Page 24 of Love Walked In

He raised his eyebrows at me. “I grew up in London. It’s illegal to walk slowly. They’ll arrest you and everything.”

“You’re still funny,” I said, raising my eyebrows back. “Race you to Hampstead?”

Instead of telling me I was ridiculously immature, he smiled slowly, and an answering little flame lit up in my chest.

“Ready to lose?” he asked.

“Never.” I bumped him lightly with my shoulder to knock him off balance, then jumped down the steps and raced off into the sleet, going as fast as I could toward the station.

Leo’s feet slapped the wet sidewalk behind me, and I could feel cold water splashing up my legs, but I was single-mindedly focused on my destination, getting to warmth and shelter as quickly as possible.

In spite of the race, we were still soaked when we got to the station, and I could feel my parka steaming and the damp denim of my jeans becoming itchy as we descended in the elevator and walked to the southbound platform.

It was busy with bodies, and the sign showed we still had another five minutes to wait until the next train.

Five minutes was a long time when the surrounding air was an old wool blanket, prickly and stale and too warm.

More and more people filtered onto the platform, and I started shifting on my feet, looking to make sure the exit was still there.

I tried to concentrate on my breathing, count four seconds out and four seconds in, but before long those four seconds were more like one.

“Is there a bus?” I finally asked Leo.

His eyes were barely visible behind the steam on his glasses. “Yes. But it’s not frequent, and you’d have to change to get to Bloomsbury. The only real option would be to go back to the house and wait for a cab, like I suggested the first time.”

I didn’t bother to answer that last high-handed comment, just stood there staring at the screen until the Northern line train finally arrived.

All the seats were taken, but there was room to stand.

I thought I would be OK, but the train filled up more and more as we traveled south, and my tolerance shrank and shrank, until at Euston I was repressing the urge to scream at the invasiveness of it all, the noises and closeness and tension.

“Leo?” I said instead. I hated how small my voice sounded.

He took one look at my face, grabbed my hand, and tugged me close to him as more people piled into the car. I tried to close my eyes, tried to breathe deeply. An exhale came out of me that sounded a lot like a whimper.

Leo’s mouth was tight, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m…” I tried to say but choked on my own panic.

It was so stupid, but how was I supposed to have known this before?

I’d grown up practically in the middle of nowhere, I’d always driven places, and the biggest city I’d been to, San Francisco, was a toy village compared to London.

“I think I’m a little claustrophobic,” I said, trying to keep my voice easygoing and failing miserably.

“How much is a little?” He squeezed my hand gently, grounding me.

“I’m like a six out of ten.” I tried to smile. “Zero meaning I fantasize about sleeping in a coffin, ten meaning I’ve already moved to a cabin in Alaska.”

“Mari, stop joking and tell me what you need.”

His voice was urgent and a little stern, and I gave up the pretense that I was anywhere in the vicinity of OK. “I don’t know,” I said, my voice thin.

He bit his lip and looked over my head, down the Tube car. “I’ll get you off the train at the next stop,” he said into my ear. “Until then, hold on to me. It means you’ll be close to me, instead of a stranger.” He suddenly gulped. “Unless that’s too much.”

“I don’t like that you keep having to take care of me,” I complained half-jokingly.

The corner of his mouth curled up. “I won’t get used to it, I promise.”

I eased into him. Keeping one hand on the pole, he carefully slid his other hand under my jacket and around my waist, a gentle support. I pressed my cheek against his chest, soft black wool and the faint thump of his heart, and exhaled again.

“That’s it, keep breathing,” he said, his chest vibrating under my ear as he spoke.

We swayed together with the movement of the train, and I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see the crowds around us.

Shutting down one sense sharpened the others: Leo smelled damp from running through the sleet, but underneath was the scent that was all him, bay leaves and warm spices, clean and comforting.

“You’re doing so well, darling,” he whispered. “Not much longer now.”

All of a sudden, the train slowed down, then jerked to a stop, nudging us into each other. I opened my eyes and glanced out the window, but I could only see darkness, think about that small, coaxing word.

Darling?

“We’re being held at a red signal,” a distorted, buzzing voice said. “We should be on the move shortly.”

A deep groan went through the car. Leo’s arm tightened and I burrowed into him.

Another crackle, then, “Sorry for the delay,” the announcer buzzed. “There appears to be an issue with a passenger at Warren Street. We’ve been asked to hold here until the situation is resolved.”

Groans of Fuck’s sake and Shit echoed around me, but Leo kept quiet, running his hand up and down my back in long, soft passes. “I have you, Mari,” he whispered. “You’re safe with me.”

No one had said anything like that and meant it. But something deep down inside me, for once, believed him.

I said Leo’s name again, but this time it was a sigh.

His hand pressed gently, and I shifted that little bit closer.

When I looked up at him, our faces were so close that he was just shapes in the dim light—slash of black eyebrow, pale blade of nose, his full mouth an outline.

I couldn’t help but focus on it. It would be so easy, a perfect little peck on his full bottom lip.

That devilish mouth made for smiling and laughing and other more lascivious things.

His eyelids drooped a little as he caught me staring, and his gaze dropped to my mouth. He exhaled softly, his breath warm on my face, and a shiver shot through me, shoulders to stomach to knees. I tilted my head, let my eyelids flutter shut.

The train jerked to life, and Leo tripped backward. Suddenly, we had a few inches of space. Space that suddenly felt like a chasm when he looked at me, dark-eyed and flushed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” he blurted.

“Warren Street,” the announcer finally called.

Mean what? I thought, stricken by the cliffhanger, but in the massive shove to get off the train, I didn’t get the question out.

A wave of strangers turned and walked toward the “Way Out” sign, but I hung back.

I took huge lungfuls of the stale warm air, waved my arms around and bounced up and down, then did a few jumping jacks for extra energy.

“Why on earth are you doing star jumps?” Leo asked incredulously, his hands on his hips.

“Reclaiming. My. Personal. Space,” I said, punctuating each word with a jumping jack. “Do you call these star jumps? I think this is a star jump.” I crouched down to the floor in a ball and then leaped straight up, exploding out my arms and legs.

He looked up and down the platform, uncertain. A few people were clustered near the exit, but the crowds had disappeared.

“Come on, Leo,” I challenged. “You’re never going to see those people again. We can just be two weirdos together.”

For a second I thought he’d just roll his eyes at me and walk off. But then his arms windmilled, his legs kicked out, and I got to see Leo Ross let go, pogoing like we were a two-person mosh pit, his salt-and-pepper hair flying, his cheeks flushing.

“Yeah, dude,” I said too loudly, “that’s it.”

“I can’t believe I’m throwing shapes on a Tube platform in the middle of the night,” he said, laughing.

“I can’t believe you’re doing it, either!

” I jumped into the air and whooped, and for thirty seconds we danced to music only we could hear until all the stress had left our bodies and we were gasping for breath.

Gasps that suddenly sounded like we were out of breath from doing something else entirely.

Leo straightened up and shook his head. “Let’s get you home,” he said, somehow both firm and breathless. “We have work in the morning.”

I studied his pink cheeks, the brightness in his brown eyes, and the urge to do another wild, weird, crazy thing almost overwhelmed me: to ask him to come home with me. Not to ask. Beg . Beg for his full mouth on mine, his artist’s hands on my skin.

But he was right. We had work in the morning. More importantly, he was too good, too soft to understand that all I wanted was one wild night. That I didn’t do deeper feelings. That I couldn’t.

So I kept my mouth shut and followed him to the “Way Out” sign.