, deadpan.
“So, this is all a ruse to get me to reveal the hidden secrets of the shelves?”
“Seems to be working too. I already uncovered critical details, like how much you adore helping customers and which edition of The Importance of Being Earnest is your favorite.”
I try to remember when I told him but draw a blank. “I didn’t tell you the one you bought was my favorite.”
“You didn’t have to tell me. I figured it out from your clues,” he says, and this man would make a good detective because he’s spot on.
“Perhaps all this Sherlock Holmes work of yours brought you to London then?”
He takes another drink and casually sets down the glass. “Or maybe I’m a Wilde scholar here in London to research the man.”
“But we’re all Wilde scholars, aren’t we?”
“Excellent point,” he says, then his tone shifts like he’s letting down his guard. “When I was in high school and first learned he was gay, I checked out all Oscar Wilde’s works from the library. Devoured them. I’ve read this one several times.” He taps the top hat cover. “Maybe I felt I should have an affinity. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do—on both counts. And probably that’s why I was the most excited I’ve ever been when I was cast as Jack Worthing in uni.” I pause to replay in my head what I just said. “I hope I didn’t sound like a braggart then. I was truly thrilled.”
“Not at all. I can completely understand that excitement.” This is our first stripped-down moment, free of flirting or trying to impress the other. It’s nice, and I like it, but I don’t want it to last too long. I don’t want too much closeness in my life, and I doubt TJ does either, judging by how quickly he returns to the banter.
“And is that your way of telling me you have a second career?” he asks. “That you’re an actor?”
“Yes. Clever, isn’t it? How I dropped that in?”
“Very much so. So, the bookstore thing, then?”
“I moonlight there. Bills and all,” I say, offhand. I don’t want to reveal the full extent of my acting dreams. Don’t want to let on that I spend my days auditioning for hoover adverts and bit parts on web shows and every single fringe theater production that might be right for me. That I’m chasing a wildly unlikely dream of making it big in film and on stage. He’d probably laugh. “And I’m guessing you’re a writer?”
A surprised laugh bursts from the man next to me. “It’s as obvious as me being tired?”
“Pretty obvious, TJ.” I don’t go into how I caught on. It’d be evident I’m paying too much attention to every detail of him—like how he sometimes takes his time with his words like he’s writing them out in his head first. Rather than say that, I tease, “Your whole look kind of screams writer.”