‘No, but you weren’t planning to spend your weekend with me either. Just because I took it upon myself to come back doesn’t mean you have to fall in.’ His lips set. ‘I’m not trying to force a situation on you, Quinn, impose myself...’
She felt her heart melting. That he would come back to find her, fully prepared to disappear again if she wanted him to, was beyond adorable.
‘You’re not, and you wouldn’t be.’
‘You’re sure?’
Still the doubt!
‘Of course! Which part of the whole mobbing-you-with-an-unsolicited-hug thing didn’t you get?’
He smiled a lopsided smile. ‘Now that you put it like that...’
Which maybe she shouldn’t have, because now she was thinking about how lovely he’d felt to hug, all smooth cotton and muscular shoulders, and thinking about it was turning her bones to rubber.
She inhaled to reset. ‘So, have you booked a place to stay?’
‘Yes...’ His smile turned sheepish. ‘I got a room at the Metropole, actually. I thought staying in the same place made sense, but if you think it’s too much...’
What? He was worried that staying at the same hotel, along with the other two hundred or so random people staying there, would bother her! His insecurity was startling but so utterly endearing that she couldn’t not smile, couldn’t resist teasing him a little bit.
‘Well, it is quite stalkery of you, but it’s also very convenient! I’ll be able to knock you up first thing so we can hit the streets before the crowds get going.’
He smiled, and then his gaze was softening, filling hers. ‘You’re very nice, do you know that?’
She felt her heart squeezing, heat prickling behind her lids. How was he able to stir her emotions like this, tug her heart out with a word that her English teacher used to strike out for being insipid? There was nothing insipid about it! Nothing insipid about the light in his eyes or the warmth pouring into her chest.
She swallowed to find her voice. ‘So are you.’
He baulked. ‘Thanks, but I’m not so sure.’
Her heart bumped. Did he not see the good in himself? She so wanted to dig into that, but maybe this wasn’t the moment. This moment called for a light touch.
She slid her eyebrows up. ‘You’re not sure if you’re nice or not?’
He inclined his head, faintly wary, faintly bemused. ‘I guess.’
‘So, why don’t you let me decide? Show me your best, nicest side all weekend, and I’ll do the same, then at the end we can judge how nice we both are.’
A wry smile lifted his mouth. ‘In other words, you want me to suck up to you all weekend?’
She felt a giggle rising. ‘If that’s what it takes, yes. But remember, it cuts both ways.’
‘Hmm...’ His eyes darted to her plate, came back twinkling. ‘So if I sign up to this pact, do I get to share your custard tart?’
Oh, he was good! Going straight for the jugular.
She looked at the tart, trying to quash another giggle, then met his gaze. ‘Asking isn’t nice, you know.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He pressed a hand to his chest. ‘My bad.’ And then he was resting his forearms on the table, leaning in, his eyes glinting with mischief. ‘You’re right, of course. I should totally have waited for you to offer.’
And again! Running his smart rings around her, tickling all of her funny bones at once so that it was getting harder and harder to keep a straight face.
She pursed her lips to stop them from twitching, going for a derisive look. ‘You can go off people, you know.’
His eyebrows flashed. ‘But not off me, surely, because I’m nice.’
She stared at him hard, trying not to succumb, but then her traitorous lips were curving and his were too, and it was the best feeling in the world to be sitting here laughing together, a custard tart between them and a whole weekend ahead of them, the fun already starting.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘SO THIS VIEWPOINT is called...’ He licked his lips, concentrating. ‘Mira-dour-o de Sã-o Pe-dro de Al-cân-ta-ra!’
Quinn pulled a wincing face. ‘Or something along those lines anyway...’
He felt his lips twitching. Always teasing him, just like Pete, making him feel light as air. Carefree.
He feigned chagrin. ‘Are you trying to say my Portuguese pronunciation sucks?’
She laughed. ‘Not trying to...’ And then she was smiling into his eyes, doing the placating thing. ‘To be fair, I don’t know what it should sound like, but I’m fairly sure that that isn’t it.’ And then she was turning, making for the fountain, calling back over her shoulder, ‘Ten points for trying though.’
He felt warmth bursting inside. Such a good decision to come back yesterday! Sweet delight on her face when she’d caught sight of him. That unexpected hug! Then it had been the two of them doing battle over the custard tart, until it had struck them that they could simply order more.
Afterwards, they had wandered around the Praço do Comércio, Quinn mulling over the bright yellow walls of the surrounding Pombaline-style buildings as a potential accent colour—Pombaline-style and accent colour being new phrases in his developing creative lexicon—but then, for some reason, she’d switched to teasing him about his guidebook.
He felt a chuckle rising. Not his fault that random facts were his thing. How could she not have found it fascinating that the square was one hundred and seventy-five metres by one hundred and seventy-five metres, and that before the earthquake of 1775 the site had been home to the royal palace? How could she not have wanted to know that the red suspension bridge they could see to the west was the 25 de Abril Bridge, named for the Portuguese Carnation Revolution of that same date in 1974?
So much fun plying her with facts, seeing her eyes twinkle, feeling it feeding some starved thing inside him, feeding it like a drug. All through dinner too—a candlelit blur on some restaurant terrace overlooking the Tagus—wine and teasing, a few stabs at business chat. Trying—failing!—not to lose himself in her eyes, in all her lovely animation.
