Dearest Milton James by N.R. Walker

Chapter Eight

“What doyou mean he dropped you home?” Moni asked.

I changed my phone to my other ear so I could shovel some food in my mouth. “I mean, he just dropped me home.”

“It’s disgusting that I can actually understand you while you talk with a mouthful of food.”

I finished chewing and swallowed. “Sorry.”

“Did he kiss you?”

My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. “No. God. I don’t think we’re there yet.”

“But you want to be . . .”

“He is so fine,” I hummed. “One hundred per cent not my type but perfect in every way.”

“Malachi, your type, until now, has been the emotionally unavailable, brain-dead muscle guys who want nothing but a quick fuck. I’m glad this guy is not your type. Nothing would make me happier if you started dating a guy who was the opposite of your type.”

“I don’t think we’ll be dating. I mean, we work together and he’s my boss, technically.

“But you want to.”

“I want him to do unspeakable things—”

“Could you perhaps stop eating?”

“I’m starving.”

“So what about the letters?”

“I’ll finish reading them tomorrow,” I said, this time without the mouthful of food.

“Promise you’ll give me an update.”

“Promise.”

“Go finish your dinner.”

“I will, thanks.”

“Are we still on for Saturday night?”

“Yes. Unless I have a better offer for a deep dicking, then . . . well, you understand.”

She snorted. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you. Good luck with the sexy boss-man.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“And Malachi?”

“Yes?”

“If things do go the way you want them to—and he does sound interested, from what you’ve told me—then you need to have a conversation about work and where you both stand with that.”

I refrained from sighing. “I know.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

We disconnected at the same time and I finished shovelling in my veggie lasagne, happy with . . . well, with everything. With my job, with Julian.

I’d hoped like crazy he might have said something on the car ride home or even asked any kind of personal question like ‘Are you seeing anyone?’ or ‘Do you want to invite me up to your flat where I can fuck you into the mattress?’ . . . you know, those kinds of questions.

But he never said anything like that.

Maybe it was the confined space of his car that would have made it super awkward if I turned him down, or maybe the fun and flirty jokes were just a joke. Maybe he was smart enough to realise that nothing could happen between us and knew better than to play a game where we both lost.

Stop overthinking it, Malachi.

Easier said than done. Actually, overthinking and making mountains out of molehills were the two things I did best.

But I told myself to let it go. Take each day as it comes, enjoy your work, Malachi, enjoy working on the letters with Julian, enjoy having fun and flirty conversations for the sake of being fun and flirty and nothing else.

Easy peasy.

And absolutely one hundred per cent go to bed and watch some porn while thinking of Julian and orgasm so hard you almost black out.

That was the plan.

And that was exactly what I did.

* * *

I was excitedfor work the next day. I arrived a little early, put my lunch in the breakroom fridge, and made my first coffee. Paul was already there, flipping casually through his newspaper while Theo chatted away at him about last night’s episode of Survivor. Paul didn’t seem to be listening. Theo didn’t appear to realise or care.

I said a quick hello but stirred my coffee at the counter for an eternity to avoid having to join in their conversation and was thankfully spared when Cherry walked in. She wore black and pink today and smiled at me like a gorgeous goth Bratz doll.

“Morning,” she said quietly, her eyes bright. “So what happened between you and Julian last night?”

I almost spat out my first sip. “What? Nothing. Why?”

She took her cup from the cupboard, smiling like she knew some delicious secret. “Because he’s wearing blue.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Mr Brown, Mr Beige, Mr Every Shade of Taupe That Exists is wearing blue.”

“Blue?”

Cherry nodded and poured boiling water into her cup, the teabag dangling precariously over the side. “I would say it’s a pale sky blue or even a powder blue. I’m not sure. And his pants are—” She met my eyes. “—navy.”

I swallowed. “He’s wearing blue.”

She nodded again. “Obviously something cosmic happened to him, and you two stayed late last night. I know you think he’s handsome, and I’ve seen him look at you.”

My eyeballs almost popped out of my sockets like grapes. “I . . . uh . . . what? No I don’t, and he doesn’t . . . I mean, does he? Look at me . . .?”

She smirked. “Every time he comes out of his office he looks at your desk first. He looks for you first.”

I whispered. “He does not.”

She squinted at me. “Your smile is a little frightening. Could you turn the wattage down a bit? I have sensitive retinas.”

I held my cup up to cover my mouth. “Sorry. But, oh my god, is he wearing blue?”

And sure as hell, right then, the break room door opened and Mr Blue walked in.

Holy fucking hell.

Was that shirt a little more fitted than his brown ones?

Cherry nudged me and I closed my mouth. Paul stared, noticing the colour change as well, but Theo was oblivious, still talking about immunity tikis or some such rubbish.

“Morning,” Julian said. The tips of his ears were tinged pink. He was uncertain or nervous, but there were no other tells. He strode in, looking confident as ever even if I knew his ears were a giveaway to the contrary. He made his coffee, strong and black, and smiled as he sipped it.

“Is that powder blue or summer periwinkle?” I asked.

He met my gaze. He had to know I was going to bring it up. May as well just get it out of the way. “It’s just blue.”

I nodded slowly. “It’s very nice.”

“Nice?”

“I was going to say dapper but thought I’d gay it down a bit. And just so you know, nothing is just blue. There has to be a gay qualifier. It’s the law.”

“And is summer periwinkle a gay qualifier?”

I nodded, because, uh, hello. Of course it was. Did he not hear himself just now?

He smiled as he swallowed his coffee. His brown eyes glittered directly at me. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nodded to the others as he walked out, and I watched the glory that was his arse in those navy pants. Cherry nudged me again. “Christ,” she breathed, pulling at the collar of her black-and-pink argyle sweater. “Could you two tone it down a bit? Or go into his office and lock the door for a while?”

I shot her a look. “What?”

“The testosterone and pheromones are stifling.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but smile. I turned to her so Paul couldn’t see my face. “He looks fucking hot today.”

“Sure nothing happened between you last night?”

“Nothing, I swear. We stayed here for an hour or so, then he drove me home.”

Cherry stared. And I mean stared. “And you expect me to believe that nothing happened?”

“It didn’t.”

“What were you doing here for an hour by yourselves?”

Shit. “We were . . .”

Now here’s the thing. This wasn’t supposed to be public, but not hidden either. I trusted Cherry, and the alternative was her assuming Julian and I had some crazy desk sex, which wasn’t right. I mean, it was hot. But it was, unfortunately, not true.

“You know those really old letters in his office that have been here since the seventies?”

Cherry nodded once.

“We’re trying to find the owner or the recipient. Whichever one we can find.” Her eyes grew wide with excitement so I put my hand up. “We’re doing it on the quiet,” I whispered. “Julian didn’t want anyone else to know, so please don’t breathe a word of it to anyone. The letters are very . . . personal.”

“You’ve read them?”

“I’m about halfway through.”

“And?”

“And I haven’t found much. I’m hoping he divulges more in the next few letters. I’m making notes of any clues I can find.”

“He?”

“The man who wrote them. To another man. Before he went off to the Vietnam War.”

“Oh my god.” She sipped her tea, eyes wide. “Are they explicit?”

“Not really by today’s standard, but I’d imagine back in the seventies in small-town Australia, yes. Anything sexual he writes is more poetic than erotic.”

“You know it’s a small town?”

I nodded. “Can guess as much. I don’t know where yet though.”

Denise walked in then. “Mornin’,” she said loud and hoarse as she began making herself a coffee. “Hope you got some caffeine into ya because today’s haul is huge. Dunno why it is, but I just lifted a fuckton of crates off the truck.”

Right, then. Morning chat time was over. Paul and Theo stood up and washed their cups, Cherry tipped the rest of her tea down the sink, and I looked at the last mouthful of cold coffee in my cup and decided to do the same. Everyone rushed out to the floor to begin their day.

Cherry and I grabbed our first crate together. “Once you get all your notes in order, if you need any help, let me know,” she said quietly.

“I will, thanks.”

Denise wasn’t kidding when she said there was a lot of incoming mail today. We were basically running all day. Parcels, packages, letters, boxes, satchels. Even Julian left his accounts and reports and emptied a cage or two.

I spied his gorgeous navy-and-summer-periwinkle-wearing self as he pushed a cart through the aisles a few times. Apparently, according to Cherry, he’d help whenever needed, and he did without having to be asked. He took one look at the incoming inventory and just helped out, and I really liked that about him.

But he was wearing blue today, not brown, for the first time in as long as Cherry had worked here. There had to be a reason. There just had to be. And I tried not to overthink it or imagine I had any part in that, because why would I?

Then some godawful sinking horrible realisation occurred to me in the middle of aisle D-E. What if there was another reason?

What if there was another guy? What if he had a new man that no one knew about?

I held a parcel of new sports socks that had somehow lost its address label and I started to feel a little hot and cold all over.

Fuckity fuck.

What if Julian was seeing someone that wasn’t me?

Should I be surprised? No. Should I be heartbroken that Mr Sexy who I’d been fantasising about for weeks didn’t think of me the way I thought of him?

“You okay?” a deep voice asked behind me.

I startled, tossing the parcel of socks across the aisle. “Oh shit!”

Julian picked it up and handed it to me. “Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, sure. Sure, why wouldn’t I be? I mean it doesn’t matter if you’re seeing someone. Why would it matter? It’s completely fine, and admittedly, all rather delusional that I would think you might have liked me. I mean, let’s be real. I’m not your type. I’m not anyone’s type, just between you and me. A little too loud and sunshiny for most people, which is cool. That’s just who I am; I won’t apologise. But I’m glad you’re wearing blue today. Summer periwinkle is a fabulous colour. I might go back to blue.” I pulled at the still-purple streak in my black hair. “Although I was thinking green next time, but it’s a fine line between an amazing apple green and a zombie-chlorine green. But when it’s done right, it looks great.”

Julian blinked and shook his head, a little confused. “Um, that was a lot of information. I’m not sure where I should start . . .”

I took a step backwards, bumping into my cart. “Sorry. You know, nervous rambling, grandmaster level. Seldom few achieve it.”

Julian put his hand on my arm. He looked two parts concerned, four parts amused, a billion parts sexy as fuck.

I never was any good at maths.

“Malachi, are you okay?”

His deep and low voice knocked me out of my stupor. I nodded. “Yep. Sure am. Thank you for asking. I hope you and your new boyfriend are very happy together.”

He chuckled. “What are you talking about?”

Was he not here for my Hamlet-worthy soliloquy?

“Uh, I probably should have asked this before. Not that it’s any of my business to be honest. But . . .” Gawwwwwd. “You know what? It’s not any of my business. And if you wanted me to know, you would have told me and the fact you haven’t is all I need to know.” I put the parcel of socks on the shelf and scanned it, marking it as logged. “I’m fine, Julian. Thank you for asking, but I have a lot of work to get done. I’m happy to keep working on the Dearest Milton James letters though.” I checked my watch. I’d missed lunch. “Oh. Well, after work again is fine—”

“I like working on the floor,” he said, completely off-topic. It kinda startled me. “I should do it more often. Cataloguing and searching, finding someone’s lost letter or parcel. It’s rewarding.”

Okay then. And I thought my randomness was weird. “It is. I actually really like my job. I like it more each day.”

“I’m not seeing anyone,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Though this is probably a conversation best had somewhere that isn’t here.” He picked up a box from his cart. “I better keep going with these. This here box contains a soccer field for a fish tank so your goldfish can play soccer. Quality, life-changing stuff.”

“Nemo’s going to be so disappointed that it was never delivered,” I replied. I was about to suggest he check the address 42 Wallaby Way but thankfully my brain stopped me.

Julian smiled as he walked off, and I had to take a second to catch my breath. He was single. He told me he was single. And he told me we should be talking about this kind of stuff not at work, which meant he did want to talk about this kind of stuff, just not here.

He wanted to talk about him not seeing anyone and me saying I wanted him to like me. And he said all this while smiling and not with a horrified look of disgust.

I felt giddy.

I did manage a very late lunch, which I ate at my desk while searching up names and addresses. I sent a few parcels on to their rightful owners and went back to shelving the ones I couldn’t win.

Five o’clock couldn’t come around quick enough and everyone left pretty much on time while I scrambled to pack up and log out without looking too excited. “Have fun,” Cherry said, glancing pointedly at Julian’s door.

I tried to roll my eyes but was also trying not to smile, and as it turned out, I could only do one at a time. She laughed as she walked out with a wave over her shoulder.

But when I knocked on Julian’s door, he was standing at his desk, packing up, his computer screen off.

“Oh,” I said. No point in trying to hide my disappointment. “I just assumed we’d be working on the letters again and I missed a chance at lunch. It’s fine if you don’t want to.” Then something occurred to me. “Shit. I’ll miss the bus.”

“Malachi, wait,” he said, stopping me from making a start for the front door. He waited until I gave him my full attention. He was nervous again, the tips of ears pink, and he fidgeted with his satchel on his desk. “Don’t worry about the bus. I can drive you.”

“Are you sure? Because if I run . . .” I cringed. “Actually, if I do run, I would formally request you not watch because if you’ve ever seen a newborn giraffe try and use its legs—”

He met my eyes and smiled. “I wanted to work on the letters again.”

“Oh.” Okay, I was confused . . .

“I wondered if you wanted to work on them somewhere else? Somewhere not here?”

My belly tightened. “Oh?” That sounded auspiciously like maybe a date? That giddiness was back. “I thought we couldn’t take any mail or product from the premises.”

Julian straightened a little. “Any mail that comes through the system isn’t to be taken off the premises, that’s true. But the Milton James letters haven’t been in the system. Not for about thirty years.”

“You mean, they just live here without record?”

He nodded. “Since well before I started.”

“So, you want me to read them somewhere else?” Then I remembered something. “Hang on a minute. You told me we had to read them here.”

He met my eyes and swallowed. “I thought it would be best.”

“But now?”

He looked down at his satchel, played with the buckle, and let out a quiet laugh. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m just going to be completely honest with you.”

“Okaaaay.”

“I like you.” He put his hand up quickly, palm forward. “Not in a weird way. I just think you’re . . . I don’t know. Maybe this is weird. You said earlier that you’re sunshiny and loud, and that’s true. I’ve been . . .” He made a face. “I kind of shut myself off for a long time and I didn’t realise I missed the sunshiny, loud type of people until you walked in with your sunshine-lemon sweater.” He gestured to my actual sweater.

I tried not to be offended. “Uh, this is lemon-sorbet yellow.”

He smiled, the eye-crinkling kind. “Sorry. Lemon-sorbet yellow. The gay qualifiers . . . I’m so far behind.”

“I can give lessons.”

He smiled again, a little crooked this time, but then it faded away. “I tried to not like you.” He stared into my eyes then. “But after I drove you home and you said you found me attractive, I thought maybe some professional distance would be appropriate.”

I remembered that. “You didn’t speak to me for a few days. I wondered if I’d done something wrong. I mean, apart from saying you were attractive. To your face.”

Julian shook his head slowly, almost smiling. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Sorry if I confused you. I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to steady myself. I meant what I said about not realising how much I’d missed . . . being happy.” He ran his hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “It was a bit of a wake-up call.”

“Is that . . . does that explain the wardrobe change?”

He looked down at what he was wearing and let out a laugh. “Ah, not really. Maybe. I do own other colours. I just wore the same clothes to work, like a uniform. And . . . someone once told me brown suited me. I got stuck wearing it, every day, and I don’t know why.”

“Brown does suit you. It matches your eyes.”

Julian’s smile turned sad and he nodded.

“But the blue is smoking hot,” I added. This conversation was wholly weird and skirting well into personal territory, so I was unsure where to tread. “And the fitted shirt. I was liking the brown until you showed up in that shirt.”

I swear he blushed. “I was going to go with the white one.”

“Classic white or fresh-linen white?”

“Fresh-linen white, for sure.”

“You have no clue and just repeated what I said.”

He chuckled. “Correct.”

“You could have made one up.”

“Such as?”

“Anything. Wildflower white, snow dream, or winter white.”

“I lack both the imagination and the quick wit for that. And you’d have known for sure anyway.” His eyes drew down to my sweater. “Is that really lemon sorbet? Or did you make that up?”

I found myself smiling at him. “Oh, it’s real. I’ve been known to purchase things because of their pretty names. How can you not buy a sweater called lemon sorbet?”

He met my eyes and for a long moment, he didn’t look away. “So, these letters . . .  Did you want to go to a restaurant or bar?”

“I would, normally, yes. But am I going to cry reading the rest of the letters? Julian, there’s a really good chance I’m going to snot-sob, so is being in public a good idea? The other customers will probably assume you’re breaking up with me and you’ll get death glares from everyone and we’ll be TikTok famous and it will be a whole ordeal . . . though I might get free pity-drinks, so it might not be a terrible plan. We could make it work.”

He chuckled again. “We could get some takeout dinner and go to the park at the end of your street.”

I made a face. As sweet as that sounded, it wasn’t a great idea. “We could. As long as the sun’s still out. Once it gets dark, it gets sketchy as hell, and I’m far too pretty to be thrown into the Hunger Games.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

“We can go back to my place if you want?” I asked without really thinking that through. “I mean, not for anything other than takeout food and reading these letters, and so I can blubber like Judy Blume in the privacy of my own flat.”

Julian stared at me, smiling, but there was definitely some conflict going on in those eyes. “Are you sure?”

I nodded, because I was sure. Now that I’d asked, I wanted him to come back to my place. I wanted to spend time with him outside of work, and my place was where I was most comfortable. “I’m not suggesting anything or implying anything. And it’s not an invitation for anything else. We’re not dating, after all, and I’m not that kind of guy.”

If Moni heard those words tumble out of my mouth, she would have died laughing.

The corner of Julian’s mouth quirked upwards. “Noted.”

* * *

The driveback to my place was kinda quiet. Nervous and excited and trying not to show it, I decided to talk about dinner options that we could order in. Though it’s likely he knew I was nervous because I might have talked about the adobo at my favourite Filipino restaurant for ten minutes straight, with a very honourable mention to the dumplings from the corner noodle bar.

Julian knew I was prone to ramble when nervous and thankfully he didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled and looked at me occasionally as though he found me adorable.

Which of course made me more nervous.

He was coming back to my place. There was a possibility that we could kiss or make out or, as I was trying very hard not to think about, we could end up in bed.

See, I have the best of intentions. It’s just my willpower that’s lacking.

But I had to be strong.

I couldn’t just be falling into bed with my boss on a whim.

I mean, I could . . . but I probably shouldn’t.

He said he liked me. In his office, that’s what he said. He said I was the sunshine he didn’t know he was missing, and that was possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

“You sure you’re okay with this? Because we can try to read the letters at lunchtime tomorrow if we’re not so busy.”

I glanced at Julian, then outside my window. I hadn’t even realised we were in my street, let alone parked. “Yes, of course. Sorry, I was just thinking . . .” I shook my head and lifted my bag onto my lap. “Let’s get inside and I can order us something. I’m starving.”

Not that I was actually starving, but ordering the food, waiting for the delivery person, then eating the food was a whole lot of time where I wouldn’t be tempted to find out how Julian felt against me, or what he tasted like, or how he kissed . . .

Yes, food was a great idea.

I fumbled a little getting out of his car and tried to play it cool as he followed me up to my flat. I was always a tidy person; I lived by myself, so my flat was respectable for company. “Come in.”

I led him into the small living room which opened up to the old kitchen. I put my bag on the retro laminate table. “Can I get you a drink?” I opened my fridge. “I have . . . water, lemon mineral water, and Canadian Club cans. Or tea and coffee.”

“Uh, lemon mineral water would be great, thanks.” He looked around, smiling. “Your place is very . . . you.”

I laughed and conceded a nod. There was a mismatch of funky coloured cushions and the record-cover artwork on the walls. “Thanks. Moni and I go thrifting all the time. Her house looks more like an op-shop, where I like to think I make more refined and select purchases. Don’t tell her I said that.”

I handed him his drink, grabbed the pile of takeaway menus, and went to my couch. “You can pick. I’m easy.”

He wanted the adobo I’d raved about, so once that was ordered, Julian pulled his satchel over and took out the letters.

Oh yes, the letters . . .

What he was here for.

I got up and collected the box of tissues off the kitchen bench and went back, sitting on the floor this time, leaning against the couch. “I’m ready for all the tears now.”

Julian smiled as he handed the letters over to me. “They’re not that bad.”

“Well, I cry if there’s an ad with a dog in it. It doesn’t have to die or anything. It just has to be in it, so . . .”

Julian chuckled. “The ads aren’t so bad for me. But if a dog dies in a movie or a book? I will cry then.”

I gasped. “Oh my god. In a movie? No one is forgiven. I mean, no one. That movie Hachi, with Richard Gere. Well, Richard Gere is now dead to me. The screenwriters? The entire supporting cast? Dead to me. The most unfortunate people who sat beside me in the movie theatre and had to hear me sob? They’re dead to me. Every single person.”

Julian laughed. “So, no suggesting we watch Marley and Me over dinner.”

I gawped at him. “Is that some kind of litmus test because—”

He put his hand up. “Just kidding.”

“I would rather watch the Titanic a dozen times and cheerfully see Jack turned into a popsicle every single time.”

He grinned but then made a face. “I wonder if there were any dogs on the Titanic.”

My mouth fell open. “Why would you say such a thing?” I put my hand to my forehead. “God, I bet there was. Why does no one talk about these things? I’m never watching the Titanic again.”

Julian nodded slowly, smiling. After a while, he said, “There was room on that floating door for Jack.”

“Oh my god, I know, right? Bitch just let him die like that.”

Julian laughed again and sipped his drink. He looked so casual and relaxed, just chilling at my place, like he’d done this a thousand times, like he belonged here.

It was a comforting thought before I realised it was all in my head. I wanted him to relax and chill at my place as though he belonged.

Wishful thinking was a dangerous game.

With a bit of a start, I remembered the letter I was holding and began to read it.

Dearest Milton James,

Holding your hand is a dream, even if no one can see. I know what it feels like. I have committed it to memory. Kissing you is what heaven must feel like.

I’ll never tire of it. Each time it’s a thrill I never dreamed possible.

The way you smile at me, the way your hand caresses my face, how you feel against me . . .

“Oh, dear god,” I mumbled, fanning my face. “He sure does have a way with words.”

I was beginning to think I might need those tissues for something other than tears.

Julian chuckled. “It’s rather poetic.”

“Poetic and hot.”

I handed it to him so he could re-read, and I picked up the next letter. It was no less beautiful.

Dearest Milton James,

I told my Aunt Kath I’d rather not take the job she was trying to line up for me. I want to go to Sydney for university. Something I wouldn’t perhaps have considered if you weren’t leaving.

I wanted to be where you are, but that can’t happen now.

Most people think me foolish for wanting to become a teacher. But not you. You told me to chase my dream, to follow my heart.

I told you my heart was leaving to join the army, and you kissed me and held me so tight.

You told me your heart would stay with me no matter where in this world we are.

I love you, Milton James.

One day I’ll say those words to you, using your real name.

One day.

I sighed and folded the letter gently. I scribbled down a few notes. “So romantic.”

Julian looked over at me then. “Which one are you up to?”

I handed it to him and gave him a few seconds to read it. “But not just that one. It’s all of them, I mean. The whole thing. Writing love letters to the man you love but knowing he’ll never read them. Addressing them incorrectly, to a name that’s not his lover’s real name, no stamp. But still needing his words to be out in the universe somewhere.”

I sighed again just as the intercom buzzed. “That’ll be dinner,” I said, and sure enough, five minutes later we were sat on the floor, using the couch as a backrest, the letters tucked away so I didn’t spill the contents all over them. We had our legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles.

Julian was a delicate eater. Small, polite bites, but he tilted his head to the side every so often in a cute little dance and hummed his approval. At first I thought I imagined the groan-like sounds, but no, it was him.

“Good?” I asked.

“Mm.” He swallowed his mouthful. “It’s wonderful. Thank you for suggesting it.”

“You can get the next one,” I said, half joking, half not. I mean, I had paid this time. Not that I was one to keep score, but if it meant a second date . . .

Julian smiled, his brown eyes glittering. “Deal.”

“I don’t always sit on the floor, you know,” I said, waving my fork at the table.

“It’s fun though,” he said.

“Fun? Just wait until you try and stand up.”

He chuckled. “It’s been a while since I ate dinner sitting on the floor.”

“You don’t bring crazy-hot dates back to your place and make them sit on the floor to eat? What kind of sensible guy are you?”

He smirked as he chewed, and I wondered if I’d crossed a line. “A sensibly kind of boring one.”

“Boring? I doubt that.”

He made a face as he stabbed more of his dinner with his fork. “Boring and sensible. That’s actually pretty accurate.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Those two qualities aren’t bad.” I put my takeout container down, too full to eat another bite. “And boring and sensible by whose definition?”

“My ex.”

Oh.

“He said that to you?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Well, first of all, fuck him for saying that. How dare he. And second, being quiet or reserved, or introverted or reflective, isn’t boring and sensible. Being any or all of those things is a wonderful trait. Wanting to stay in and watch a movie or read a book, or whatever, is just as valid as going clubbing. And to be honest, I’d prefer the kind of guy who’d rather talk over dinner than go out all the time any day.”

He laughed. “Thank you for saying that. But honestly, my ex was probably right. I never wanted to—”

“Hey. If you didn’t want to do something and he resented you for that, then he was not the right person for you.”

Julian met my eyes, and after a few seconds, he looked away. “You’re pretty smart.”

“And cute.”

He laughed again. “I didn’t mean to drag our conversation down, sorry. The whole ex thing was a few years ago and I am over it. But I did get . . . stagnant, or boring. I just forgot to look up every now and again.”

“Until I walked in wearing Colour-Pop-blue boots and a matching fancy tie.”

“And your matching hair.” He laughed again. “I don’t want you to think I’m pinning my whole outlook on you turning up, because I’m not. It was just a good reminder.”

Wow.

Okay, so holy shit.

I tried not to panic. He just said, basically, that meeting me reminded him to live. How could I not feel giddy and floaty? “Reminders are good.” My voice came out all breathy and I sounded like a really bad impersonation of Marilyn Monroe. I cleared my throat. “So, your ex . . .”

“He cheated on me and then blamed me for it,” Julian replied, very matter of factly. “It wasn’t the first time either, apparently.”

“Oh man, I’m so sorry.”

“It kind of messed me up for a bit, not gonna lie. I had our whole lives planned out like a fool.”

“No, he was the fool.”

Julian smiled at me, then shook his head. “I have no idea why I’m telling you all this.”

“It’s obvious,” I declared. “You’re telling me all this so we can make a voodoo doll of him and make him suffer.” Oh my god, this was possibly my best idea ever. “We could follow him, and when he tries to pick up some unfortunate unsuspecting guy, we can just give him a little tap in the back of the head or stick a pin in his dick, and we’ll be watching from across the bar and we can laugh and laugh.”

Julian chuckled. “I don’t think we need to do that.”

“Ooh, we could soak the voodoo doll in laxatives. That would be an experiment for the ages.”

He cracked up, and it was so beautiful. His deep voice, the little crease lines at the corner of his eyes, his neck, his throat, his smile, and those lips . . .

“Remind me never to piss you off,” he said.

“I wouldn’t do it for real. But it’s nice to imagine.” I sighed. “I’m sorry he did that. You deserve better.”

“I know I do. Now. It took me a while to realise that. I swore off men for a long time.”

“Oh, honey, I swear off men every weekend.”

He smiled at that. “So what about you?” he hedged. “What horrible ex-boyfriend stories do you have?”

“Well, I’ve never had a real boyfriend,” I admitted. He couldn’t hide his shock. “I mean, I’ve had boyfriends and guys I’ve dated for a few weeks or months, but none that I had my life planned out with.”

He studied my face and settled on my eyes. “Have you ever been in love?”

“Every Friday night,” I replied with a laugh. “Just kidding. Sure I have, I think. I loved all the guys I’ve dated and called a boyfriend, but not love love. I loved being with them, or loved something about them, or loved that they made me laugh, or loved what they did to me in the bedroom, but as for real love? I don’t know.” I felt rather foolish for admitting this. “I love everything though. Those album covers on the wall? I love them. These lilac shoes? I love them. My neighbour in the next flat has a cat that likes to sleep on my balcony. I would die for that cat. His name is Buster Jones and I love him. I sneak him some diced ham or chicken every night, but it’s our little secret. My friend Moni has a leather jacket that is tangerine orange and I love it so much. I’ve begged her for it but she refuses. The best she would do is bequeath it to me in her will. I told her not to give me a reason to kill her, but she just laughed and said I could never kill her because I have the upper body strength of wet paper.” I shrugged. “I mean, she’s not wrong, but—”

“Why are you nervous?”

“Because I’ve never been in love love, and you’re sitting really close and your eyes are so pretty. They’re like fire agate. I had to google that, just so you know. And you keep looking at me like you might want to kiss me and I wouldn’t say no, even though you’re technically my boss and I told Moni all about you and she made me promise that we would talk about work boundaries before I let anything happen and—”

He looked at my lips and slow blinked, his gaze trailing slowly back up to my eyes.

Had I stopped talking or was my heart thumping in my ears and I just couldn’t hear?

He licked his lips.

Every cell in my body felt alive, electric, buzzing and wanting more. And if he leaned in and kissed me right then, I would have straddled his lap and made short work of us both.

I was just about to do that anyway when he let out a shaky breath and seemed to break out of whatever trance he was in.

“Yeah,” he said, rough and husky. “We should probably talk.”