Page 5 of Leaning In

He laughs. “No terrible chat-up line then?”

I raise my eyebrows. “People don’t use chat-up lines anymore. You’re showing your age.”

“The ladies love my history chat-up lines.” Tom grins. “I think they’re my finest work.”

“I find it incredibly hard to believe that ‘the ladies’ like history lines.”

He pretends to look around the room for inspiration. “Ok, why did Henry VIII struggle with relationships?”

“I don’t know, Tom. Why?”

“Because he had trust issues and execution problems.” He’s looking at me expectantly, and I can’t stop my lips from twitching.

“That’s not a chat-up line. That’s a history joke.”

“Fine,” he says, “What about this: are you the French aristocracy? Because I’d love to see you stripped of your title… and everything else.”

I giggle into my wine.

“Are you the Western Front in World War One? Because I would love to be entrenched in you.”

I start cackling, and by the time I finally stop laughing my stomach is hurting again. I have to put down my glass to stop myself from spilling it all over my very clean, very white sofa.

“Ok, you win.” I wipe my eye where a tear may have leaked out. “I think those lines might just work. But mainly because they’re so ridiculous. And any girl would just take pity on you.”

“Really?” He’s looking at me more intently.

I can see the lighter brown flecks in his dark eyes, and the soft lines around them from laughing or squinting into the sun. Tom watches as my gaze darts down to his mouth before looking back at him, and I swear he hitches a breath. I lean in a miniscule amount, and he does too, and I’m not laughing anymore. I’m focussed on Tom. On how close his mouth is to mine and how much I want to kiss him.

I move a fraction closer.

Then Netflix starts auto-playing a trailer for 300 so loudly that I jump.

And in that brief moment it suddenly hits me that this is Tom.

The same guy who exists in that category reserved for impossible things: celebrity crushes, winning the Euro Millions and your best friend’s brother.

“We should probably tidy up,” I squeak out, pulling back abruptly.

“Yeah,” he replies, flushing beneath his freckles, moving back as well. “Sorry, it’s getting late.”

“I’m seeing my mum tomorrow,” I mumble. “Early start and all that.”

“Right.” He scrubs his hand across his jaw again. “I’m meeting my sister so…”

He trails off, the fact that I’m his sister’s friend sitting heavily between us.

“Umm, thanks for helping organise her birthday party next month,” he says, almost as though it’s the first safe thought that pops into his head. “She’s really excited about it.”

He stands, readjusting the sofa cushions, and I track his movements.

“I love organising parties,” I reply, voice high-pitched. Scooping up the glasses and empty bowls, I escape to the kitchen to tidy up while he shoulders his backpack and slips on his shoes.

“Goodnight, Buttercup,” Tom says to me as I let him out the flat.

“See you,” I reply weakly as I shut the door. The moment it’s closed, I groan and press my head against the wall.

Idiot. Hormone-fuelled idiot. That was close. Far too close. I can’t believe I nearly kissed Tom Ford.