He paused, our eyes locked for a second, and he nodded and turned away, pulling out a newspaper. My heart was beating a little faster from his stare, and I watched as he shook out the paper, then folded it in sharp, deliberate movements. Was he as concise and deliberate in bed? Would he study my body the way he studied that paper, be as focused? I sighed and took a deep breath. I’d never know.
I turned back to take my seat and saw someone who hadn’t been as distracted by a hot guy sit down in the space that had been meant for me. Apparently, the politeness of the British only lasted so long. I sighed and glanced around, trying to find somewhere to stand where I wouldn’t topple over. I tucked myself in by the door, holding on to the bright yellow handrail that five other hands were also grasping. I also just happened to be wedged right next to my handsome stranger, who was managing to read his newspaper despite the train being so tightly packed. I looked up at him. His fingers were half an inch from my shoulder. I glanced down. His foot was almost touching mine. It was so weird to be so near to a complete stranger. He was close enough to lick.
This dry spell I was experiencing was having me fantasizing about strangers on the tube. Although, I suspected the man I was transfixed with would probably have me thinking wicked thoughts even if I’d had an orgasm five minutes before I’d spotted him. He was delicious.
I hadn’t even kissed a man since coming to London two weeks ago. In New York it was easy to pick up a guy, or respond to a man picking me up. Too easy. And just like waitressing had lost some of its appeal, so had the dating scene. I was bored with it in New York. There was no point in doing the same thing in London; after all, I was here to try something new, to start again. Instead, I’d watched a lot of British TV, practiced my English accent, and walked around exploring the city. Anything to pass the time until my temporary visa came through.
Scarlett was right: There was no point in living for the moment if every moment was the same. I needed to mix things up.
The tube stopped, and I leaned forward, trying to read the name of the station. I was sure I had two more stops to go before Holborn, but I didn’t want to miss it. The stop was Piccadilly Circus, which I’d been to last week and had been disappointed when I’d found neither animals nor acrobats. Just a statue of Eros surrounded by electronic billboards. It was like Times Square’s eccentric but less wealthy cousin. As I straightened out, my hair skimmed the newspaper of the blue-eyed stranger and he glanced down at me. “Whoops,” I said and smiled. He just stared at me, unblinking, and I couldn’t look away so I just stared back. It was almost as if he was trying to communicate with me without words, but what was he trying to say?
Can I kiss you?
Let me take you to dinner?
I’m fantastic in bed, can you tell?
Yes, yes, and a double yes please with whipped cream.
He blinked three times in a row as if he’d been shaken out of a trance, frowned slightly, and then went back to whatever he was reading. I continued to check him out. Even without that jaw and those piercing eyes, he would be attractive. His thick dark-brown hair, the broad shoulders, and the expensive suit—it all just fit together perfectly. His skin was bronzed and smooth and it took a ton of self-control not to reach out to see if it slid against mine the way I imagined it would. His hands were large with long, strong fingers and neat nails that had been trimmed but not manicured. Manicures had become a thing for men in New York, particularly Wall Street types, and it was another reason why I rarely dated suits. Manicures should be a woman-only activity.
Finally, the doors opened on the Piccadilly Circus stop, and I was proven wrong that the train was full because about three thousand more people squeezed into the carriage. I shifted so I was closer to my fantasy man—my foot was in between his and I stared at his chest. We’d been close before but now the sleeve of his arm was brushing my hand and if I took in a deep breath I smelled leather and woods—not strong enough for cologne but too expensive to be just deodorant or soap. Carefully chosen body wash, maybe. The doors beeped and shut, and the train started again, aggressively lurching its way forward. If he hadn’t moved at the same time, I’d be flat against his chest. We adjusted ourselves and the train picked up speed, continuing to see-saw along in an almost hypnotic rhythm. If my stranger noticed me staring, he didn’t say anything and even if he had I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to stop. Then, out of nowhere the train screeched to a halt and my hands flew up to stop myself from falling. Lucky for me they connected with my blue-eyed stranger’s broad, hard chest. For a second I was frozen, unable or unwilling to move, then he gripped my upper arms and put me back on my feet.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his British accent wrapping around me like silk as I removed my hands from his chest.
I wanted to collapse again, just to feel his strength. That was it. His scent, his stare, his voice, and his touch had a thread binding them all together. They all exuded strength—of mind, of body, of character.
“Yes, sorry, not used to the tube, I guess.”
“Keep your legs a little further apart. You’ll balance better,” he replied.
Had he just asked me to open my legs? I grinned and nodded.
He inhaled, expanding his already broad chest, and went back to his paper. I sighed a little more loudly than I meant to, and the woman next to me turned away, trying futilely to get some distance. She probably thought I was medicated. Or crazy. Or both. In an effort to look normal, I pulled out my phone and connected to the Wi-Fi. I’d bring up Google Maps and figure out where I was going when I got off the tube.
We passed through the stations quickly, stopping more frequently than I was used to. With my legs braced further apart, disappointingly, I didn’t fall against my handsome stranger again and in just a few moments, signs for Holborn appeared through the window. I needed to focus and stop fantasizing about impossibly handsome men on the tube. I pushed myself through the crowds of people and made my way to the doors. As they opened, I took three steps forward and just as I reached the platform someone’s elbow turned and knocked my arm so forcefully that my cell phone slipped out of my hand.
My heart began to thunder as I watched in slow motion as my phone, and the map, slipped toward the infamous Gap we were instructed to Mind between the train and the platform. “No,” I shouted as people filed out after me, kicking my phone onto the track.
Fuck. I covered my face with my hands as people rushed past me. I couldn’t believe it. How was I going to get to my interview? All my hopes of a new life, a fresh start, had been pinned on this job. And the last thing I wanted to do was embarrass Darcy by not turning up.
“That was my fault. I’m sorry.”
I turned to find the man who’d made my tube journey a little more interesting. I caught my breath. “Your fault?”
The train started to beep, and its doors closed. Maybe my phone wouldn’t be crushed under the wheels, and I could jump down and get it before the next train arrived?
“I knocked into you,” the stranger replied.