I didn’t get her phone number.
Idiot.
The most beautiful and fascinating woman I’ve met in ages, with whom talking for well over an hour felt like the easiest thing in the world and flew by in a blink, and who I was sure was as interested in me as I am in her – and I didn’t ask for her number.
Of course, perhaps she didn’t want to give it to me. She did end up running out of there in quite a hurry when her friend came over, so maybe she wasn’t interested beyond the coffee and conversation.
Which makes what I’m about to do sound like the perfect opportunity to make even more of an idiot of myself.
Yes, you guessed it.
I’m back on Oxford Street, heading towards the store where Meg works, and hoping she’s in today.
I’ve made it to Thursday before giving in.
But honestly, I’ve barely stopped thinking about her all week.
Part of me is heartily annoyed with myself for going all moon-eyed over a girl, especially at my age, and especially when it’s distracted me from all the work I’ve had to do this week preparing for the concert and some other stuff coming up.
But there’s another part of me that’s secretly revelling in this… I’m not really sure what to call it.
A crush? Infatuation? Curiosity?
Definitely attraction.
I’ve spent entirely too much time over the past few days picturing Meg’s face. Her smile. That pretty blush. The...