Can't Turn Back Now, I'm Haunted (A Ben Willbond Rom Com)

Chapter Eight | Red or Rosé?

When my intercom buzzed at half-past nine, I jumped in surprise and nearly stabbed myself in the eye with my mascara wand. Game time, I thought nervously, and gave my hair a last fluff in the mirror. I straightened the seams of my black top and smoothed my short corduroy skirt, and topped it off with a spritz of Jo Malone. Not bad, James.

I had to admit it, I was nervous. The last time I'd felt a magnetic pull like this had been with Jason, and, well... we had all seen how that had turned out. I couldn't shake the voice at the back of my head that kept saying, Didn't you learn the first time? Never hook up with a costar! ... but I could drown it out with SZA and rosé, both of which had already been started.

I held my finger against the buzzer and counted the seconds, picturing him walking up the creaky, carpeted stairs. I played it cool enough to wait for him to knock before opening the door.

My face broke into a warm smile when I saw him standing there, a half smile on his lips and a bottle of Petit Syrah in his hand.

"Hi," I said, a little breathless.

"Hi," he replied warmly. I stepped aside and he sauntered past me, his eyes flicking down to take in my outfit, lingering on the knee-high boots for a delicious moment. I bit back a grin and closed the door behind him.

I hung his jacket up on the coatrack, sneaking an approving scan of his perfectly fitted jeans and black henley shirt pushed up at the sleeves -- I could make out the shape of his collarbone and just a little chest hair visible in the v of the henley, and I felt an ache of desire pierce my anxiety. He handed me the bottle.

"Thanks," I said, and placed it on the table. For a moment we avoided eye contact, and I realized quickly that he was as nervous as me.

"Beautiful place," he observed, taking in the flat. "Did BBC set you up with this?"

"Yeah," I answered with a playful grin, leaning on the back of the sofa. "It's not to shabby, I guess."

"Yeah, I mean that's tolerable, I guess." He nodded at the sliding doors that led out to the balcony, beyond which lay the glimmering night sky atop the sparkling lights of the city. I chuckled and looked back to him. He met my gaze, and again I felt that charged air between us, a crackling electricity that almost felt overwhelming.

"Wine?" I asked, a little desperate for him to say yes so I could have another glass and hopefully settle these nerves a little.

"Please," he replied, looking around for a way to help.

"Red or pink?"

"Red, please."

I fumbled around in the kitchen drawers until I finally found the corkscrew — of course the rosé had been a screw-cap. I smiled nervously at Ben and plunged the screw into the cork of the Petit Syrah, but it didn't go in right. It kept skewing at an odd angle and crumbling the top of the cork. I furrowed my brow and yanked the top, hoping to bypass the issue — but the cork ripped in half and the screw popped up in my hand, causing me to exclaim in shock.

My jaw dropped as I stared at the half-cork still stuck in the bottleneck and looked up at Ben, suddenly unable to contain my laughter. To my relief, his eyes crinkled with amusement, and he laughed, too. The tension, thank goodness, was broken.

"Shall I give it a go?" He asked, the energy between us much more relaxed and jovial. "Not that I'm insulting your technique!"

"No, no," I giggled. "It's all you."

He took out the half-cork in a smooth movement and shot me a little smile.

"I'll be totally honest," I chuckled, grabbing a fresh wine glass from the cabinet. "I invited you over for dinner... but I'm a terrible cook."