The Art of Upgrading a Book Boyfriend (The Uni Files) by Anna Bloom Page B

find it.
     
     
    Lunch
     
    Thank goodness for that. It’s lunch time
and I can stop staring at my computer and sharpening pencils.
     
    I’ve had two clear objectives for this
morning:
     
    ·   Find an alternative
article for when Tristan lets me down.
    ·   Work out a way to
break the server so I can’t be blamed for not going to press on time.
     
    I have failed at both of these. It is an
enormous shit.
    I reckon I will pop out for a quick bite
to eat and a blast of rejuvenating London fresh air, and then I will come up
with two suitable fixes by the end of the day.
    It’s Friday for goodness sake. I don't
want to be worrying about this all weekend. I have far more exciting things to
do. Last night I started the most amazing book, about a cowboy who has tattoos
all over his body. Each tattoo tells the story of how he ended up in this one
girl’s bed; the girl.
    I need to find out what happened for him
to get there. It's driving me mad not knowing.
    Outside it is blustery and cold, and my
walk to clear the old grey matter quickly loses its appeal. As does the healthy
salad I was planning for lunch. I’ve been fighting a battle with the zip on my
skirt all morning and it had inspired me to have a lovely garden salad for
lunch. The wind has put me in a mood for something far stodgier and preferably
involving pepperoni. There is an amazing Deli just down the side of Fleet Street,
it’s always packed, but I reckon I have timed it right and should be hit the
half twelve lull, spot on.
    I do. It’s perfect.
    The place is full of steam and delicious
scents which makes me sure I definitely don’t want a salad. Sod the skirt zip.
    Excellent.
    Now what to have?
    Then I see it. The chicken escallop. Oooh now that would be nice on white with some crispy
bacon.
    "Hey, I'll have the escallop please
with bacon on white," I say at the exact same time as the person next to
me.
    There is only one escallop left. This
could get nasty.
    I turn to appraise the would-be chicken
thief.
    Appraise is the right word. I look up
until my neck is at an uncomfortable angle and find a pair of dark eyes
evaluating me with steely chicken thieving determination. The eyes, which are
on the edge of black, are surrounded by lush dark lashes and positioned above a
straight nose and a wide mouth on the upturn of a smile. A lazy smile, which
teases at the corner of his lips.
    "I think I said it first,"
says Mr. Brown Eyes.
    "Uh, no I distinctly think I said
it first," I respond.
    I turn expectantly to Andre, the owner
of the deli, behind the counter. I come here nearly every lunch, this should
swing the decision in my favour. Andre is well aware that this is my favourite
sandwich because I actually cried once when they had run out – what can I say?
I suffer from bad PMT.
    Andre looks between us and I shift my
body so I can view my chicken adversary a little better without obviously
staring.
    He is tall, although I have already
ascertained this with my crook neck. He is also trim and athletic with a
skinny-fit pink shirt tucked into charcoal trousers.
    Pink on a man can go one of two ways.
    Either you are gay and showing it. Or,
and I like this option far more. You are so outrageously comfortable in your
potent sexuality, you wear pink as a statement of your virility, and basically
advertise to all and sundry that you have a very large knob.
    I'm going to go large knob. This guy
does not look gay in the slightest.
    "You work on the third floor don't
you?" he asks taking my attention off the chicken as he reaches out to
shake my hand.
    "Tom," he tells me accepting
my shocked limp hand in his own.
    "Uh, uh,"
    That’s the best I can come up with.
    "You’re Zoe, aren't you?"
    "I think so. Um, no, actually yes I
am. I think."
    Good God.
    "Hey." He smiles at me which
makes my legs feel all weird and numb. Like I may not be able to walk on them
for a while. He watches as I attempt to get my face to move itself into
something resembling a smile. I fail and