has grown like a weed, and it pokes out of all my pores now. I can’t believe Connor would be so heavy-handed! I buy a cheap pashmina from one of those pop-up stalls near a tube station, which at least lets me cover my cleavage as I stomp my way through London, trying to disentangle my feelings.
Disappointment that the date I thought we were on our way to was actually his attempt to further my career. His paternalistic, heavy-handed involvement in a matter I specifically told him to stay out of. Pleasure that he took an interest? Yes, it’s a confusing conundrum of mixed emotions and they drag along behind me like a misshapen Santa’s sack of gloom and doom. I stomp my way through the streets for hours and eventually dive into the Underground and jump on a Tube.
I’m not even sure where I’m going until I realise it’s the Jubilee line, and it stops at Canary Wharf.
Connor’s stop.
When I emerge from the station, the night has turned cool. It’s a firm reminder of something I am already aware of. Autumn is coming. The summer term will soon be over.
And then what?
Connor will no longer be my teacher. Does that matter? Does it change anything? Does he want it to? Do I?
Something lurches in the region of my heart—the thought of him not being my teacher. The thought of not seeing him again. The thought of not being able to hold him, kiss him, be held by him.
I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. That’s all beside the point. Right now, I’m pissed and I want to remember that.
I press the buzzer; nothing happens. I prop my hip against the edge of his building, glaring out into the night air. I lift my finger to press again and hear his voice. Deep and raspy, it makes my stomach flip, and I fume at the automatic response.
How dare his simple drawl of the word, ‘Yeah?’ fill me with this kind of heaven-sent need?
‘It’s me.’ I try—and fail—to keep the shittiness from my voice.
The front door of his building makes a buzzing sound and I push it inwards, jabbing my finger on the lift button before taking it to the top floor. He’s waiting in the doorway of his apartment when I reach the landing, his shoulder nudged against the frame, his eyes watchful, his expression blank.
And I know him! I know him well enough to understand that he’s waiting for me to speak first, to give him some idea of how I feel. For all he knows, I’m there for a little late-night sex—he wishes!
I grind my teeth together and move closer. ‘How dare you?’
Anger it is.
‘Come inside, Olivia,’ he says with a sigh, stepping back and holding the door to allow me in.
I glare at him as I pass, kicking my shoes off once I reach the lounge area. The white carpet is soft underfoot. I spin around to face him; he’s keeping a safe distance. Good.
‘Is something the matter?’
I thrust my hands on my hips. ‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Where do I start?’ Somewhere in the back of my mind, I notice that he’s changed into grey jeans and a white shirt. That his feet are bare and so sexy and his arms, all tanned and strong, are almost making me forget what I came here to say.
But I won’t let him do that to me.
Not now. This is important. ‘I didn’t want your help with my career.’
His eyes narrow. ‘You wouldn’t have got an interview without my help.’
Oh! Be still my angry, insulted, furious heart! A heart that is being stretched in a bazillion directions all at once by disbelief and indignation, pain and fury. ‘How bloody arrogant are you?’ I fume, the words quiet even as my temper soars into the stratosphere. ‘I’m a great candidate. I’ve got great grades. I’ve made everything I studied about getting a job with the CPS.’
‘You heard Dash,’ he interrupts, clearly not comprehending the degree of my anger. ‘The chances of getting a traineeship through the CPS are minuscule.’
‘But there is still a chance!’ I say angrily. ‘And I deserve that chance. I would have got an interview myself, Connor, believe me.’ I narrow my eyes unconsciously. ‘This is my life.’
The words hang between us like a gauntlet.
‘It’s my career,’ I continue. ‘And I don’t ever want to look back and think that maybe I got to wherever I get because I slept with you and you just happened to know someone!’
He runs his fingers through his hair, tension emanating from his powerful frame. ‘You’re being...’
‘What? What am I being?’
‘Childish!’ he snaps. ‘That’s not how it works in the real world. And Jesus, Olivia, if you think anyone is going to give you a job just because I recommended you then you’re delusional. This will all be about the quality of your application.’
‘We’ll never know that,’ I shout. ‘And I wore this!’ I unfurl the pashmina and throw it angrily to the ground, then gesture at the silk dress. ‘To what was probably the most important meeting of my professional life.’
‘You don’t have to remind me what you were wearing.’ The words are throaty, filled with the sensuality that defines us.
I brush it aside. ‘I thought this was a date!’
He is watchful, his features still. ‘A date with me?’
‘Obviously, a date with you!’
His expression is bemused, like the danger is over and he can go back to being charming and sexy. Who am I kidding? He’s never charming and that’s what’s sexy about him. His arrogance, toughness, darkness, his genuine, bona fide not giving a shit—this is what I love.
We are yin and yang—we are completely unalike and his differences to me are what draw me closer. The differences are what I crave—but it is all of him I love.
Oh, God.
I am stunned—silent and still as realisation begins to explode inside me. I am so angry with him—how can I possibly think I love him?
‘We don’t date,’ he says with a small smile. Perhaps he sees the way my features blanch of all colour. His wince is almost apologetic. ‘By mutual agreement, we don’t date,’ he reminds me.
But it’s not a reminder; it’s an invention of a conversation we never had and, in the face of this dawning comprehension of my own feelings, it is like being lacerated with a sharp knife. ‘I don’t remember us agreeing that,’ I say stiffly, reaching for my pashmina, biting down on my lower lip to stop it from trembling.
He frowns, uncertain again, apparently sensing the rising tide of my anger anew, and realising a life raft is nowhere to be seen.
‘What are you saying?’ he prompts cautiously.
‘It’s
