I Owe You One(86)

“Right.” I try to sound casual. “Well.”

Seb gestures for the bill, then gives me another look, which makes my insides melt. “Shall we get out of here?”

We find a cab and Seb gives the address, and as the cab travels through the lit-up Christmassy London streets, neither of us says much. My breathing is shallow; my whole body feels taut. I’m super-aware of every move Seb makes but grateful he’s not one of those guys who lunges at you in the taxi. I want it to be private. I don’t want the driver watching in the mirror.

Seb lives in a 1930s-looking block in Islington, and as we get out of the taxi I can’t help laughing, because he was totally fibbing.

“There’s a ramp, look,” I point out. “As well as steps.”

“Ah yes.” Seb nods. “What I meant was, it would be very kind if you could help me up the ramp.”

He strides up the ramp—without my aid—and I follow him, giggling, and then we’re in the lift and rising up to the fourth floor, where he ushers me through a gray-painted front door.

“Here we are,” he says as the door closes behind us. “Home.”

He gestures around, and I’m vaguely aware of a pale wooden floor with white walls, but to be honest, his flat is the last thing I’m interested in. I put my arms around his neck, which is something I’ve been longing to do all evening, and close my eyes, inhaling him.

His shoulders are the right height. He smells good. He feels good. His lips brush against mine and I give a little whimper, because I really, really want this. Does he realize this? Does he realize it?

Yes, of course he does. (I may actually be a little drunk.)

As his mouth meets mine properly, warmly, I press up against him hard and he makes a deep, indistinct sound.

“Wait, your ankle,” I say, suddenly breaking away.

“What does my ankle have to do with it?” Seb looks confused.

“Dunno,” I admit, and I start to giggle. “Health and safety?”

“You’re delicious,” says Seb, drawing back to survey me. “And as you know, I still owe you big time. Big time.”

He kisses the side of my neck and I feel the light brush of his teeth. And the thought that we have all night ahead of us makes me dizzy with lust.

“So … this is you paying off what you owe?” I manage, my breath coming in short pants.

“This is me chipping away at it,” he says, slowly unbuttoning my shirt. “Little by little. I know it’ll take a while.… Oh my God.” His eyes darken at the sight of my breasts. “How long will it take to work off my debt? Forever, I hope.”

“I’ll let you know when you’re there.” I murmur as his lips gently meet my collarbone. My head is thrown back in bliss and I never want this to end either. “I’ll let you know.”

—

The night is a blur of sex and sleep and sex again. Some time in the early hours of the morning, I find myself staring at him in the dim bedroom light, at the strong, lithe form of him. His back has a curve to it like the sweep of a boat. I steal out a hand to stroke it, wondering whether he’s awake, when he turns and his eyes glint at me.

“Do you sail?” I say, half sleepily.

“No. Used to row, though.”

“Huh.” I nod my head: That makes sense. Then I hear myself saying, “Do you believe in the one? Do you believe in fate?”

I’m not expecting him to take me seriously—in fact, almost at once I regret saying something so needy. Ryan would have said, “Totally, babe,” without even listening properly, but Seb is silent. He’s staring up at the ceiling. He seems to be thinking.

“The rational part of my brain,” he says at last, “understands that everything is random. There are a million possibilities in the universe. Us meeting is just one of those possibilities, and just as meaningless.”

He sounds so matter-of-fact, I feel my heart droop a little. But then he carries on, in the same tone:

“The thing is, though, I can’t imagine a world that didn’t bring us together. We were meant to be. Don’t you feel it? You were meant to walk into Café Allegro. The water molecules were meant to fall though the ceiling. It’s been event on event on event. Your parents bought a shop in Acton. Mine didn’t move to France.”

“Were they going to?” I say in surprise.

“They thought about it when I was eight. Imagine—I wouldn’t even have lived in this country. It’s all been coming toward this moment.” He rests his head on his hand to gaze at me, a shaft of moonlight falling on his cheekbone.

“This exact moment,” I echo, teasing him.

“This precise moment right here.”

“So this is pretty epic.” I gesture, rumpling the duvet with a smile. It seems quite mundane, for an epic moment.

Although, actually, what more-momentous instant is there in life than being in bed with the person you feel is right? Really, really right? As these thoughts pass through my head, I suddenly feel light-headed, almost scared. Because he is right for me. He is, he is.

“So … this is it?” I say lightly. “This is what it’s all been heading for? This is as good as it gets?”

“No. It’s only going to get better.” He pulls me toward him, his mouth gently finding the crease of my neck, his body warm and safe. “It’s only going to get better.”