Page 95 of Don't Be in Love

He narrowed his gaze. “Fine. Maybe I was wrong.”

“Thank yo—”

“You’re way too stubborn to be like Maureen,” he finished.

I glared at him. “That’s an admirable quality. Some would even say attractive.”

“I think there are many things about you that people find attractive, Adelaide.” A muscle moved in his forearm, his hand gripping the edge of the sink.

I pressed the side of my hip against the sink, needing the equivalent of a pinch towake up. But it didn’t diminish the drumming of dormant muscles in my chest that clung to my ribcage and urged to escape. They pattered at the pace of a piano being struck withneed.

His head tilted down just a fraction of an inch, but it was still something. Something that brought the tips of our noses closer than they were before and interrupted the stream of the bulb’s light above.

“Do you mean that?” I asked.

“No.” A satisfied smirk slowly intruded his serious look.

Instinctively, I dunked my fingers in the pot and threw a handful of water at him.

His reaction was delayed. The result left his hair at the front of his head riddled with droplets. Lashes, skin, and sweater polka-dotted in it. He stared at me in disbelief before plunging his hand into the pot. Water was in my eyes before I could duck.

The volume of water that passed between us was vastly different. He was sprinkled in it, whereas my face was soaked.

I grabbed the half-full pot and catapulted it—

“Shit!”he ducked, but not fast enough. He stood back up with defeat. Hair was matted to his forehead, already curling.

“I think that makes us even now.” I gave him a smug smile, empty pot in hand. Water was still swimming down the side of my jaw.

His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek in comical disbelief. He swiped his hand across his forehead, sending water flying toward the cabinets.

“Alright, that’s it. Let’s go.” He announced before shaking out his hair with his hand.

“Go where?”

“To complete your list. Now put your trousers back on.”

33

Don’t, Just Don’t, Think About Kissing Her — Dorian

“Shouldn’t you be wearing a hat or something? Maybe a mustache?” she asked as we stepped out of the cab and onto the Westminster Bridge.

“Why’s that? Don’t want to see my face?” I cocked a brow.

She pulled her knit hat over her head. It was cute. Really cute. And distracting. Definitely something a friend shouldn’t be thinking.

Watching her leg bounce in the cab was painful enough. It’d graze my knee every few minutes and make me flinch. The longer there was contact, the more I wanted to lean into her.

“What if someone sees us?” She pulled the collar of her gray coat tighter around her exposed neck.

“It’s the holidays, I’m not too worried about anyone taking our picture. And anyway, I’m usually in Italy with James by now, so that’s where they’d be looking for me.”

She glanced around, realizing I was right.

Christmas Eve, around the London tourist sites, was quiet. Few people passed us on the bridge. Not enough to barricade any of the wind shoving at our coats.

Big Ben winked at us from above with its warm yellow face. Lampposts peppered across the Bridge mirrored the same light.