Читать книгу A New Year Marriage Proposal - Kate Hardy - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

This evening. 7 p.m. Meet me at my place.

QUINN READ THE text and frowned. They’d already agreed on a time next week for the training session on his collaborative software. Why did Carissa want to meet him tonight?

Why? he texted back.

Magic of Christmas, proof #1, was the response.

Which told him virtually nothing.

What did Carissa think would prove the magic of Christmas to him?

As far as he was concerned, it simply didn’t exist. Christmas was the time when families were forced to spend time together, not really wanting to be there but feeling that they had to do it because it was Christmas and it was expected of them. Resentment, tension and bitterness. Add too much sugary food and a liberal dash of alcohol, and it was no wonder that the emergency departments of most hospitals were full of people who’d ended up coming to blows over the holiday season.

Through his experience with Tabitha, Quinn had learned the hard way to check the dress code before going anywhere so he didn’t feel out of place. Would Carissa’s idea of Christmas magic involve some kind of ball, maybe?

Do I wear black tie? he texted.

No. Wear something warm because there’s meant to be a frost tonight.

So he still knew next to nothing. Great.

It wasn’t even as if Carissa was a proper client—one he needed to be nice to for the sake of making a project run smoothly. He knew full well he wasn’t going to charge her for his time in setting up the virtual Santa or training her team of volunteers. Not when she was doing something so kind. Charity...but not the cold, grudging kind of charity he’d experienced growing up.

She’d actually thought about this and was trying to do something practical to help. Something that would put a bit of happiness into a difficult day. And it wasn’t as if he was going to be spending hours developing something new for her, because he’d already worked on bits of similar systems in the past. It wouldn’t take much time at all. Charging her for the work he was doing would feel wrong.

Wear something warm.Frost. Obviously they were going to be doing something outside, he thought. But he had absolutely no idea what.

It turned out to be something Quinn really loathed.

‘We’re seeing the Christmas lights being switched on?’ he guessed, as they got off the tube at Oxford Street and joined the crowd of people thronging up the stairs. ‘Oh, now you’re kidding me.’

‘Bah, humbug.’ She nudged him. ‘This is great. London by night, all lit up and magical. It’s Christmassy. Enjoy it.’

‘More like crowds of people pushing each other on the pavements, cars blasting their horns at people to make them get out of the way, and a D-list celeb waiting for people to applaud as they do the terribly difficult job of pressing a switch,’ he countered. ‘And then all the shops waiting for people to cram into them and queue up for stuff they don’t really want but feel forced to buy because it’s Christmas and people are expecting presents. Ker-ching.’

She ignored his comments. ‘Look at the trees. All those lights shaped like snowflakes. It’s like a real winter wonderland. It’s beautiful, Quinn.’

She’d really bought into all the hype, hadn’t she? He rolled his eyes. ‘Think of all that electricity being wasted. Scarce resources you can’t replace.’

She scoffed. ‘Don’t try to pull the environmentalist card. There’s nothing green about someone who lives on takeaway food that comes in cartons you can’t even recycle.’

‘I guess,’ he said.

‘I admit you have a point about the crowds. That bit’s not much fun. But the lights themselves—surely you can’t hate them?’ she asked.

‘What’s the big deal about lights?’ he asked.

‘They change the atmosphere.’

He didn’t see it. At all. Lights were just lights, weren’t they? A source of illumination. Nothing special. Nothing magical.

Everyone around him oohed and ahhed as the Christmas lights stretching above the streets were switched on—including Carissa—but it did nothing to change Quinn’s mind about the misery of Christmas. A bit of sparkle and glitter was just surface dressing. And it didn’t make up for all the tension and short tempers.

As if she’d guessed how fed up he was, she said, ‘Let’s get away from the crowds.’

They went from Oxford Street down through Regent Street. There were cascades of fairy lights on the outsides of the shops—some gold, some lilac, some silver, some brilliant white—and Carissa clearly loved every bit of the displays. Quinn just wasn’t convinced. All he saw was wasted energy and a way of attracting people to spend as much of their disposable income as possible.

Carnaby Street had kooky inflatable decorations, and its famous arches were covered in fairy lights. Piccadilly Circus was as brightly lit as it always was, and the trees in Leicester Square were filled with starbursts that had Carissa cooing in pleasure. And everywhere was heaving with people.

Why on earth was he here? Quinn asked himself. He could be at home, playing a decent arcade game on his console in comfort, drinking coffee and eating pizza straight from the box. Or doing what he really loved, developing a new gadget from concept to prototype. Playing with ideas. Instead, he was trudging through the crowded streets of London with a woman he barely knew, all because she’d set him a wager. A wager that really wasn’t a wager, because he had no intention of claiming his winnings in any case. So why didn’t he just call this whole thing off?

But then they reached Covent Garden and he saw the delight in Carissa’s face.

And he knew exactly why he was here.

Even though wild horses wouldn’t make him admit it out loud.

There were fairy lights everywhere, a massive Christmas tree, and a topiary reindeer that was covered in tiny lights. Carissa’s expression was as dreamy and glowing as a small child’s seeing the magical lights for the very first time.

Quinn was here because of the magic.

Because of her.

His head really needed examining, he thought wryly. He didn’t need to get involved with anyone. He didn’t want to get involved with anyone. And yet here he was, doing something he wouldn’t have chosen to do and wasn’t enjoying—solely because she’d asked him to be here.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘Look at this, Quinn. Fairy lights everywhere, the street performers and the market stalls and the street musicians. I love this place. But I love it even more at this time of year. It’s really magical. Like a real Christmas grotto, life-sized.’

For a second, Quinn almost—almost—felt the magic.

But then, as they wandered through the place together, he heard a string quartet playing. Not traditional Christmas carols—oh, no. Instead, they were playing Christmas pop songs. And one Christmas pop song in particular. He nudged Carissa. ‘Do you hear that?’

‘“Santa, Bring My Baby Home to Me,”’ she sang softly.

She’d definitely lied to him about not having any musical ability. Her voice was gorgeous. And now he knew what the song was really about, he could hear the emotion in the words and it actually put a lump in his throat.

‘Whenever I hear that song, it always makes me feel close to Mum and Dad,’ she said, sounding misty-eyed.

He bit back the caustic comment he’d intended to make—OK, so it would’ve got his common sense back into place, but at the same time it would’ve burst her bubble, and he couldn’t do that to her. He only just managed to stop himself from pulling her into his arms and giving her a hug. For pity’s sake. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be about. This was a wager, not a date. He needed to remember that.

Several of the stalls inside the covered areas were selling Christmas-tree decorations. Carissa browsed through them and bought a snowflake made from tiny white and silver tiles. ‘I buy a new decoration for the tree every year,’ she said. ‘I guess it’s a family tradition.’

Another reason why Quinn didn’t want to get involved with her. Family traditions really weren’t his thing. Apart from the awful Christmases spent growing up, there had been the Christmas he’d spent with Tabitha and her family. A Christmas where they’d had all sorts of ‘family traditions’ and he’d felt even more out of place than he had with his aunt and uncle. He’d tried his best to fit in, but most of the time it had felt as if they’d been speaking a different language.

He’d thought that he’d managed to bluff his way through it, but once he’d overheard Tabitha’s older sister talking to her.

‘Don’t you think you ought to put the poor thing out of his misery, Tabs?’

How he’d hated that tone of pity. Condescension. How could she call him a ‘poor thing’?

‘Your bit of rough,’ Penelope continued. ‘You brought him home to make the parents squirm a bit and worry that you might actually be serious about him—well, he’s sweet, and he follows you round with those big puppy-dog eyes, but he’s not one of us, and you know you’d never stick it out.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Pen.’

He’d walked away at that point, not wanting to hear any more. OK, he might not be enough for Tabitha’s family, but he had been sure Tabitha had loved him. She’d just stuck up for him, hadn’t she?

How wrong he’d been. He should’ve stayed a bit longer and heard the rest of the conversation. And then he could’ve ended it before he’d totally lost his heart.

‘Quinn?’ Carissa said.

He shook himself. The last thing he wanted was for her to guess at his thoughts. ‘Sorry. I glazed over for a minute.’

‘I noticed,’ she said drily.

‘Sorry.’ Just to be on the safe side, he changed the subject. ‘There’s a stall over there selling Christmas paninis. Let’s go and get something.’

‘My shout,’ she said, ‘seeing as I dragged you out here.’

‘I think I can just about afford to buy you a panini,’ he said. And again he was cross with himself. Why was he being on the defensive with her? This was just a hot sandwich. Definitely not a big deal.

Maybe Carissa had picked up his awkward mood, because she just smiled at him. ‘In that case, thank you very much. Cranberry, Brie and bacon for me, please.’

He bought himself a more traditional turkey and stuffing sandwich, and used it as an excuse not to talk. They wandered round the bustle of Covent Garden for a bit longer, then headed back to Leicester Square and caught the tube back to Hyde Park.

‘So. Proof number one. Verdict?’ she asked on their way back to Grove End Mews.

‘I’m not convinced,’ he said, ignoring that unsettling moment in the middle of Covent Garden. ‘It’s not the magic of Christmas—it’s more like the misery of Christmas. Money, money, money.’

‘Don’t think I’m giving up,’ she warned. ‘I’m going to teach you to believe in the magic of Christmas if it’s the last thing I do.’

‘Princess Carissa, used to getting her own way?’ He knew it was nasty even as the words came out of his mouth, and winced. He was never like this with anyone else. He was known for not saying a lot and just getting on with his job. Why was he so mean and rude to Carissa Wylde? ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

‘No, you’re not. You’re in denial. Secretly,’ she said, ‘I think you really like Christmas, but you just can’t admit it because you don’t want anyone to know that you might have a soft centre.’