Page 82 of If We Were Young

I giggled.

“What’s funny?”

“I can’t remember the last time I had one.”

“Oh sorry. That was presumptive of me.”

“Bit like when you assumed at that first meeting that I still liked my tea out of builder mugs?”

“You do though, right?” His expression slipped into pensive again.

“Yes. It drives my mother mad.” I made myself sound like her, wishing it were harder to achieve.

“Phew. It would be hard to be friends with you if you liked fine china.”

The man constantly stunned me with painful whiplash. “Matthew, we aren’t friends. You’ve made that very clear.”

He nodded, his eyes darkening and then he fell back onto his bed, pushing his hands through his hair.

God, I wanted to climb on there next to him, hitch my leg around his hips and try to crawl inside his skin.

“You’re staring at me funny.”

“Oh. Uh.” I had no answer. I blatantly stared at the way his chest fell, his belly tightening with every breath. Well. It didn’t leave many words left.

I pulled myself up on the bunk trying to not make it look like a miniature person doing a pole vault and picked up the sandwich and crisps he’d left on the mattress. As soon as I pulled at the cellophane wrapper, I got that wave of hunger-based nausea and my mouth filled with saliva. I couldn’t be sick now; it would drop down onto his bed. The rock of the train made the sensation worse, back and forth, back and forth, unrelenting.

Yanking the sandwich free, I shoved a massive mouthful in and chewed hard, trying to get some food into my system.

“Better?” His voice drifted up from down below.

Too busy chewing to answer I moaned an, “Mm.”

“Still making little sex noises when you eat, I hear.”

The bread lodged in my throat and I swallowed hard. “I do not,” I mumbled when it had sunk halfway down.

“I beg to differ.”

I took another bite and then waited to see if I was about to groan. Bloody hell. I nearly did.

Had I been doing that my entire life, and no one had told me? I swallowed again.

“How do you remember I make sex noises when I eat?”

“I remember all sorts of things.”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. It was easier that way. The white walls of the cabin were riveting. “I remember things too.”

“Do you remember I’m an arsehole?”

“You never used to be.”

“I never used to be so battered by life.”

“Are you talking about your divorce?”

A pause stretched until I thought he might not answer. “Yes.”