Control yourself, Amy. You got this. Big-girl panties. Remember what Heather said: just talk to him like you would any other passenger.
I’m at the seats just in front of his now. With each passenger served, the anticipation builds. This is it, my favourite part of the week.
I hold my breath as I stop next to his seat but deliberately keep my eyes away from his face, dragging the moment out like a masochist. “Good morning, gentlemen. Tickets, please.”
“Good morning.” The old guy next to my crush smiles over at me and holds out a credit card. “Open return to London, please.”
I nod and ring it through, conscious of how close I am to him. I can almost feel the soft brush of his knee against mine as I lean over the table with the card machine, watching as the old guy beeps his card to pay. I daren’t look at him as his subtle yet decadent aftershave wafts up; mixed with the tones of his skin, it smells delicious and makes my mouth water.
It’s so hard not to just jump the guy. The insta-lust is strong with this one.
On the table in front of him, his book sits, abandoned. It’s facedown, so I tilt my head a little to see the title on the spine. We read the same books a lot, me and my crush. Sometimes, it’s just a happy coincidence; sometimes, I pop into WHSmith on my way home and buy the book he’s been reading, like the weird stalker that I am. We have similar tastes though; we both like crime and thrillers. Today’s pick: C.J. Tudor’s newest novel. I’ve already read it, so I smile in satisfaction.
When I can put it off no longer, I raise my eyes to his face, and it’s like being sucker-punched right in the heart. His beautiful brown eyes meet mine, and his mouth pulls into that panty-wetting smile that exposes all his perfect teeth. My knees feel weak, and words just … go. I’m struck dumb. This happens every time I try to talk to him. So much for all the practice my best friend, Heather, and I did on the phone last night; all the conversation starters she made me memorise have vanished into a puff of air.
“Morning.”
Damn. That voice.
I clear my throat and force a smile. My gaze wanders to the tiny little freckle he has under one eye. It’s the only thing that isn’t flawless, industry-standard perfection about him, yet somehow, that little brown dot makes him even more beautiful to me. One of my secret fantasies is kissing that little freckle while he does sinful things to my naked body.
“Morning,” I reply, trying not to let those sinful freckle fantasies show on my face.
“I almost didn’t make it today—slept in,” he says, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, the grin still paralysing me.
I long to say something witty, to say anything actually. But the ease of conversation I seem to be able to manage with everyone else is like a distant talent. Like him, I’m also one of those people who can make friends with strangers, and in fact, I have actually met someone on a plane and then stepped in to be a bridesmaid at their beach wedding less than twenty-four hours later. (It’s a long story involving lots of cocktails, tall heels, a broken ankle, and a hospitalised should-be bridesmaid.) But around this guy, my brain just melts into a puddle. He makes me nervous; he’s the only one who has ever made me nervous.
“I saw. A couple of minutes later, and you’d have been on the next train,” I reply, my throat scratchy with the need to clear it again.
“That wouldn’t do. Your train is my favourite.”
Is he flirting with me? My whole face burns as my insides squirm with pleasure at the mere thought.
“Yes, this train does have the fewest stops and gets there the fastest.” What am I doing? Flirt back, Amy!
He laughs, a throaty, almost-awkward laugh, and the hair at the nape of my neck prickles with sensation. Other than his voice, his laugh is my most favourite sound in the world. He looks down at the table and holds up his prepurchased ticket; I discreetly wipe my sweaty palm on my trouser leg before I take it, punch it, and hand it back.
“Thanks. Have a good day,” I mutter.
“You too.”
Disappointment settles over me. Our interaction is over, and now, because of my holiday, I won’t get to see him for weeks. I open my mouth to say something, anything, just to snatch another precious few seconds of his time, but nothing comes out. I feel my face warm from my neck all the way up to my hairline, and I walk off, kicking myself because I wasted another perfectly good opportunity to talk to him.
I don’t even know his name, for goodness’ sake. Five months of seeing him twice a month, and I haven’t even worked up the nerve to ask his name. I suck big time.
I walk to the end of the carriage and press the button on the door, hearing the whoosh as the door slides open. I step into the quiet corridor and close the door behind me, leaning against the wall, taking a couple of deep breaths. Maybe I’ll get another chance today. Maybe I’ll be lucky, and he will get one of my return-journey trains this afternoon. Sometimes he does, but more often than not, he doesn’t, and some other lucky conductor gets to drool over him instead.
I look back through the glass window, seeing the back of his head. He is sitting to the side now and has picked up his book.
I let out a sigh of longing. I have it so bad that it’s physically painful.
My friend Heather doesn’t believe me that you can fall in love with someone you’ve never really spoken to, but she’s wrong, dead wrong. I don’t need to know his name or where he lives or what size shoe he wears or what his favourite dinner is to fall in love with him. All that stuff is somehow irrelevant. I know him. My soul knows his.
Over the last five months, I’ve learned a lot—stalker-style, of course. I know everything that is important to know about him. Like, how he smiles when he speaks to his mother on the phone or that he always gives up his seat when it is busy. And how he befriends strangers and always gives his newspaper away. I know he likes Doctor Who and Marvel movies. I know that his favourite snack from the refreshments cart is a custard cream biscuit and that he dunks those biscuits like a pro, never letting one break off, leaving his tea a crummy, soggy mess. I also know, thanks to my friend on the refreshments cart, that he often pays for a coffee for the person after him to “pass it on.” He helps little old ladies carry their luggage off the train and makes sure they get to the gate safely. He often streams cartoons on his phone and gives it to tired and grumpy children to watch on their way home. I know his voice, his hands, his smile, his laugh.
And the final straw, the one that really sealed the deal and drew me in hook, line, and sinker: last month, when a little girl had tripped while getting on the train and skinned her knee, he performed magic to cheer her up. Actual, legit, honest-to-God, Harry Potter–esque magic. He made money, handkerchiefs, and playing cards disappear and reappear for almost an hour, much to the little girl’s delight—and mine, of course.
That was the moment I knew—the moment I just knew—I was in love with him. This stranger on the train, my Man Crush Monday. Who can resist a super-hot dork who performs magic? Not this girl.
I sigh again, watching the back of his head as he slumps more comfortably in his seat, turning pages of his novel.
Maybe one day, I will talk to him, dazzle him with my sharp wit and sparkling personality. He’ll have no choice but to fall madly in love with me and all my quirks, and we’ll get a happily ever after worthy of any romance novel.