“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were about to walk right past me.”
I turn in the direction of his voice and smile. “Good job you know better, isn’t it?”
His lips curve upwards, and I cross the street. He’s leaning against the wall opposite me, his hands in the pockets of his jeans and his eyes intent on me from beneath his hair.
“You could really do with a haircut,” I say, noticing the way it’s curling over his ears.
“Hi, Abbi. I’m great, thanks, hope you are too. Oh, no, I haven’t done much today. Just work. What’s that? Oh, same old, same old. Joe shouting, Matt moaning and crazy people ordering more seafood than is healthy. And yes, you are correct, I do need a haircut.”
“You know, I can see you really annoying me doing that.”
He pushes off the wall, grinning. “So my shining manners haven’t annoyed you yet?”
“Yet.” I laugh. “There’s still plenty of time.”
“Then I should probably tell you you’re having dinner at mine on Thursday before you are annoyed at me.”
I look at him. “I am, am I?”
“I think I was supposed to ask instead of tell you.”
“I think that’s usually how it goes, yeah.”
“Well, see.” He shifts uncomfortably, looking more like a sheepish teen than a grown man. “Mum is here this weekend, and I’d rather cook my own foot than go for a meal in New York with her.”
“And where do I come into this?”
He shifts again, and I stifle my smile.
“I kinda, sorta, maybe told her I’d cook because I wanted her to meet you,” he mumbles.
I raise an eyebrow when he stops outside Prospect Park. “Why did you do that?”
“Because I was hoping it wouldn’t mean I’d have to put on a damn shirt and remember my posh-boy manners in some bloody overpriced restaurant.”
“And it worked.” I purse my lips. “By the way, I’m impressed you knew how to get here from Starbucks.”
“Yeah, I used Google maps, but whatever.”
I laugh. “So you need me to come and have dinner at your place and meet your mom on Thursday after dance.”
“My mum.”
“Huh?” I glance over my shoulder at him as I pass the many memorials guarding the opening of the park.
“My mum,” he repeats, his lips tugging into an amused smile. “Not my “mom.””
“Seriously? There’s a one letter difference. Same thing. Freakin’ British.”
“Bloody Americans.” He laughs, making me smile. “But yeah. Basically. Please?”
“What do I get out of this?” I tease.
“You get to… Er… Well, I’d say meet my mum, but that’s not always pleasant. She’s kind of… Particular about people. She’s also probably a little pissed she spent three years trying to marry me off to various daughters of her friends’ and I’m still single.”
“You’re making this sound so appealing I can barely contain my excitement.”
“I’m not convincing you, am I?” He sighs. “I guess I’ll have to learn how to iron a damn shirt and shine my shoes. And to think, I was going to make lasagna.”
I pause, turning to look at him. His eyes are wide, his shoulders are up by his ears like he’s paused mid-shrug, and his lips are turned downwards. If he thinks he’s fooling me, he obviously thinks I’m stupid, because I can see the glint of laughter in his eyes.
“Oh, alright.” I sigh the words out heavily, playing along. “I’ll come over. Can’t have you ironing now, can we?” I roll my eyes.
Blake grins, and we start walking again. “Ironing is the cruelest kind of torture.”
“You’re so male it’s unreal.”
“And to think it was only a couple of weeks ago you were checking if I was all male.”
Ass. “I’m still debating it, actually. I think it’s the eyelashes – you have girly eyelashes. They make you pretty.”
“Pretty? Flippin’ pretty?” He shakes his head. “You could seriously damage that manhood calling me pretty.”
I smile. “But you are pretty. Like a little poodle puppy with a bow on its head.”
“You did not just compare me to a poodle, Abbi.”
I cover my mouth with one of my hands and nibble on my thumbnail. “It’s fair,” I argue. “You just sprung a Meet The Parents on me.”
“Yeah.” He scratches behind his neck. “You know, you don’t have to. I suppose I could survive the posh-boy torture for one night.”
“No. I said I would, so I will.”
“It was the pout mixed with puppy dog eyes, wasn’t it? That’s why you agreed.” he says. “I knew that would work.”
“Pfft. You do good puppy dog eyes, pretty little poodle, but no. I just really love lasagna.” I shrug, and he nudges me with his elbow. I shove him back, fighting my laughter, and he reaches for me. His arm curls around my shoulders, pulling me close to him, and I wrap my arms around my stomach. His thumb rubs across the material of my sweater on the top of my arm, relaxing me.
I remind myself I’m in a place safe from the past. That I’m in a place where only the present is important. The past and even the future are irrelevant. Only the here and now matters, and the here and now is a touch so casual and comforting that means so much. And there isn’t a part of me that wants to pull away from Blake.
We walk in silence for a while, only birdsong and the rushing of the ravine breaking the peace, until we come to one of the rustic shelters that stand on the edge of the lake. The wooden buildings gaze out over the water, and I can clearly see Duck Island from here even though night is starting to fall.
“We always seem to be somewhere when it’s getting dark,” I comment absently, stepping from Blake’s hold and walking to the edge of the shelter. I look over the water, a few lone ducks still swimming along.
I see him shrug as he steps up beside me. He rests his elbows on the ledge and leans forward, his bicep brushing my arm.
“Hiding in plain sight,” he says simply.
I blink harshly, suddenly glad for the darkening of the sky. Something I said so casually, like it meant nothing, and he’s remembered it. He’s remembered it and somehow he’s applied it to everything we’ve done so far. He’s letting me hide right where he can see me.