.03.

"Thank you," I mumble, taking a hold of the steaming-hot cup Thomas hands to me.

"My pleasure," he chirps.

I look up at him, raising my brows. "You seem quite happy today." I watch him drag the chair, sit down and fold his hands over the chessboard table.

He chuckles to himself, "This girl today," he takes a sip of his cappuccino, "she wouldn't leave me alone for a solid half an hour."

And why is he telling me that?

"Oh, really, why was that?" I ask nevertheless, even though the coolest option was to ignore his comment.

He snickers to himself once again, and I roll my eyes. "Over the past eighteen years of my life I have received many compliments, acknowledging my good looks and natural wit," he says, probably enjoying himself. Thomas throws his hands up, "But never have I heard someone say I was a hot guy just because my name was Thomas!" he exclaims, gazing somewhere past my head, a glint in his large eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear your name is the only hot thing about you," I quip.

He narrows his eyes at me, "Just to let you know, Maeve, the main character's name in Peaky Blinders is, in fact, Thomas, and girls fancy him a lot. Haven't you seen him?"

I sigh. It's been a long time since I watched a TV series, let alone hang out with Erin. University coursework has been on the priority list since late September, and we are now into November. I often think I used to be the only naïve person who thought she was going to have a life after the sixth form.

I shake my head, though I know that Cillian Murphy is a killer, I prefer to stay loyal to Keanu Reeves. Timeless handsomeness with natural charm and charisma. Chef's kiss.

"I take it you haven't, but I assure you he can't be any more handsome than I am," he winks at me.

My eyes pop up out of their sockets. The sip of espresso I have just taken catches in my throat and I enter a serious coughing fit. I hunch over to stop the coughing and feel Thomas's hand patting my back to help my situation.

"You're good," he says over and over again.

I shrug his hand away, holding my index finger out. I cough a few more times and, to my own surprise, I am still alive.

"It's okay, thank you," I rasp, reaching for a handkerchief in my bag to wipe my teary eyes.

Thomas just gazes at me, dark hair falls onto his forehead as he dips his head down, stirring cappuccino. Regular freckles are sprinkled under his eyes and over his long, straight nose.

He is quite handsome, I conclude. And it's annoying.

"You should quit staring at me, espresso girl, or you are an inch away from contradicting your earlier statement," he smirks. The curve of his full lips bends so nicely, revealing pearly teeth. "Have you managed your deadlines, then? I suppose you have since you made it today."

I snap out of my reverie. "Yes," I clear my throat, "in fact, I have to revise one of the three essays before submitting it. Would be one down, and two to go after that. What about you? Any university work for you?"

Last week, he had told me that he was in the second year of his studying. He is studying science - maths or computer-related - and moved to London two year ago, leaving his family some town in Somerset.

His face twists in disgust. "Shouldn't have brought this topic up," he laughs nervously.

I lean closer to him over the table, gripping my elbows, "Why? Has something happened?"

I feel my stomach churn with what seems like ... worry? That's typical of me, I barely have time to worry about my own problems, yet my silly self always finds space in my head to fill it with other people's problems. I wonder if I am the only one.

Perhaps, I should re-read Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead to remind myself of my self-worth and time limiting factors. Ayn Rand is good at explaining the good morale of egotism.

Thomas looks as if he is going to say something, but shuts his mouth. "Nothing to worry about, just university testing my patience, let's put it that way."

I huff. "Tell me about it."

"To be honest, that's why I like to play chess. It distracts me from the routine. Gets pretty monotonous, life does, wouldn't you say?"

I regard him, cocking my head to the side. He folds his hands over his chest, regarding me with those huge eyes of his. They are beautiful, especially those coal-black eyelashes that frame them and compliment the olive-green of his irises. A thought flickers in his eyes, but I don't know if it's a pleasant or sad one.

Music in the cafe seems to have gone to the background, leaving Thomas and I alone, sitting in front of each other, gazing into each other's eyes.

"I agree. Life is so monotonous and boring, and it makes me wonder whether it's going to be like this forever? No matter what I do in life, whether they are things I enjoy or dislike, I grow used to them," I confess.

He nods his head, "So you try to change things up a little bit: new hobbies, new friends, new cafes, new job but after some time you enter the same cycle of boredom."

We sit in silence, sipping at our coffees. The guy I have seen when I entered the cafe passes by, smiling at us and uttering a farewell. Other than the music and thousands of chess pieces in this coffee shop, we are alone.

I shudder.

"You reading anything interesting at the moment?" he breaks the silence.

I hum a yes, and after a millisecond of hesitation reach into my bag to pull out The Amber Spyglass. I hand the book to him, but once his long fingers wrap around the cover, he tugs at it lightly. Looking down at it, I notice that I am gripping the book too strong, my knuckles white, so I let go of it, my eyes glued to the table.

He bends his head to look me in the eye, "If you don't want me to know what you are reading, that's alright, but late because I've already read the title," he discloses.

Gasping, I snatch the book back and hold it to my chest. I pout at him, "Why would you ask if you already know it?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I just wanted to touch your book and leave my fingerprints all over its glossy cover." At this, I gasp deeper and wipe the cover thoroughly with the same handkerchief, whilst Thomas leans back in his chair, laughing.

"You are really something," he points out, amused by the glare I shoot at him. "Would you like to see the book I am reading?" he asks.

I feel guilty now that I behaved like a complete barbarian, yob, whatever. I really need to sort out my issues with people knowing what I read. However, every single time I attempt at overcoming the anxious feeling in my stomach at watching them examine my book, I fail epically and just snatch it away from them. What if they are going to judge me? What if they will make fun of my reading choices?

Argh! Who would give a single care about me and my books, anyway?

Thomas is looking at me expectantly, so I nod my head, my curls bouncing, letting him know I do want to see what he's reading. I had wanted to since the first time I have seen him on that rainy day.

He beams at me, disappearing from my eyesight to bring the book. I release a sigh and bury my head in my palms. How was I going to ever impress guys if I acted like a moron?

Although, Thomas laughed at my reaction. Maybe, he really found it funny or crazy?

But his eyes regard me with such generosity, I feel that somehow I can trust him, even though we have only met a couple of weeks ago. I don't think Erin is going to like this at all, most likely she is going to scowl at me and kick my arse.

A large hand appears on the table, placing a book in front of me. Thomas crosses and sits in his chair again. The book cover is of a very old muddy-brown cloth, the spine coming off. I trace my fingertips over the title that is engraved into the material in gold paint. The Three Musketeers.

Blimey.

I can't withhold my amazement and confusion, and, perhaps, relief and felicity; these emotions overwhelm me like a huge tide that covers me whole, stealing the air from my lungs.

I choke on my breath, or my saliva, I am not completely sure because I look, no, stare at Thomas, my eyes wide for a hundredth time since I've come here. But Thomas is baffled by my reaction. I think there is no hope for me and my over-excitement.

"Maeve, I-I," he stammers, "are you alright?"

"Yes," I choke, "why wouldn't I be?"

"You look like you are having a stroke?" he says carefully, and I instantly shake my head from side to side. His face softens. "Good. I am no doctor, you know," he jokes.

"I am simply impressed that you are reading it," I mumble quietly.

"Oh!" he exclaims. "Actually, it's my favourite book. I can't recall the number of times I have reread this masterpiece."

I gaze at him and watch him ramble on about The Three Musketeers, its plot, the characters, how he wanted to become a musketeer after completing the book. His eyes keep darting between my face, my hands, the coffee counter behind me, the walls, and I realise that I am not the only awkward person on this Earth.

Before meeting Thomas, I thought books were an intimate topic. I was convinced that the deepest and sacred parts of your soul could have been unravelled just by looking at what you are reading, your thoughts about the book. I never let people borrow my books and never borrow books from people because I am afraid of the power books hold.

They have got the power to expose you.

After reading Eugene Onegin by Pushkin, my fears have been consolidated to their roots especially.

Tatiana unravelled Eugene's - her beloved - personality by the books that lived in his library when he left the tiny village, where they had become acquainted. The darkest corners of his soul and mind were left opened and stark before the eyes of anyone who dared take his books. Tatiana read all of his thoughts and views that were written in pencil next to the text.

The question marks he had left. The words of praise. The words of condemn.

Tatiana has really read Eugene like a candid book.

Eugene was a dark man with a golden face, but she loved him nevertheless.

Without giving it a second thought, I cut Thomas off with: "May I please borrow your book?".