Tamina

It may not be a lot, but the thought is there, and I hope he will see that when I give it to him. He doesn't need to use it if it's embarrassing, but it will make me feel a lot better if he could at least take it.

A toddler strapped in a Thomas the Tank Engine harness on his mother's back stares at me with wide green eyes. Drool bubbling from his lips is my greeting.

Puffing out my cheeks and grabbing my ears, I'm rewarded with a bout of cackles and frantic hand-clapping as he swings his little legs.

His mum smiles over her shoulder at me, and I offer one in return as they make their way to the exit. The boy offers a broad, flappy wave and giggles before disappearing from sight.

"Is this everything for today?" the young cashier asks, tightening her dark ponytail as she perches on a stool that's slightly too high for the till.

"Yes, thank you," I say, placing the keyring in her awaiting palm, snagging a glimpse of the butterfly tattoo peeking from under her sleeve, inches from her wrist.

She smiles, swinging a hand toward an overly decorated box filled with miniature chocolates and heart-shaped lollies. "Can I interest you in our early Valentine's offers?"

I shift, the thought of Valentine's Day bringing a sense of unease.

"The extra cash we bring in from them is going toward a charity for the safety of domestic animals," she adds, inspecting her long, sharp-tipped nails.

The animals need care as much as we do.

Picking up two lollies, one consisting of white and red swirls while the other is red and pink, knowing Mum and Dad will enjoy them when they return. Eyeing the strawberry cream-filled chocolate, I add that for the extra cause.

As soon as everything is tallied and checked out, I stash the lollies in my bag to keep my book company before heading out. The air is cool today, but not as chilly as yesterday. People are still roaming around to their next destinations, some with their heads down in a hurry, others held up with purposeful strides.

With a grin, I unwrap my chocolate, savour it, and throw the wrapper in the closest bin. It's sweet and tangy on my tongue, but it's a delight. One I forget to treat myself to often.

Once I've swallowed, I pick up into a sprint down the street, the distance between me and Brooks & Books steadily declining. The closer I get, the more anxiety eats away at me, begging me to turn tail and return to the comforts of my home. On the other hand, Gabriel's advice proceeds to barrel through me, propelling me forward.

If this goes well, I'll have good news for him when I return to work.

The thought alone spurs me on, knowing I will have someone to chat to. Not just for reassurance, but for the kicks and giggles.

I can't fight the smile, even as I run through the drying-up puddles from yesterday as they splash out at the sides from the impact. The wind running its ghostly tendrils through my hair brings another notch to my confidence, and for the first time since this whole ordeal, I'm excited.

After what feels like a mile, I come to a stop, seeing someone who looks distinctly like Brandon. They stand in front of Brooks & Books, facing the doorway with their hands clasped behind their back—exactly like he would.

The closer I get, the better view I'm granted; a black hoodie topped off with an equally dark leather jacket. His lower half is clad in navy-blue jeans, and a pair of black trainers cover his feet.

If it is Brandon, I have to say, he looks smart, even in casual clothing.

Upon my arrival, perhaps my reflection catches his eye, the person turns around. To my relief, it is him, and like yesterday, those sunglasses of his are high on the bridge of his nose. There's a slight quirk to his lips.

At least he's happy to see me, that's always a good start.

"You're on time," he greets, surprise underlining his tone.

I'm beyond grateful to whoever grants us mortals luck that he was early too.

"Thank God," I huff, fixing my hair out of my face. "I thought I was going to be late."

He cocks a dark brow in time for the corner of his lips to pull down. "Why did you think that?"

I'm not going to tell him I was getting carried away with my new book—the same book he bought me yesterday. I've already devoured three chapters since I got home yesterday, and one more since finishing work, and there's still no sign of the main leads getting together. But there is definitely something there.

A sheepish grin pulls at my mouth while I hook another lock of hair behind my ear. "Well, I felt bad about you paying for the book, and I wanted to thank you. . ." Allowing the keyring to dangle from my fingertips, I hold it out for him to take. "So, I got you this."

My face is on fire at the sight of the furrowed brows peeking from the top of his shades. When he finally takes the trinket in his hand, he makes it look smaller than when it was in mine.

Rolling it over in his palm, my pulse thunders in my ears as he studies every detail. Then his head snaps up, and there's a slow curve to his lips.

"Thank you, I'll use this," he comments with a small chuckle. "I have something for you, too."

The air whooshes out of me at the sight of the little white carrier bag.

If I had known he was going to do this, I would've bought something more appealing than a keyring. It's going to suck now.

"T-thank you, Brandon," I start, earnest as I take the handles, concentrating on the friction of the material against my skin. "But I didn't get you anything. . . impressive."

Brandon waves his hand. "No need, M—" He catches himself, and I smile. "Tamina. This is all I could want."

Growing bashful, I distract myself with pulling out the contents. It doesn't make it fully out of the bag before I'm at a loss for words.

"That is the right one, right?" he asks while I pull it out the rest of the way, turning it over in time to see him scratch the light stubble littering his jaw. "I can take it back and have it exchanged; the receipt is inside."

In a daze, I shake my head and offer him a bright smile while trailing the pad of my thumb across the title. "No, this is perfect." Tucking the book into the safety of the bag with another stretch of the lips, I meet his gaze. "I mean it, thank you."

When our eyes lock over the rim of his shades, he sucks in a sharp breath. His Adam's apple bobs ever so slightly. Twirling the bag between my fingers while scuffing the concrete with the toe of my shoe, I divert my line of sight to the streets.

We must look like a right pair if someone wanders by. The awkward woman doing her best to not embarrass herself, and the good-looking man who could be anywhere other than here.

I shift.

"Um. . . you sounded surprised when you said I was on time. Why is that?" I query, treading with caution.

Adjusting the shades covering his eyes, he slips the keyring inside the pocket of his leather jacket. "I'm a timekeeper. Not many people stick to the times they agree to, and I find it irritating."

Creating an 'O' shape with my mouth in a silent 'oh', I fall quiet again.

My brain fumbles for something to say, but it remains blank. Brandon is happily watching me, by the looks of it, but I'd rather have any sort of conversation if it means he wouldn't pin all the concentration on me. I can't even divert my gaze to a nearby roamer; there's no one in our proximity.

"Why do you keep buying me things?" Biting my lips, I imagine giving myself the biggest facepalm of the century. "I'm sorry, that sounded rude; I'm curious, that's all."

I'm beyond the point where I want to sink into the floor, and I send a prayer to high heaven he didn't see the hue I'm sure coats my face before I ducked my head to stare into the bag again.

I start to curse the lack of communication between my mouth and brain, but his chuckle stops me. Again, it's deep, clipped, and well-mannered.

"I want to," he begins. "You're a nice woman."

I'm not sure how Brandon manages to say these things without batting an eye, but it has the skin covering my cheeks tingling. Using the motion of my head to hide behind my hair, I mutter in pure embarrassment, "This isn't a date, is it?"

Even though he's already told me this is an acquaintance meet-up, I'm still on edge. The doubt of an ulterior motive floats within my mind, twisting my stomach into knots I'm afraid I won't be able to untangle. After the lack of dates and a choice I could have done without, this is a situation I'm not ready for.

How do I make sure this won't be a repeat of last time?

One thing I do know is that I'm not going to be swayed, rushed, or fall for the pretty promises.

"I promise, it's not a date," he assures.

A relieved breath falls from me as I'm filled with more confidence than I should have. But I make sure to keep an eye out for subtle signs to contradict the words that fell from his mouth. Apart from the ifs of uncertainty, there's a feeling deep in my gut telling me I'm going to have one hell of a story to tell Gabriel.

"Come, I believe we were going to grab coffee." He rests his palm on the small of my back, exactly how he did yesterday. "Where would you prefer to go?"

Two places come to mind: work and Roasties. Taking him to the workplace doesn't sound appropriate; Roasties is debatable. It can get loud, and if we're going to be doing a lot of talking, something quieter would be the best option.

"D-do you have a place in mind?" I cringe at the timidness behind my words, remembering how he had proposed the offer more confidently. Like a gentleman.

I'm thankful I can feel the heat of his palm soaking into my clothes. The gentleness is enough to take a notch off the tension coiling within me. For a moment, I'm shamelessly distracted by the size of his hand. From the way it nearly takes up the centre, it could be twice the size of mine, long fingers flexing against the material of my hoodie. Before I linger on the ridiculous idea any longer, I push it to the back of my mind.

But I swear it is twice the size—

Brandon's voice startles me, and, to make it worse, he's already staring.

"Sorry, can you repeat that, please?" I say, guilty for spending time in my head rather than the moment.

I spot the slight dip of his brows. Then, even if it's for a second, it's there. A small smile.

Inclining his head, he complies. "I was saying, I want to go wherever you fancy."

His tone is calm and polite, not an ounce of annoyance showing for my lack of attention. It's strange because people apparently hate daydreamers. Seeing Brandon watch me like this makes me want to question why he doesn't.

"I'm sorry I keep spacing out," I mutter, twiddling the bag handles between my fingers.

"There is no need to apologise. It's not like you do it all the time," he replies, still gentle.

That's what he thinks. I'll just be careful.

Brushing a lock of hair from view, I test the weight of the book with light swings, enjoying the faint rustle it emits.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I hold my head high and push out, "Have you ever been to Roasties?"

Brandon's silent.Contemplation flickers across his features when I peer up at him. Finally, headmits, "I can't say I have. What's it like?"