I huffed while simultaneously pinching the bridge of my nose, a habit of reining in my anger. Other people counted backwards, I pinched the bridge of my nose. I moved to walk past him when he grabbed my wrist.
“Hey,” he muttered, worry dripping from his tone.
“Errmmm, I would stay and chat, but my blouse and well.” I paused, not believing I was still standing in front of a clash between McSteamy and McDreamy, giving an explanation I didn’t owe him. I wasn’t even giving him one-word answers like I tended to do with strangers, I was responding.
I felt the need to flee. I had to, and yet I found myself standing still and explaining myself even further. “I’ve got to go home and change, I cannot be late.”
I broke eye contact with him, intimidated by how I found myself still there, telling a stranger where I was headed just because of how intensely and demanding he looked at me.
I withdrew my hands which he held onto, wanting respite from the burning warmth of his hands which left me scorched.
“You are new to London,” he calmly stated, confident in his assertion.
“Okay,” I replied with a squint of the eye because I did not want to feed his ego by saying yes directly. I had been in London a lot over the years, almost every month even. I was just always in one place, my brother’s home, while hardly ever stepping out to avoid what would be a scandal if we were seen together.
“If you were not, you would know that you could easily buy a replacement in the shopping centre in Canary Wharf station. You would not be late then, assuming you have a thing you do not want to be late for.” There was a heavy smirk that coated his words, while his face remained impassive.
I knew that he made sense; his suggestion was a better option, but I didn’t want to prove him right. “I’ll just use the DLR since I live just five stops away,” I insisted, still irritated at myself for even wasting my time to placate his need to help me, or whatever had him still talking to me. Especially when for the sake of my saneness, I felt the need to bolt from his vicious intensity that clouded my judgement. And yet I stayed.
Mr Stranger corked his eyebrow at me, and again I defended myself to the Adonis. “No need to waste money if I could get home, change, and still make it in time.” I snickered without care for how it appeared, because I was too annoyed at myself.
His eyes cut into mine without saying a word, chiding me for snapping at him.
I inhaled and looked away, feeling guilty for grumbling at him. I also failed to comprehend why I was out of sorts.
I was right though because, if I could go home and change in time, why waste money? The problem was, it would mean taking a risk on my intended punctual arrival, and I knew I wouldn’t compromise on that.
“Actually, I think your suggestion is more appropriate.” I turned and walked away briskly towards the station where I came from, in a hurry to get away from him and towards where the so-called stores were located. But, he was hot on my heels.
I paused and turned to face him. “Thank you for your help, you did save me from an embarrassing fall and even gave me expedient advice, but I’ll take it from here.”
I was feeling hot, bothered and dishevelled by him. It was why my words came off as sly and ungrateful. I felt a need to pull off my wig and scratch the cornrows underneath—that was the only soothing thing I could think of.
“Let’s go,” he instructed sternly.
I grunted, acknowledging that I had no time for shenanigans, not when he was so towering and insistent, and not when his eyes were so resolute. I decided he wasn’t going to kidnap me because we were in public, in broad daylight. That was the rationale I gave myself before proceeding to go with him.
I halted as a bright new idea came to me. “You know what, I think I’ll use the restroom at the shopping centre to scrub and dry. That’s a quick fix I should have thought of. It would look just as pressed if I do it right.” I knew my idea could work because quick fixes like that were a common staple in African homes. However, brilliant scheme was mostly motivated by my need to get rid of him and the new way I felt because of him.
He quirked his head sideways as if trying to check for something; as if I needed his permission. I looked away, not able to stand the burning mark of his eyes.
“Okay, there is one at the entrance connecting to East Winter Garden. Come.” He started to walk past me. Once again, I found myself falling in line with him, and it had nothing to do with the fact that I had no idea where East Winter Garden was.
Well, that was that because 20 minutes later, we were back at where we met with my blouse salvaged and cleansed from the orange juice stain.
“Thank you for obliging me, even though I don’t get why you bothered, but still, I’m most grateful,” I said with petulance, my Nigerian accent thickened by my irritation.
He simply nodded in response, not reacting to my grumpiness or the heavy accent. That annoyed me as I was trying to beg some kind of reaction out of him, but nothing.
Not having time for whatever it was, I turned to walk into the building of my destination, when his words stopped me in my tracks.
“I never got your name.”
I turned instantly, not expecting or believing how much my heart leapt for joy that he wanted to know my name.
“Zina,” I replied with subtle enthusiasm.
“Zina,” he repeated with a sensual drawl and a smile, as if testing my name on his lips.
I swallowed, liking too much how my name rolled off his tongue, like a gentle caress meant to do much more.
“That will do for now.” He spoke with promise, and I turned to face my destination and began walking away. I ignored the insinuation that there would be a later. The idea excited me, and simultaneously scared the bloody hell out of me.
“You can call me Mr Clarke, by the way.” I heard him say.
“Mr Clarke,” I said, having no idea why I felt the compulsion to repeat it, but not stopping or turning to acknowledge his words. Not when I didn’t want him to see the gigantic smile that had spread my lips wide.
Just before I walked into the Canary Wharf Tower’s large glass main entrance, where my commitment was, I took the risk of turning to have one last look of him.
I immediately found myself licking my lips yet again. Mr Clarke had it, he had a fetish of mine—he had that arse. The kind you would never find a rugby player lacking.
Hence, I found myself boring holes into them to store a mental image, while he walked away into the Black Bentley Mulsanne that was awaiting him.
Nice car, I thought as I turned to walk into the building, realising that he wasn’t your guy next door. I should have known that, with how sharp he looked. No, he was the guy that owned or rented a Bentley Mulsanne. It also made me wonder what business he had outside the building I was walking into, and how he conveniently caught me falling.
I entered my destination and exhaled in relief, finally feeling like I was back in control of my mind, body, and speech. That didn’t mean the image of Mr Clarke lips and his arse didn’t taunt me; or that I didn’t shiver as my body recalled the graze of his beard on my face. That didn’t mean the hair on my body weren’t still erect from the warmth of a brief contact with him. That didn’t mean my heart wasn’t smiling at having such a powerful attraction to someone.
Something was awakened in me. I knew it. I just knew it.