Читать книгу Hitched! - Jessica Hart - Страница 9

THREE

‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ I dumped my briefcase on the worktop and raised my brows at George, who was leaning back in a chair with his feet on my kitchen table. And if I didn’t very much mistake the matter, he was drinking my tea out of my mug.

‘I knew you wouldn’t mind,’ he said with that smile that never failed to make my pulse kick, no matter how hard I braced myself against it. ‘I’ve spent all afternoon talking about artificial insemination,’ he said. ‘I was desperate for a drink, but my fridge is empty, so I came to see what you had. All I could find was tea, though.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry about that,’ I said with mock contrition. ‘I didn’t realise that I had to keep a supply of booze in just in case you felt like dropping by.’

‘You’ll get used to country ways soon,’ he said kindly, refusing to rise to my sarcasm. ‘Some beers and a couple of bottles of wine are always good to have in stock. You never know who’ll stop by.’

‘Obviously,’ I said. ‘Is it a country way to break into other people’s houses too?’

‘I didn’t break in. I used a key.’

‘You know, it’s a funny thing, but I could have sworn I locked the door when I left this morning,’ I said.

‘You did, and very sensible it was too, but I happen to have a spare.’ Extracting the key from his pocket, George waved it at me. ‘There’s always one next door in case you ever lose yours.’

‘I’m always careful about my keys,’ I said crushingly, and George studied me over the rim of his mug. My mug, rather.

‘I get the impression you’re careful about everything.’

‘I find it easier that way,’ I said.

Being careful had got me through after Mum had died. Being careful kept my life under control. Being careful kept me safe.

If I wasn’t careful, I would find myself tumbling back into that abyss of grief and loneliness that it had taken such effort to climb out of all those years ago.

I had made a career out of being careful, in fact. I loved the precision of engineering, of putting exactly the right materials together in exactly the right way to build something solid and functional. Something that would stay where you left it and still be there when you went back at the end of the day.

Dropping into the chair across the table from him, I pushed my hair wearily behind my ears.

‘Tired?’

‘One of those days,’ I said, ‘and it didn’t help that Saffron kept me up until the small hours yakking about how excited she was about the party. Thanks for that great idea!’ I added sarcastically to George, who lifted the mug in acknowledgement.

‘Anything to help.’ He let his chair—my chair!—fall back to the floor. ‘I’m sorry if Saffron got carried away, but it was a spur of the moment thing. You looked as if you could do with some support and it was the best I could think of.’

‘An Edwardian-themed house party? I’d hate to hear how elaborate your well-thought-out ideas are!’

‘Come on, it’s better than you running up and down to London, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’

It occurred to me that it was nice to have someone to talk to when I came in at the end of the day, but I pushed the thought firmly aside. I pointed a finger at George instead. ‘But you’re going to help! I hold you entirely responsible for the whole thing. If it wasn’t for you, I could have got away with a couple of cocktails at a male stripper bar.’

George linked his hands behind his head and suppressed a smile. ‘Would that have been more your thing?’

‘Oh, all right, I’d have hated that too, but at least it would have been over quickly.’ I hunched a shoulder. ‘I’m dreading this house party already. I hate parties.’

‘Really?’

‘I never feel I belong,’ I said, remembering those awful parties my father had made me go to. One awful party in particular. ‘I don’t seem to fit in anywhere. I never have. Life with Mum was worlds apart from the life I had in my father’s house, and after a while I didn’t belong in either of them. It’s always been like that,’ I said.

I didn’t expect George to understand. He was the guy at the centre of any party, the one everyone revolved around, the one who made the party start just by walking in the door.

‘Saffron’s friends all think I’m weird,’ I added glumly. ‘We’ve got absolutely nothing to say to each other. Still.’ I put my hands on my thighs and made an effort to rouse myself. ‘It’s only one weekend and it’s what Saffron wants. I just need to make a plan.’

‘Well, I don’t mind helping you with that,’ said George. ‘Let’s do it in the pub.’

‘I don’t know...’

‘Oh, come on, it’s the least I can do to make up for landing you with a party to organise in the first place,’ he cajoled. ‘It’s not like a date, in case you’re still wondering if I’m going to turn into that weirdo you were so concerned about! Think of it as repayment for the tea.’ He saw me hesitating. ‘And it’s a lovely evening.’

It was. The earlier clouds had cleared to leave a sky flushed with the promise of spring, and the air was soft and enticing. In spite of myself, I glanced longingly out of the window.

There was no use pretending that I wasn’t tempted. ‘All right.’ I looked down at my black trousers and the taupe jacket I wore over a long-sleeved T shirt. ‘Give me five minutes to change.’

When I went back into the kitchen, I was pulling a cardigan over a simple blue T-shirt, and George’s brows lifted at the sight of the mint-green skirt that stopped just above my knees. He got to his feet, eyeing my legs with undisguised appreciation.

‘You look nice,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen your legs before.’

I tugged down my sleeves in a self-conscious gesture, and willed the stupid flush to fade from my cheeks. ‘I always wear trousers for work.’

‘I can see why. It would be far too distracting for your colleagues, otherwise.’

‘I shouldn’t have to worry about what I’m wearing,’ I said grouchily, mainly because I was ruffled by the way he was looking at me. It was only a skirt, for heaven’s sake! ‘Do you think the men I work with care about what they look like? But if I want to be taken seriously, I have to look professional at all times.’

‘That explains all the severe suits.’

‘And why I like to wear a skirt sometimes when I’m not working.’

‘You wore trousers last night,’ George pointed out.

After some discussion, it had been decided that Saffron would spend the rest of the day with Roly, while George and I went back to work. Roly had been all for Saffron staying the night at the Hall too, but I had vetoed that, afraid that if Saffron got too comfortable she would never leave. We had compromised with the four of us meeting for dinner at the Hall, where plans for the pre-wedding party had grown ever more elaborate before I managed to extract my sister and take her back to the cottage. I knew that one night on my sofa bed would be more than enough for her.

‘Of course,’ I told George, remembering the evening with a grimace. Torn between the need to keep my sister under control, to please Roly and—most difficult of all—to ignore the warm amusement in George’s eyes, I hadn’t enjoyed dinner much. ‘If I’m with a client, it’s even more important to look competent.’

George held the door open for me. ‘I don’t think Roly was thinking like a client last night.’

‘No.’ I locked the door and tucked the key into my purse. Not that there was much point in locking up when every Tom, Dick and George had a key, but it was hard to break London habits. I glanced up at George. ‘He does know that Saffron’s getting married, doesn’t he?’

‘It would be hard not to with all the talk of weddings last night.’

‘It’s just...he seems very smitten,’ I said, chewing the corner of my bottom lip. ‘Saffron’s so pretty, and she can be delightful when she wants, but she’s never had to think about anyone but herself. I wouldn’t want him to get hurt.’

‘Are you worried about Roly himself, or about your client being upset?’

‘Both,’ I said frankly.

‘Well, don’t. Roly’s obviously besotted with your sister, but he’ll be content to adore her from afar. He has surprisingly old-fashioned notions about being a gentleman, and he’d never take out any disappointment on you.’

I’d been surprised, in fact, that Saffron hadn’t shown more interest in George, but she clearly didn’t know quite what to make of him, and she didn’t have the sharpest sense of humour in the world. Mind you, who needed a sense of humour when you had silver gilt hair, emerald eyes and a siren’s body?

Saffron clearly felt much more at home with Roly’s uncritical adoration. George had teased her and flattered her, but it was obvious that he wasn’t bowled over by her.

I tried really hard not to feel pleased about that.

* * *

The Whellerby Arms was a traditional village pub. It had a low, beamed ceiling, plain, serviceable wooden furniture and was mercifully free of slot machines, piped music or padded banquettes.

I found a table in the corner while George went to the bar, and got out my notebook and pen. Gathering up the cardboard coasters and stacking them in a neat pile, I watched George under my lashes. There was a lot of laughing and back-slapping and hand-shaking going on. I saw him bend his head down to an elderly man who was leaning on the bar. He was listening intently, nodding, and then he smiled and a strange feeling stirred in the pit of my stomach.

Hunger, I told myself firmly. I hoped George would bring some nuts.

He did. I pounced on the packet as he tossed it onto the table and tore it open.

‘No lunch,’ I said through a mouthful of peanuts.

I had chosen to sit on the wooden trestle with my back to the wall, assuming that George would take the stool opposite. Too late, I remembered that it was a mistake to make assumptions as far as George was concerned, and to my dismay he sat beside me and stretched out his long legs.

He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ I mumbled, edging surreptitiously away.

I really resented the way George made me nervous. I wasn’t the type to lose my head over a handsome face. I’d done that once before, and I was never going to make that mistake again. I believed that integrity and humour and intelligence were far more attractive than looks, and yet the moment my gaze caught the lean line of his jaw or the creases around his eyes or that telltale dent in his cheek, which deepened when he was trying not to smile, my heart would stumble and a warmth would uncoil unnervingly inside me. It was all very unsettling.

To distract myself, I brushed the peanut crumbs from my fingers, pushed my hair behind my ears, and picked up my pen. ‘SAFFRON’S PARTY,’ I wrote neatly at the top of the page. ‘1. Invitations. 2. Costumes. 3. Caterers.’

‘You’re very organised,’ said George.

‘I’m going to manage this like any other project,’ I said, pausing to pop a few more peanuts in my mouth. ‘That means have a clear plan, and setting SMART goals.’

‘Sounds efficient.’ He lounged beside me, his solid thigh only inches from mine. ‘What’s a smart goal when it’s at home?’

‘Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic and Time-bound.’ I ticked them off on my fingers.

That dent in his cheek deepened. ‘It’s a party, Frith. There’s only one goal for a party, and that’s for everyone to have a good time.’

‘That’s all you know.’ I clicked my teeth pityingly. ‘This party is about a lot more than that. It’s about impressing all Saffron’s friends and boosting her reputation. People only get to have a good time once that’s achieved, and that means I’m going to have to do more than shove some white wine in a bucket of ice and put out a few bowls of crisps.

‘That’s where the goals come in,’ I told him, tapping my pen against my list. ‘You’ve got to be specific about what needs to be done. Take the dinner.’ I had managed to talk Saffron out of a full-scale ball and we had agreed a formal dinner for a maximum of thirty guests in the state dining room. ‘I can barely manage cheese on toast,’ I admitted, ‘so I’m going to have to find some local caterers who can produce a spectacular Edwardian banquet.’

‘Why don’t you ask Mrs Simms?’ said George.

‘I thought she was the housekeeper?’

‘She is, but she’s a brilliant cook too. She’d need some help, of course, but she’s got various nieces in the village, and extra work is always welcome.’

‘OK, that sounds good.’ I drew a neat arrow next to ‘Caterers’ and wrote ‘Contact Mrs Simms.’ ‘Excellent.’ I tapped the pen thoughtfully against my teeth, then added ‘Menu, Accommodation, Decoration, Games???’ to my list before noticing that George wasn’t paying attention. He was looking at my knees instead, and I wriggled a bit so that I could tug my skirt down.

‘Do you run your whole life like this?’ he asked, sounding distracted.

‘All the time,’ I said.

‘What about relationships?’

‘What about them?’

‘You can’t plan a relationship.’

‘I disagree,’ I said. ‘I don’t have time for a serious relationship in my current-five year plan, but that will definitely figure in my next one. I’ll be thirty-three by then, and it might be time to think about settling down.’

George was staring at me. ‘You’re kidding? You actually have a five-year plan? Like a totalitarian regime?’ He laughed. ‘Do you give yourself quotas and send in the secret police if you don’t make them?’

Colour crept up my throat. ‘It’s well established that clear goals are the key to a successful career,’ I said stiffly.

‘So what’s your plan for finding that serious relationship?’ George picked up his beer and eyed me over the rim of his glass. ‘Do you have a smart goal for that too?’

He obviously thought I was nuts, but I didn’t care. ‘It’s too early to be specific. I’m working on this five-year plan for now.’

‘How does Whellerby fit into your plan?’

‘Hugh was my mentor when I first joined the firm in London,’ I said. ‘He was really supportive, and I missed him when he left to set up his own design and build company up here, although I knew he wanted to come home to Yorkshire. His wife always stayed here, and he’d go down to London for the week, and I think he got fed up of the travelling.

‘It was such a shame that he had the heart attack just when he’d got the big contract with the Whellerby estate. The conference centre will make his reputation locally, so it’s just as important for us that it’s a success and we stick to the budget as it is for you.’