“Don’t make fun of Bessy,” I scold playfully.
He reaches out and squeezes one of my brakes, watching as the brake pad on the front wheel barely connects. One of his eyebrows rises. “Bessy,” he says. “And where did you find Bessy? A rubbish dump perhaps?”
I feign shock and put my hand on my heart. “How very dare you, sir. I’ll have you know, I paid just three pounds at a car boot sale for this excellent piece of engineering.”
“Three whole pounds? You were robbed.” He chuckles and shakes his head as he carefully wraps a hand over the handlebars and lifts the bike a couple of inches off the ground. “Damn, it weighs a ton.”
I nod in acknowledgement. “Yep, but she’s reliable. And cheap to run. Plus, I didn’t get leg muscles like this from driving, you know; riding her is like a workout in itself. Who needs an expensive gym? Not this girl.”
His eyes drop down to my thighs, lingering there for a second too long before flicking back up to meet mine. The appreciatory expression on his face makes my tummy clench. “You’re right; cycling is definitely working for you.”
I feel my face flush with pleasure.
He steps back and cocks his head to the side. “I should probably let you get to work before you’re late.”
Work. Damn, I forgot about it again! “Oh, right, yeah. Well, thank you for the coffee.”
He frowns down at the ground and shuffles on his feet. “Maybe … maybe we could get together another time. Dinner? Tonight even, if you’re free?”
I can’t stop the dorky grin from stretching across my face. “Sure, I’d like that.”
His gaze meets mine again. When he smiles, it’s so big that his eyes crinkle around the edges, and it makes my whole body sing.
“Great. Here, put your number in, and I’ll text you later to sort out times and stuff.” He digs in his pocket and brings up his phone, waking up the screen and opening the keyboard.
I try not to do a little happy dance as I punch my number into his phone.
As soon as I hand it back to him, he presses a few buttons, and my own phone pings in my bag. “There. Now, you have mine too.”
“Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you later. Bye, Jared.”
“Bye, Amy.” He nods and steps back, giving me a wide berth to get past him, watching as I push away from the ground and put all my effort into making the heavy bike go.
When I turn to wave over my shoulder, the bike wobbles a little, and I quickly grasp the handlebars again to regain control.
I hear him chuckle behind me, and I can’t contain my broad grin.
I did it. I finally talked to him, and all it took was a coffee in the face to get the conversation started. Why couldn’t I have thought of that months ago?
three
Heather lounges on my bed, rifling through the outfits I laid there to get her opinion on. With her free hand, she shovels Frosties straight from the box and into her mouth and crunches loudly, uncaring of the crumbs that drop onto my duvet or into her bra.
“Nope. Nope. Nope,” she says, casually discarding each one into a messy pile with a flick of her wrist. “Amy, come on; just try on some of the stuff I brought round.”
I frown into my wardrobe, scanning everything that’s left in there. I’ll be honest; there isn’t much. Almost everything I own is screwed up and has already been rejected by my best friend. I groan and let my head drop back, closing my eyes. “Hev, I can’t go on a first date with the guy and not be me. The only thing he’s seen me wear is a work uniform. I need to show him who I am and see if he runs away, screaming.” I turn back and pick up my cute jean shorts, the ones with the Union Jack flag sewn into the rear to conceal my modesty, and a gold strappy top. “What about this? These are my lucky shorts.”
Her nose wrinkles as I hold the clothes against my underwear-clad body and add a big fake smile to try and convince her. “Weren’t you wearing that exact outfit when you pulled that Italian bloke who turned out to be a stalker?”
I frown down at them and realise, yep, they are. “Okay, not-so-lucky shorts.” I toss them over my shoulder and reach for the next thing—a black dress with long sleeves. I hold it up and raise an eyebrow.
“You wore that to my aunt Lizzie’s funeral.”
I sigh and toss that too. Setting my hands on my hips, I groan in defeat. Heather and I do not have the same taste, like, at all. She’s all girlie girl who likes figure-hugging bodycon dresses. I’m more dungarees and belly tops or retro T-shirts, but if I don’t pick something soon, I’ll be going out in the sexy black lacy underwear I’m currently sporting.
“Okay, fine. Show me what you’ve got.”
She grins, clapping her hands and moving the cereal box to my sideboard where crumbs scatter over my alarm clock. I jump when I see the time glowing there. It’s 7:42. Jared texted me at lunchtime to say he would pick me up at eight.
“Shit, I need to pick something now! He’s going to be here in less than twenty minutes!” My hand shoots up to my neck, and I grip the pendant that’s on my necklace, rubbing my thumb over it as I watch Heather pick up a black bin bag full of clothes and upend it onto my bed with all my stuff. As I thought, it’s all slinky numbers and nothing like what I usually wear. I frown and push my hand through the pile. A red-and-black-chequered T-shirt dress catches my eye.
“I bought that by accident—impulse buy; it was on sale, and I left it too late to return it,” she says, still looking through the pile for something more suitable.
I make a dive for it and hold it up against myself.
Short sleeves. Mid-thigh. Pockets. Win!
“Ooh, I like this!” I say, already unzipping it at the neck and widening the opening so I can fit it over my hair that I painstakingly teased into loose beach waves for the last half an hour. The dress skims my body perfectly, fitted at the top to emphasize the girls, cinching in at the waist to show off my curves. “I really like this.” I turn back to the mirror, examining myself.
Heather comes up behind me, ripping off the tags and zipping me up. “Pair of black tights to make it more you and then … fucking gorgeous.” She grins at me in the mirror.
She’s almost as excited about this date as I am. She’s been listening to me talk about this guy for months now. She came straight over after work and has been helping me get ready for the last couple of hours. She is the best wingwoman a girl could ask for.
I pat her hand that rests on my shoulder and then slip away, over to my underwear drawer, where I pull out a pair of thick black tights. I sit on the chair to slide them up my legs, doing a little shimmy to sort the waist out.
In my wardrobe, I slide my eyes over my numerous pairs of Converse and then settle on the black-and-white ones.
“Oh no, come on. Trainers, really? How about a nice pair of heels instead?” Heather suggests as I slip my feet into them.
“No way. I’m already more dressed up than usual. I at least want to feel a little bit like myself. Heels will just make me more nervous too.”
I bend and lace my Converse while she groans in defeat. When I stand and look back at my room, I grimace. It looks like the entire contents of a sewing factory threw up over it. There are clothes and jewellery everywhere, covering every inch of my bed, tumbling onto the floor. My eyes skim back to the clock—7:51.