Page 8 of Team Russian

“Alex!” I said.

He nodded again.

Alex … I repeated it in my head; it suited him. The Russian’s name was Alex and I had locked him in to take me to the Suns’ Ball.

“It suits you … nice name,” I said, and he shrugged.

“Thanks, Brooker.”

“Um, you know my name is Carla, don’t you?” I teased him.

“Every time I’ve seen your name it’s written as Brooker, Carla, so I did wonder,” he said, with the hint of amusement on his face.

“Nice to know you’re following the stats pages. Is that a hobby or passion?”

“I like numbers,” he said, “they’re logical.”

“I like words,” I said, sitting back after taking the last sip of my coffee.

“Here’s some words for you,” he said, “pick you up Sunday, looking forward to it.”

I gave him a stupid grin like he had made my week – I was so transparent. Danger, Will Robinson, I was falling heavily in ‘like’ with my Sunday handbag.