Page 111 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

‘Thank you, Nicolas,’ I say primly, taking a sip of my red wine – which is actually very decent – ‘I can, and have, eaten my meals for many years now without throwing food down my front.’

‘Okay, princess,’ he says, and then he crooks a finger, gesturing for me to lean over the table towards him. When I do he picks up a napkin and presses it to my cheek, softly swiping over the corner of my mouth. His finger brushes against my lip, and it feels like a tiny electric shock travels all the way down to my toes.

‘You have a little sauce,’ he murmurs, ‘just here.’

When he pulls back, I ease myself away, falling into my seat with an audible thump.

‘So,’ I say after we spend a full thirty seconds staring greedily at each other. ‘We should probably talk.’

‘Mm hmm,’ Nico rumbles. ‘We should definitely talk.’ He reaches across the table, tangling his fingers with mine. ‘Do you know,’ he says mildly, ‘that it feels impossible not to be touching you all the time?’

I clear my throat. ‘I might know something about that, yes,’ I watch as his fingers toy with my own, as he gently twists the diamond ring that I’m still not used to wearing.

‘It’s been difficult for a long time,’ his eyes are still on our hands, ‘the not touching you part.’

I choke back a laugh at this. ‘Try going twenty-seven years.’

His fingers tighten briefly. When he looks at me, his eyes are wide. ‘Daisy…’ The way he says my name is full of too many things – wonder and tenderness and compassion and worry.

I pull my hand back, embarrassed. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ I mutter.

‘I’m glad you did,’ he says gently. ‘But do you really mean—’

‘That I’ve had a giant crush on you since I was a kid?’ I ask ruefully. ‘Oh, yeah. Sorry. Have I freaked you out?’

‘No! I just had no idea. I’m trying to wrap my head around it.’ He exhales a long breath. ‘That’s a lot to live up to.’

He sounds so nervous that I smile. ‘Are you worried that I’ve idealised you,’ I ask, ‘that I think you’re perfect?’

He lifts a hand to the back of his neck, embarrassed. ‘Um… maybe?’

‘I know you’re not perfect.’

‘You don’t have to sound so sure about that. What’s wrong with me?’

‘You want a list?’

His mouth quirks. ‘I dare you to come up with a list. I’m delightful.’

‘You’re cocky. That’s on the list.’

‘I don’t see that as a flaw.’ He puts a little extra bass into his voice and I laugh.

‘You’re stubborn.’

‘So are you!’

‘We’re not doing my list.’ I wave this comment away with my hand. ‘You’d never hurt someone on purpose but you can be careless with people’s feelings, you’re slow to forgive people, and you get so grumpy when you’re hungry that I think you should consult a doctor about it. You’re messy. You don’t own an iron. You are an awful cook. You have terrible taste in books—’

‘What do you know about my taste in books?’ he cuts in.

‘You have a stack by the bed. They’re all about Spitfires and the Second World War.’ I look at him. ‘Why are you smiling?’

‘Because you’re about to feel so bad,’ he smirks. ‘Phoebe was doing a project for school and I wanted to be able to answer her questions so I was reading up on stuff on the sly.’

‘No!’ I bang my hand on the table. ‘You were being an adorable single dad? You’re not a military history bore?’

‘Sorry.’ He leans back in his seat, crosses his arms across his chest. ‘I guess I’m closer to perfect than you thought.’