But the bus was full and he had a window seat. The lady sitting next to him was the sweet old dear that I had to apologise to for dropping the mofo-bomb, though by the way she shot me a look of disdain, I was sure she thought I was evil, and I didn’t fancy standing right next to her while I attempted to talk to Hennessy. It was going to be embarrassing enough without the judgemental audience mumbling ten Hail Marys under her breath.

So I gave Hennessy an apologetic smile and had to stand toward the front, holding onto the railing. And I put my head down and did some deep breathing, because as it turned out, the worst possible scenario did occur. I thought him not being on the bus would be the worst, but oh no, him being right fucking there but not being able to speak to him, that was the worst.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” someone said, as they tried to weave their way through the people standing up. Keeping my head down, I shuffled forward a little, not that I could really go anywhere. I apologised to the poor woman sitting in front of me for the almost lap dance, but a warm hand on my back made me spin around.

And sweet baby Jesus in a manger, those eyes. “Hey,” Hennessy said, really close and really sweet.

Every suave line I’d ever read evaporated from my mind. My traitorous brain had taken the bottle of vodka from my heart and was chugging away, leaving me to my own devices. “Hi,” I said. Not even remotely manly, but more of a breathy, smiley, nervous sound which wasn’t embarrassing at all. He was so close, and as the bus jostled, he bumped into me and put his hand on my arm to steady himself.

“I uh, I was hoping,” he said, then broke out in a grin, like he was embarrassed or nervous or something that didn’t make sense. “I had to offer your seat to that lady.”

Why the hell was he nervous and flustered, and why was he blushing a little, and his hand was still on my arm? Nothing made sense, because my brain was now doing the drunken hula dance with a Mai Tai in each hand on a tropical beach singing the words horribly wrong to the Beach Boys’ “Kokomo”, a million miles away from where I needed it to be.

This was going to be a disaster.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Oh sure. I’m just… I was going to stand by your seat, but the lady who you were sitting next to thinks I’m the antichrist and it’s Bonnie Tyler’s fault I even looked for you, but now the Beach Boys are involved. God, I need to stop talking.”