Page 23 of Leaning In

I stay silent for a moment, watching him, and he seems content to let me think. To give me time.

“My family.” I barrel on. “They can be difficult.”

That might be putting it mildly, but I don’t want to scare him away.

“I don’t mind difficult, Claire. I mean, I deal with hormonal teenagers for a living. I can do difficult.” He takes a step closer.

“You might’ve thought Sophia was intense just now, but she’s the warm-up act.”

“She was a great warm-up act.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Well, you’ve never been cornered by my mum at brunch whilst she explains all the etiquette mistakes you’ve made in the last five minutes, because apparently family brunch has etiquette.”

His mouth quirks. “Sounds enlightening.”

I gesture at the now-cold coffee on the table. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Do you want to go out and get another one together? Maybe some food too?” Tom asks.

“That sounds perfect.”

We both pointedly ignore the loud squeal of excitement coming from the bedroom. Maybe I need to take away my sister’s key.

Chapter 9

Claire

Tom hasn’t lived in the area long enough to have had a chance to explore all the best coffee shops, but luckily I’m an expert. We drift past a few places before I finally tug him towards one of my favourites, tucked between a florist and an overpriced homeware store. It looks tiny from the street, but inside it stretches back further than you’d expect, opening into a little garden filled with mismatched tables and ivy climbing the walls.

The whole café feels like a love letter to colour, bright cushions and abstract paintings crammed into every available space.

Tom pauses just inside the doorway, taking it all in.

“You would like somewhere like this,” he says, gesturing at the walls.

I glance at him. “What does that mean?”

“I can count at least eight shades of orange in this room alone. You always loved bright colours.”

Tom offers to order, but I wave him away and send him outside to grab a table instead. Left alone at the counter, I order our coffees and a selection of pastries that I know Tom will love.

When I make my way into the garden, balancing the tray carefully, I spot him immediately. He’s sitting at one of the tiny wrought-iron tables, his face tipped up towards the late morning sun that’s peeking into the yard in shifting patches of gold.

“It’s lovely here,” Tom says as I set the tray down and slide into the seat opposite him.

I try not to look too pleased with myself. “I know. That’s why I brought you.”

“You seem very confident about your café recommendations.”

“I take them seriously. Some people have wine knowledge. I have café knowledge.”

“And what qualifications do you need for that?”

“Years of dedication,” I say primly. “And very strong opinions about banana bread.”

He laughs, and raises his coffee to me before taking a sip. “Cheers.”

I take a sip of my own. It’s perfect. Just like usual.