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“Nope. Not us.” His gaze lingered, growing heated.
Leaning in, Georgie gave in to a grin. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Who are we kidding?”
Oliver laughed. “Absolutely no one.”
TWENTY-THREE
GEORGIE
Closing the window, sealing them both inside the taxi with its stuffy heat, ear-splitting music, and the pungent body odour of its driver, Oliver shared an exasperated ‘Can you believe this?’ look with Georgie. “You sure you want to walk? It’s chilly.”
Giggly after three glasses of wine, she blinked lazily above the pink hydrangeas in her bouquet. “I’ll keep you warm,” she shouted a little too loud amidst the song’s distorted electric guitar.
The cab shuddered to a stop on Deer Park Crescent, a few blocks from Georgie’s Midtown apartment. Oliver handed the greasy-haired driver twenty bucks. “Keep the change,” he said, scooting across the seat with Georgie as “In Bloom” reached its wailing apex. Slamming the door closed, the taxi screeched away, leaving a smelly, grey cloud of exhaust in its wake.
Coughing, Georgie waved her hand in front of her face. “Thing is, I actually like Nirvana.”
“So do I.” Oliver shifted to her left, closest to the curb. “Shame the driver doesn’t like deodorant as much as he likes grunge.”
Georgie laughed. “At least it’s a beautiful night for a walk.”
Oliver hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder and took her heavy tote bag, filled to the seams with her bookstore purchases and alabaster pyramid as they set off toward her apartment. He wrapped his free arm around Georgie, holding her close as gentle snowflakes flittered in the air.
I’ve been waiting for him to do that! Georgie smiled to herself and followed his amorous lead, nuzzling into the crook of Oliver’s neck. “So as I was saying before our great escape”—she closed her eyes briefly, delighting in his warmth, his closeness—“why did you save the icing till last? The whole point is to eat it with the cake. The two tastes and textures complement each other, you adorable weirdo, you!”
Oliver laughed at her good-natured teasing as they strolled past several houses in the quiet neighbourhood. “Don’t knock it till you try it. Honestly, why should icing take a back seat? It should be front and centre! It’s the jewel in the crown, the fizz in the champagne!”
“The playoffs in the spring!” She grinned, offering her take. “Okay, so what does Raff think of this dietary quirk of yours?”
“Oh, he hates it. The man lives to take the piss. If it’s not how I eat cake, it’s how I befriend pigeons or enjoy puzzles or The Simpsons. And don’t get him started on my affinity for mudlarking.”
“Wait—what?” Georgie’s voice jumped an octave as she lifted her head. “That sounds so…” She narrowed her eyes.
“Dickensian?”
“Dirty!” She laughed. “So, where does this filthy frolicking take place, then?”
“On the foreshore of the Thames during low tide. Every Sunday, I grab my wellies and trowel and go digging in the mud and shingle.”
“You really take this archaeology lark to heart, don’t ya?”
Oliver nodded like an excited schoolboy. “I’ve found old coins, jewellery, shoes from the Tudor era.”
Her jaw dropped. “Really? From four hundred years ago?”
“Yeah! But anything valuable has to be turned over to the London Museum. That’s if I don’t lose them again when I inevitably trip and topple into the muck. Most Sundays end with a steamy shower at home, a load of laundry, and a warm cuppa.”
Georgie scrunched her nose, making him laugh.
“Go on! Admit it! Sounds sexy, doesn’t it?”
She tsked as they came to the end of Deer Park Crescent and swerved left toward the houses and low-rise apartments on Heath Street. “Sorry, Ollipop, but being caked in mud is a massive no for me. I like the shower part, though. I’d definitely jump in with a helping hand and”—she glanced up at him mischievously—“mouth.”
Eyes widening, Oliver fingered the ends of her snowflake-speckled hair splayed over her shoulder. “So…who’s the dirty one now, naughty girl?”
“Oh, the tales I could tell,” she purred. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“Show me, then,” he whispered in her ear. “Show me how dirty you can be.”
