Chloë and Harry

Chapter 7

He had planned it.

He had planned everything – and I had hoped it was as spontaneous as it seemed to be. Well, the kiss and the books, the inscription and his bumpy car-ride home to me, now seemed to be like fragments of a master plan.

Sadly, that didn't make it less romantic.

I pushed myself up and shakily walked out the door.

As I closed it behind me, I felt a little proud and a little scared. I was nervous as to what was about to come.

A white, freshly cleaned old-timer turned up in front of my door at 2.59 p.m.

Harry grinned that goofy, but real smile as he saw me.

I was standing on the very edge of the curb, and I was freezing. I still wore the dress from this morning but added a giant woollen scarf because the sky looked dark again and a salty breeze swept through the streets. My fingers were red and bloody cold.

I walked around the car and instantly hoped it would maybe have some kind of seat heating or at least a couple of hot-water bottles lying around, which was seriously stupid, but at least filled me with a little hope.

Neither was the case.

No hot-water bottles and no heated seats – it even seemed to be colder inside than outside, which might be the reason why Harry wore an incredibly soft and fluffy faux-fur coat in addition to one of these Christmas sweaters that you saw at the counter and asked yourself who the hell buys one of these – well, he did.

It didn't really seem to fit the occasion of early spring, but he looked cosy and warm, and I wanted to hug him and hide under his coat in his arms.

"You look like someone who'd give wonderful hugs," I said and blew warm air inside my hands.

He blushed a little and avoided my glance while looking on the streets.

"I can't hug you while driving," he said and smiled.

"You've got horrible handwriting," I said. His leather book lay in the centre console of the car.

"I know...The beautiful thing about it, though, is that people read more carefully, they take their time and don't rush reading."

His words were chosen thoughtfully. He talked slowly with his distinctively low voice, while he waited for the traffic light to turn green.

"I thought about reading one of your books," he said. "The one with the grapes."

"It's not about grapes, though."

"Maybe about angry grapes," he said. I laughed.

He smiled satisfied.

The café was far outside the city.

I don't know why we drove that far to get some caffeine, but I didn't ask him.

It was a small coffee roaster on the corner of two huge streets. The façade was made of blue painted wood. Black lacquered lamps pointed at the name over the door.

"Do you know why they named it 'Dark Chocolate'?", I asked and stepped through the door.

"Not really," he followed me closely. "But I know that they serve a piece of dark salted chocolate with every coffee they sell, so that might be an explanation."

We sat down at a small, round table by the window.

I crossed my legs hoping the skin contact would combat the shivers that wandered down my spine.