Are you k********g me?” I asked. “Because if you are…that’s hot.”
He reached for my hand again. And, wow, I was adapting to touchy-feely Matthew incredibly fast. Almost as if remote, wary, locked-away Matthew was a piece of a dream I was already beginning to forget.
I gave his fingers an anxious squeeze before I got all scared, and started wondering if this was the dream.
Matthew returned my squeeze. “Is it still k********g if the subject is enthusiastically consenting?”
“Don’t ruin this for me.” I paused, glancing up and down the empty street, with its rows of painted, bow-windowed houses and the cheerfully graffiti-muralled off-licence right next door to a hipster bakery. It looked very much like my kind of place. Not at all like Matthew’s. “Where exactly are we?”
“Notting Hill.”
