Читать книгу Wish Upon a Wedding - Kate Hardy, Jessica Gilmore - Страница 18

CHAPTER TEN

SEAN SPENT THE next day totally unable to concentrate.

Which was ridiculous because he never, but never, let any of his girlfriends distract him from work.

But Claire Stewart was different, and she got under his skin in a way that nobody ever had before. He definitely wasn’t letting her do it, but it was happening all the same—and he really didn’t know what to do about it.

Part of him wanted to call her because he wanted to see her; and part of him was running scared because she made him look at things in his life that he’d rather ignore.

And he still couldn’t get her words out of his head. Everybody has a dream, Sean. Just what was his?

He still hadn’t worked out what to say to her by the evening, so he buried himself in work instead. And he noticed that she hadn’t called him, either. So did that mean she, too, thought this was turning out to be a seriously bad idea and they ought to end it?

And then, on Tuesday morning, his PA brought him a plain white box.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

Jen shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I was just asked to give it to you.’

There was no note with the box. He frowned. ‘Who brought it?’

‘A blonde woman. She wouldn’t give her name. She said you’d know who it was from,’ Jen said.

His heart skipped a beat.

Claire.

But if Claire had actually come to the factory and dropped this off personally, why hadn’t she come to see him?

Or maybe she thought he’d refuse to see her. They hadn’t exactly had a fight on Sunday evening, but he had to acknowledge that things had been a little bit strained when she’d left. Maybe this was her idea of a parley, the beginning of some kind of truce.

And hadn’t she said about not sending him flowers and how you couldn’t give chocolates to a confectioner?

‘Thank you. I have a pretty good idea who it’s from,’ he said to Jen, and waited until she’d closed the door behind her before opening the box.

Claire had brought him cake.

Not just cake—the most delectable lemon cake he’d ever eaten in his life.

He gave in and called her business line.

She answered within three rings. ‘Dream of a Dress, Claire speaking.’

‘Thank you for the cake,’ he said.

‘Pleasure.’

Her voice was completely neutral, so he couldn’t tell her mood. Well, he’d do things her way for once and ask her straight out. ‘Why didn’t you come in and say hello?’

‘Your PA said you were in a meeting, and I didn’t really have time to wait until you were done.’

‘Fair enough.’ He paused. He knew what he needed to say, and he was enough of a man not to shirk it. ‘Claire, I owe you an apology.’

‘What for?’

‘Pushing you away on Sunday night.’

‘Uh-huh.’

He sighed, guessing what she wanted him to say. ‘I still can’t answer your question.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘A bit of both, if I’m honest,’ he said.

‘OK. Are you busy tonight?’

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘I thought we could go and smell some roses.’

Claire-speak for having some fun, he guessed.

‘Can you meet me at my place?’

‘Sure. Would seven work for you?’

‘Fine. Don’t eat,’ she said, ‘because we can probably grab something on the way. Some of the food stalls at Camden Lock will still be open at that time.’

Clearly she intended to take him for a walk somewhere. ‘And is this a jeans and running shoes thing?’ he checked.

‘You can wear your prissiest suit and your smartest shoes—whatever you like, as long as you can walk for half an hour or so and still be comfortable.’

When Sean turned up at her shop at exactly seven o’clock, Claire was wearing a navy summer dress patterned with daisies and flat court shoes. Her hair was tied back with another chiffon scarf—clearly that was Claire’s favoured style—but he was pleased that she didn’t add her awful khaki cap, this time. Instead, she just donned a pair of dark glasses.

They walked down to Camden Lock, grabbed a burger and shared some polenta fries, then headed along the canalside towards Regent’s Park. He’d never really explored the area before, and it was a surprisingly pretty walk; some of the houses were truly gorgeous, and all the while there were birds singing in the trees and the calm presence of the canal.

‘I love the walk along here. It’s only ten minutes or so between the lock and the park,’ she said.

And then Sean discovered that Claire had meant it literally about coming to smell the roses when she took him across Regent’s Park to Queen Mary’s Garden.

‘This place is amazing—it’s the biggest collection of roses in London,’ she told him.

There were pretty bowers, huge beds filled with all different types of roses, and walking through them was like breathing pure scent; it totally filled his senses.

‘This is incredible,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you meant it literally about smelling the roses.’

‘I meant it metaphorically as well—you must know that WH Davies poem, “What is this life if full of care, We have no time to stand and stare,”,’ she said. ‘You have to make time for things like this, Sean, or you miss out on so much.’

He knew she had a point. ‘Yeah,’ he said softly, and tightened his fingers round hers.

He could just about remember coming to see the roses in Regent’s Park as a child, but everything since his parents’ death was a blur of work, work and more work.

Six years of blurriness.

Being with Claire had brought everything into sharp focus again. Though Sean wasn’t entirely sure he liked what he saw when he looked at his life—and it made him antsy. Claire was definitely dangerous to his peace of mind.

She drew him over to look at the borders of delphiniums, every shade of white and cream and blue through to almost black.

‘Now these I really love,’ she said. ‘The colour, the shape, the texture—everything.’

He looked at her. ‘So you’re a secret gardener?’

‘Except doing it properly would take time I don’t really have to spare,’ she said. ‘Though, yes, if had a decent-sized garden I’d plant it as a cottage garden with loads of these and hollyhocks and foxgloves, and tiny little lily-of-the-valley and violets.’

‘These ones here are exactly the same colour as your eyes.’

She grinned. ‘Careful, Sean. You’re waxing a bit poetic.’

Just to make the point, he kissed her.

‘Tsk,’ she teased. ‘Is that the only way you have to shut me up?’

‘It worked for Benedick,’ he said.

‘Much Ado is a rom-com—and I thought you said you didn’t like rom-coms?’

‘I said I didn’t mind ones with great dialogue—and dialogue doesn’t get any better than Beatrice.’ He could see Claire playing Beatrice; he’d noticed that she often had that deliciously acerbic bite to her words.

‘And it’s a good plot,’ she said, ‘except Hero ends up with a man who isn’t good enough for her. I hate the bit where Claudio shames her on their wedding day, and it always makes me want to yell to her, “Don’t do it!” at the end when she marries him.’

‘They were different times and different mores, though I do know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want Ashleigh to marry a weak, selfish man.’

She winced. ‘Like Rob Riverton. And I introduced her to him.’

‘Not one of your better calls,’ Sean said.

‘I know.’ She looked guilty. ‘I did tell her to dump him because he wasn’t good enough for her and he didn’t treat her properly.’

A month ago, Sean wouldn’t have believed that. Now, he did, because he’d seen for himself that Claire had integrity. ‘Claire,’ he said, yanked her into his arms and kissed her.

‘Was that to shut me up again?’ she asked when he broke the kiss.

‘No—it was because you’re irresistible.’

She clearly didn’t know what to say to that, because it silenced her.

They walked back along the canalside to Camden, hand in hand; then he bought them both a glass of wine and they sat outside, enjoying the late evening sunshine before walking back to her flat.

‘Do you want to come in?’ she asked.

‘Is that wise?’

‘Probably not, but I’m asking anyway.’

‘Probably not,’ he agreed, ‘but I’m saying yes.’

They sat with the windows open, the curtains open and music playing; there was a jug of iced water on the coffee table, and she’d put frozen slices of lime in the jug. Sean was surprised by how at home he felt here; the room was decorated in very girly colours, compared to his own neutral colour scheme, but he felt as if he belonged.

‘It’s getting late. I ought to go,’ he said softly. ‘I have meetings, first thing.’

‘You don’t have to go,’ Claire said. ‘You could stay.’ She paused. ‘If you want to.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

In answer, he closed her curtains and carried her to her bed.

* * *

The next morning, Claire woke before her alarm went off to find herself alone in bed, and Sean’s side of the bed was stone cold. She was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t even woken her before he left, or put a note on the pillow. Then again, he’d said that he had early meetings. He’d probably left at some unearthly hour and hadn’t wanted to disturb her sleep.

At that precise moment he walked in, carrying a tray with two paper cups of coffee and a plate of pastries. ‘Breakfast is served, my lady.’

‘You went out to buy us breakfast? That’s—that’s so lovely,’ she said, sitting up, ‘but you really didn’t have to. I have fruit and yoghurt in the fridge, plus bread and granola in the cupboard.’

‘I noticed a bakery round the corner from yours. I thought croissants might be nice, and I’m running a bit short on time so I bought the coffee rather than making it.’

‘That sounds to me like an excuse for having decadent tendencies,’ she teased.

He laughed back. ‘Maybe.’

He sat on the bed and shared the almond-filled croissants with her. ‘You thought I’d gone without saying goodbye, didn’t you?’

‘Um—well, yes,’ she admitted.

‘I wouldn’t do that to you. I would at least have left you a note.’ He finished his coffee and kissed her lightly. ‘Sorry. I really do have to go now. Can I call you later?’

‘I’d like that.’ Claire wrapped herself in her robe so she could pad barefoot to the kitchen with him and kiss him goodbye at her front door.

She still couldn’t quite get over the fact he’d gone out to buy them a decadent breakfast. And he’d stayed last night. This thing between them was moving so incredibly fast; it scared and exhilarated her at the same time. She guessed it would be the same for Sean. But would it scare him enough to make him push her away again, the way he had the other night? Or would he finally let her in?

* * *

They were both busy during the week, but Sean texted her on Friday.

Do you have any appointments over lunch?

Sorry, yes.

And, regretfully, she wasn’t playing hard to get. She really did have appointments that she couldn’t move.

OK. Are you busy after work?

Yes, but that was something she could move.

Why?

Am trying to be like you and plan a spontaneous date.

She couldn’t help laughing. Planning and spontaneity didn’t go together.

OK.

Cinema? he suggested.

Depends. Is popcorn on offer?

Could be... he texted back.

Deal. Time and place?

Can pick you up.

She wanted to keep at least some of her independence.

Saves time if I meet you there.

OK. Will check out films and text you where and when.

Claire had expected him to choose some kind of noir movie, but when she got to the cinema and met him with a kiss she discovered that he’d picked a rom-com.

‘Is this to indulge me?’ she asked.

‘I’ve seen this one before. The structure’s good and the acting’s good,’ he said.

‘You’re such a film snob,’ she teased, but it warmed her that he’d thought of what she’d enjoy rather than imposing his choices on her regardless.

They sat in the back row, holding hands, and Claire enjoyed the film thoroughly. Back at his place afterwards, they were curled in bed together, when Sean said, ‘I had a focus group meeting today.’

She remembered the samples he’d given her. ‘Did it go how you wanted?’

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘We need a rethink.’

‘For what it’s worth, I’ve always thought that your caramel hearts would be great as bridal favours. That’s the sort of thing my brides always ask me if I know about, because not everyone likes the traditional sugared almonds.’

‘Bridal favours?’ he queried.

‘Uh-huh—the hearts could be wrapped in silver or gold foil, and you can offer a choice of organza bags with them in say white, silver or gold, so brides can buy the whole package. They could be ordered direct from your website, or you could offer the special bridal package through selected shops.’

He nodded. ‘That’s brilliant, Claire. Thank you. I never even considered that sort of thing.’

‘Why would you, unless you were connected to a wedding business?’ she pointed out.

‘I guess not.’

‘So why didn’t the focus group like the salted caramels? I thought they were fabulous.’

‘It’s a move too far from the core business. Farrell’s has produced hard toffee for generations. We’re not really associated with chocolates, apart from the caramel hearts—which were my mum’s idea.’

‘Are you looking to move away from making toffee, then?’

‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘What I want to do is look at other sorts of toffee.’

She frowned. ‘Am I being dense? Because toffee’s—well—toffee.’

‘Unless it’s in something,’ he said. ‘Toffee popcorn, like the one you chose tonight at the cinema. Or toffee ice cream.’

‘You weren’t concentrating on the film, were you?’ she asked. ‘You were thinking about work.’

‘I was thinking about you, actually,’ he said. ‘But the toffee popcorn did set off a lightbulb in the back of my head.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘If I took the business in that direction, it’d mean buying a whole different set of machinery and arranging a whole different set of staff training. I’d need to be sure that the investment would be worth the cost and Farrell’s would see a good return on the money.’

‘Unless,’ she said, ‘you collaborated with other manufacturers—ones who already have the factory set-up and the staff. Maybe you could license them to use your toffee.’

‘That’s a great idea. And I could draw up a shortlist of other family-run businesses whose ideas and ethos are the same as Farrell’s. People who’d make good business partners.’

‘That’s your dream, isn’t it?’ she asked softly. ‘To keep your heritage—but to put your own stamp on it.’

‘I guess. Research and development was always my favourite thing,’ he admitted. ‘I wanted to look at developing different flavours of toffee. Something different from mint, treacle, orange or nut. I was thinking cinnamon or ginger for Christmas, or maybe special seasonal editions of the chocolate hearts—say a strawberries and cream version for summer.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ she said. ‘Maybe white chocolate.’

‘And different packaging,’ he said. ‘Something to position Farrell’s hearts as the kind of thing you buy as special treats.’

‘You could sell them in little boxes as well as big ones,’ she said. ‘For people who want a treat but don’t want a big box.’

He kissed her. ‘I’m beginning to think that I should employ you on my R and D team.’

‘Now that,’ she said, ‘really wouldn’t work. I’m used to doing things my way and I’d hate to have to go by someone else’s rules all the while. Besides, I don’t want you bossing me about and I think we’d end up fighting.’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t want to fight with you, Claire—I like how things are now.’

‘Me, too,’ she admitted.

‘Make love, not war—that’s a great slogan, you know.’

She grinned. ‘Just as long as it’s not all talk and no action, Mr Farrell.’

He laughed. ‘I can take a hint.’ And he kissed her until she was dizzy.