After an incredible first date with The Sexy Geek, a set-up through a mutual friend, I spend the days waiting for it to be 6pm. I spend the days waiting for it to be 6pm because at 6pm he finishes work and he texts me, and we swap messages, back and forth, until we go to bed. We talk about how insanely good our first date was, and about our friends and families, and what success is and happiness feels like, and I'm terrified to tell anyone out loud how exciting I find it all. I'm terrified to admit to anybody that after that first kiss I texted the other three men I was at various dating stages of Bumble chat with and called it off. Took every potential bloke off my agenda except him. Just like that. The grass is greenest where you water it and all that, even if that does defy my own 'always date multiple men' rule.
He's at my door at midnight because neither of us could wait. It had to be now.
He's made plans for us to do a murder mystery tour down by the river on Sunday, but Sunday seems so very far away. I tell myself that I've forgotten what he sounds like, and so we start sending voice recordings over iMessage and I want him more, now, for hearing him whisper down the phone line. That's how he ends up standing at my front door at midnight on Saturday, because neither of us could take it. Neither of us could wait. It had to be now.
'But, you didn't have sex?' Megs quizzes me, confused, as I recount all this. 'Nope,' I reply. 'It's too soon. But we kissed, and we kissed, and he stayed over, in my bed, nuzzled into my neck, and then I spent the day with him.'
My favourite was breakfast. Waking up beside him was one thing, but my kitchen - it somehow seemed more intimate. Not many men have I wanted to stay. To keep staying. That's the feeling, isn't it? 'Don't go anywhere. Keep being here, with me.' The present continuous-ness of it all. That feeling of making another coffee and a little more toast and watching him unfold, tiny bit by tiny bit, revealing, slowly, another part - the 'get-to-know-you' game.
We took the bus south of the river and followed 'murder' clues with big cups of tea warming our hands, before getting rained off and sitting opposite each other in a pub, pretending not to notice when each of us comes back from the bar to just slightly adjust their chair an inch even closer.
A glass of wine became another, became let's get a bottle. Kisses come more frequently and truths tumble out easier, and we talk about one going home with the other - his place? Mine? - until we talk ourselves into neither. Not yet. Not yet, because nobody is going anywhere. There's no rush.
Read Laura Jane's column each week in Grazia magazine
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