An Unexpected Kind of Love (When Snow Falls)

by Hayden Stone

For a moment, we’re both engrossed in food. Hungrier than I thought, my meal’s disappearing in a hurry and I make myself slow down. Wolfing food down like a man who hasn’t eaten in a week probably sends the wrong message, like I’m getting ready to bolt. I mean, I might, but not yet. I still can’t reconcile the fact that I’m here with Blake in a corner over candlelight. Him, me, and a promenade of legumes between us.

  “How was the filming today?” I ask curiously. “I made myself scarce so as not to interfere. Or make some interruption.”

  “Good. Rehearsals went as planned, no hiccups. I mean, we’ve rehearsed before but it’s always a bit different when you’re on set and filming.”

  “Do you…normally do romantic comedies?”

  “I’ll do anything that I can. Rom-coms are fun, though. I had a small part in a superhero film in the winter, another in a historical drama after that. And a rom-com before this one too.”

  “Sounds busy.”

  “Yes and no. Some parts are bigger than others.”

  “What’s the best part about rom-coms, as you say?” I study him, setting down my cutlery in favor of water.

  Blake purses his lips slightly. He sips water too. “The kissing.”

  I gawp.

  He laughs at my expression. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

  “Now you’re making fun.”

  “You give such good reactions, though. But to answer your question… I don’t know, they’re playful.”

  “Playful?” I say this like it’s a foreign word that sits awkwardly on my tongue.

  His lips quirk, some secret delight. “Mmmhmm. You wanna play with me?”

  “Oh—”

  Oxygen vacates my lungs in a rush. I’m in a permanent blush by this point and I look anywhere than at him.

  “Filthy boy,” he teases. “That wasn’t even what I meant.”

  “It…wasn’t?”

  “I mean…what do you do for fun, Aubrey?” He savors my name, soft on his tongue. Like something worth lingering over.

  It’s entirely unnerving. I avoid his gaze again in favor of chasing a wayward lentil around my plate with my fork, one of the last survivors. Giving up, I set the fork down and twist the unbleached, hemp, bamboo something-or-other—or is it linen?—chic vegan napkin in my hands.

  “Fun?” I ask weakly. God, he would have to bring up fun, wouldn’t he?

  “How do you relax?”

  “Oh. I don’t.”

  Blake’s eyebrows shoot up as he frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…I don’t have time. Not with a business,” I say a bit too fast. I stare at the napkin. Maybe it’s linen. I glance up at last and continue to fidget with my napkin. “Not with trying to keep the shop afloat. I work all of the time. There’s always more work to do than there is time, running a shop.”

  “No fun ever?”

  “Nah. I’ll leave that to the other punters who deal in fun. Fun-free, me.”

  How to say the last time I dared to have fun was with Eli? That fun didn’t work out for me. Now, I’ve got loads of responsibilities with a struggling shop. Somehow, I’ve turned into uptight Aubs, a target for Gemma’s humor, and an occasional source of worry for Eli.

  Blake’s expression tightens with shock. Clearly, he’s a man who has time for fun, a man with time for shenanigans and whimsy.

  “Fun, I think, is something for other people. Like maybe those who have the luxury of time. I guess I’m…I’m just a serious person?” I tilt my head.

  A slow smile spreads across his lips.

  Blake rests his arms on the edge of the table. “Uh-uh. Fuck that. I saw some hint of fun there the other day. And today.”

  “You’re seeing things.” I lean back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest. Despite my better instinct toward reason, I’m smiling. “Like, you’re hallucinating fun. Or, maybe, projecting?”

  He laughs at that. “Yeah? A fun projector? I think you’re projecting your fun aspirations on me.”

  “You’re saying you’re miscast? A man who’s into rom-coms clearly has a Venn diagram overlap with fun. Fact.”

  “I wouldn’t say miscast. But you don’t know anything about me.”

  “You’re anti-romance, anti-fun, anti-comedy?” I counter without missing a beat.

  Holding up his hands, Blake laughs. “Shit, Aubrey. I’d hate to get on your bad side. Ouch.”

  “Sorry.” I relent into a twist of a smile. Despite myself, despite my misgivings about fun and things that run in its orbit, here I am. Possibly enjoying myself. I thought that part of me atrophied some time ago. Life lately doesn’t usually have much of anything approaching fun, its ilk, or a reasonable facsimile. But tonight with Blake, I’m letting my guard down a little, letting myself be swept up in his easy enthusiasm. It’s so easy.

  “Hey.” Blake leans in, lowering his voice. “I have an idea.”

  My eyebrows lift ever so slightly, a smile lingering. “An idea? Ideas are the worst. God knows what they might lead to.”

  “You up for showing me a Londoner’s idea of fun? Show a newbie the ropes?”

  I crack up hard at that. “That’s as bad as your dare!”

  “What, you want to call it a night at nine o’clock?” Aghast, Blake shakes his head while I check my watch.

  “It would be sensible,” I tell him. Sensible’s already left the building to have me out on a date with this gorgeous man, like I’m in some upside-down universe, because things like this—hot men like Blake—don’t appear out of nowhere keen to spend time with me. “You have no idea. Transport gets decidedly more shit from this point out. Less service. Then, if you miss the last tube or train, you’re caught on the horror of the night bus. Or worse, waiting for the night bus. Or even worse, dawn.” I shudder.

  His face lights up. “I’m already in.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Dead serious. And…”

  “And?”

  “Don’t make me dare you again. Because I totally will. Whatever it takes.”

  “Oh God. You really mean it.”

  “I think you’re sitting on excellent insider info that’s just dying to come out. A wild side.”

  I snort. Who does he think I am? “I have no wild side—”

  “Evidence to the contrary.”

  “But—”

  “—you realize it’s ridiculous to call it a night at nine,” Blake finishes, laughing as he sprawls back into his chair. “Or you’re about to have a friend call with a pseudo-emergency.”

  “You think I have friends? Bold assumption.”

  Blake can’t stop laughing. “I suspect so. Unless you’re a total recluse.”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  And that’s when my phone comes to life in my pocket. Lily with the inevitable out, always ready for an art emergency that she might need rescuing from. Truly a brilliant friend, if ever there was one.

  “You gonna get that?” drawls Blake.

  “Nah. Not yet. I need to show an American the city, I think.”

  …

  Half an hour later, on board the tube, I check the flood of texts from Lily. She’s unleashed a litany since 9:00 p.m.

  HAVE YOU BEEN MURDERED TELL ME YOU HAVEN’T BEEN MURDERED AUBREY. RESPOND POST HASTE. I AM ASWOON WITH WORRY. Lxxxxxx

  Laughing, I text back. That escalated quickly. You’ve also shed punctuation. xx

  You’re so predictable Aubs. Lxxxxx

  Going to Lucky Bar with a man. Maybe JJs after. xx

  OOOOOOOOoooOOOOOooo

  I slip my phone away.

  Blake peers at me, hanging on to the handrail as we ricochet noisily through underground London. He gives me a curious smile. It’s fucking hotter than the sun down here, closer to the molten core of the Earth. The heatwave per
sists at subterranean levels. Like Lucifer’s cranked the heat to welcome my folly.

  “Canceled the scheduled emergency,” I say smoothly. “Ready?”

  “Born ready,” Blake sings, turning a few heads. He has a brilliant singing voice. A man near us sleeps on the seats. An elderly woman is unmoved.

  As we exit, I leave my inhibitions behind me on the carriage. Till later, till my return to ordinarily scheduled sensibilities, like a regular stocktake. Right now, London’s calling, like I’m leaping off some cliff into an abyss.

  Chapter Nine

  When the tube spits us out in the swelter of King’s Cross Station on our adventure, we go up via the escalators to the concourse level. Even at this hour, the concourse is busy, flowing with travelers coming and going. Digital signs announce departures and arrivals, cancellations and delays.

  “What are we getting? You can’t be hungry yet.” Blake chuckles. “Please don’t tell me you’re pit-stopping for meat snacks.”

  “Oh no, we’re stopping for something much better than meat snacks,” I retort, making a beeline for Boots before the shop closes in a few minutes. With a gulp, I take Blake’s hand, hot in mine, a gesture that sends a ripple up my spine. “And I can’t say I’m confident that’s not some sort of American innuendo.”

  He laughs with glee. “No! I quite literally meant meat snacks.”

  “Well, you’re in for a surprise, then.”

  Oh God. I’m in. All in.

  He squeezes back, a surprised—and if I didn’t know better, but who’s to say at this stage of our current non-relationship status—yet terribly hopeful grin on his face. “Condoms?”

  “Guess again.”

  We go immediately to the beauty section. Everything glimmers with promise, from eyeshadows to nail varnish. “We need makeup for a night out.”

  I give him a challenging look as we stand before a display of eyeshadows in an expanse of colors.

  Intrigued, he gazes from me to the stand and back again.

  What does he think? This is probably a terrible idea. I haven’t done this sort of thing in a dog’s age. Probably not since back before dogs evolved.

  “What are you planning?” he asks, squeezing my hand.

  “We’re going dancing. And we need to look the part. Up for that?”

  He laughs with delight, moving closer. “Oh yes. So not only do you make things, but you make over people too. I’m totally game.”

  So I get to work, giving him a critical eye and then picking out colors. In cruelty-free makeup suitable for vegans. Particularly a vegan that I suddenly, strangely, want to impress. In a way beyond books or earnestly flailing my way through my non-existent knowledge about pulses and veganism in an effort to make a lasting impression. Now, I’m digging deeper into the dormant skills of a past Aubrey. With mineral eyeshadow and liner, red lipstick, moisturizer, and foundation, I insist on the purchase since he bought dinner.

  And once we exit, I pull him into an alcove. He catches my jaw and kisses me in a way that promises to be my undoing, something fierce. When his hand rests on my chest, my heart thuds a rhythm beneath his touch.

  …

  I orchestrate an efficient makeover in the toilets at King’s Cross. Apparently there’s such a thing as muscle memory when it comes to remembering how to put on makeup. We’re in and out, no muss, no fuss.

  “Genius.” Blake marvels at his reflection, the color on his lips striking with his dark hair, a smoky eye. In theory, it’s supposed to be kiss-resistant. We may put that to the test later.

  We better.

  “No one will recognize you so easily now.” My reflection’s all rumpled reddish blond waves, a softer pink lip, eyeliner, and shadow. If only my shirt wasn’t quite so creased, but oh well.

  “Talented and thoughtful. You’re a great catch,” he jokes as we head out for the short walk to the rock club. “Now, where are you taking me?”

  “Lucky’s.”

  “Ooh, I like the sound of that.”

  Unable to keep a smirk from my lips, I hurry him along. At night, the heat’s only a fraction less than the day, waves still rising from the pavement. I’ve texted ahead to my mate who works at the club, saving a couple of tickets for us at the door.

  The hipster woman at the box office efficiently completes the transaction. The bouncer waves us through soon enough. We find ourselves in a wash of dappled club lights, the roar of the show already underway. The dance floor writhes with movement. Ecstatic energy of the dancers bounces off the walls.

  We get over-the-top cocktails, and once they’re finished and before I can protest, Blake’s led me onto the dance floor, his hand hot in mine.

  On the dance floor, it’s a sea of bodies moving with the music. Blake’s hand sears my skin as I grapple with the shock from the impulsive decision to get out here, rather than skulk sensibly by the safety of the bar. That would have been the more dignified, tamer approach. My usual go-to spot in a club, well away from the dance floor.

  Out here, Blake’s rhythm takes over, the way he gives himself over to the music. Head back, eyes closed, he’s the beat of the drum, the bassline, resplendent under dappled lights. Like this, I have a chance to admire his beauty, the comfort in his movements as he dances with ease.

  And when he opens his eyes to catch me in mid-gawp, he laughs and pulls me tight against his body. Like this, I’m officially on fire, between his closeness, the heat of the club, and the hundreds of dancers where we’re insignificant.

  I slide my arms around his waist. The way he glows at that makes me smile too.

  “What are you making me feel?” I breathe against his ear, a playful nip for good measure.

  With the thumping music, I don’t know if he hears me, but he pulls me against him to dance tight together. This euphoria, this closeness, takes over my usual restraint. Possibly also helped by the cocktail.

  Out here, we lose ourselves to the moment, the simple pleasure of dancing so close—so carefree—with someone.

  Not just someone. Blake.

  One song leads to another, and another. Eventually, parched, we have water and fresh drinks at the bar. There’s a long, tentative moment where we gaze at each other, quite unlike the way we danced with abandon only a few minutes before. He’s flushed.

  Finding some courage drawn from Aubrey of days long since past, I slide my hand along his jaw, rough against my fingers, to draw him close for a kiss that claims us both. Then, there’s no club, no angst. For a moment, a glorious moment, I’m lost in the simple, pure joy of kissing a man who wants to kiss me right back.

  When we straighten, I see signs of people making a move to leave seating at the back in a shadowy corner. Leading Blake by the hand, we snag the table as they go, setting our drinks down.

  Dead impressed by my table-hunting prowess, which is admittedly formidable, Blake leans over for a flirtatious kiss. Of course I encourage this naughty behavior, tucked in our corner away from roving eyes. It’s still too loud for non-shouted conversation, so we go on with kissing, because our mouths say plenty without words.

  Despite the thudding bass, I hear—and taste—a throaty, blissful groan from Blake. Of him pulling me slightly closer. Of me pressing over, the heat of my leg against his as I slide over.

  Our kisses are greedy. Hungry.

  This is about when I slide my hand over the front of his jeans, confirming that yes, he’s actually hard as I suspected on the dance floor.

  Because of me. God, what an idea.

  Blake shudders, eyes half closed with pleasure. As I suck on his earlobe, he shivers.

  And it’s my turn to groan as his hand rubs my stiffening cock through my jeans. And fuck. It’s impossible to think straight.

  With a glance around, we clumsily snake hands inside each other’s jeans. It’s impossible to know who’s more undone, our bodies electric w
ith the current of music and each other.

  It’s everything I can do to keep myself from climbing on top of Blake in public, but beneath the table, our hands rove without mercy. My hand’s inside his button-fly jeans, over the cotton of his boxers, moving rhythmically with the beat we started on the dance floor.

  “Ohh fuck,” manages Blake, biting down on his crimson—remarkably unsmeared—lip, as I work him to the brink, back down, and increase the tempo again. And he shudders hard, thrusting in my hand as he comes, hot and sticky. I tease him till he can’t take it anymore. At last, I wipe my hand inside his jeans against his boxers.

  He kisses me thoroughly.

  Which only makes him work me without mercy, holding my gaze when we sit up. My fingers press against the edge of the table. Gasping, it’s all I can do not to cry out, breathless.

  Club lights dazzle. The music pounds. His touch burns.

  And then it’s too much, the firm press of his hand, the shudder of skin as his hand takes my cock.

  Unable to help it, I muffle a cry in my mouth, half smothered in my throat. And thank fuck for the noise in the club, drowning me out.

  Blake’s grinning, gaze fixed solely on me, our separate debauched world a few galaxies over from the rest of the club where everyone else is.

  And then he eventually retrieves his hand, making a show of licking his fingers with unabashed glee. “Mmm.”

  My face burns as he then licks my fingers. I try to remember how to breathe, sides heaving, spine tingling, legs sprawled against his under the table.

  “Fucking hell.” I lean my head against his shoulder, reeling. Blake laughs with delight, sliding his arm around me.

  And then, right then, everything’s brilliant.

  …

  By the time last call happens and everyone’s subsequently shooed out of the club, we’re both loose-limbed with drink, giddy as people pour out into the street. In a dark corner, we kiss, Blake’s fingers gripping my arse. My fingers slide against his chest, tracing muscle under the suggestion of fabric.

  God. This man. Perfection, or as close as a mortal can get.

  Then, inconveniently, my stomach rumbles. Dinner was a long time ago.