My novel was still tight under my arm when the train pulled away from Eddington. I was about to flick it open and start reading when the tall figure of a man moved towards me up the aisle.
I dug straight through my bag for my train ticket, assuming him to be a conductor, but no. The figure dropped himself down in the seat opposite me, his knees stretching out towards mine.
It was when I looked across at him and my eyes landed on his that my breath caught in my throat. It couldn't not.
That man was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
For real. There and then, on that train carriage, before eight o'clock on a random work morning, that man was the beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
