Читать книгу Wedding Bell Wishes: It Started at a Wedding... / The Wedding Planner and the CEO / Her Perfect Proposal - Lynne Marshall - Страница 13

CHAPTER SIX

CLAIRE WAS WALKING hand in hand with Sean Farrell. Down the high street in Camden. On an ordinary Monday lunchtime.

This was surreal, she thought.

And she couldn’t quite get her head round it.

But his fingers were wrapped round hers, his skin was warm against hers, and it was definitely happening rather than being some kind of super-realistic dream—because when she surreptitiously pinched herself it hurt.

‘So what do you normally do for lunch?’ Claire asked.

‘I grab a sandwich at my desk,’ he said. ‘In the office, we put an order in to a local sandwich shop first thing in the morning, and they deliver to us. You?’

‘Pretty much the same, except obviously I eat it well away from my work area so I don’t risk getting crumbs or grease on the material and ruining it,’ she said.

‘So we both work through lunch. Well, that’s another thing we have in common.’

There was a gleam in his eye that reminded her of the first thing they had in common. That night in Capri. She went hot at the memory.

‘So how long do you have to spare?’ he asked.

‘An hour, maybe,’ she said.

‘So that’s enough time to walk down to Camden Lock, grab a sandwich, and sit by the canal while we eat,’ he said.

‘Sounds good to me.’ The lock was one of her favourite places; even though the area got incredibly busy in the summer months, she loved watching the way the narrow boats floated calmly down the canal underneath the willow trees. ‘But this is a bit strange,’ she said.

‘How?’

‘I’ve been thinking—we’ve known each other for years, and I know hardly anything about you. Well, other than that you run Farrell’s.’ His family’s confectionery business, which specialised in toffee.

‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

‘Everything. Except I don’t know where to start,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe we should pretend we’re speed-dating.’

He blinked. ‘You’ve been speed-dating?’

‘No. Sammy has, though. I helped her do a list of questions.’

‘What, all the stuff about what you do, where you come from, that sort of thing?’ At her nod, he said, ‘But you already know all that.’

‘There’s other stuff as well. I think the list might still be on my phone,’ she said.

‘Let’s grab some lunch, sit down and go through your list, then,’ he said. ‘And if we both answer the questions, that might be a good idea—now I think about it, I don’t really know that much about you, either.’

She smiled wryly. ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this. We don’t even like each other.’

He glanced down at their joined hands. ‘Though we’re attracted to each other. And maybe we haven’t given each other a proper chance.’

From Claire’s point of view, Sean was the one who hadn’t given her a chance; but she wasn’t going to pick a fight with him over it. He was making an effort, and she’d agreed to see where this thing took them. It was exhilarating and scary, all at the same time. Exhilarating, because this was a step into the unknown; and scary, because it meant trusting her judgement again. Her track record where men were concerned was so terrible that...

No. She wasn’t going to analyse this. Not now. She was going to see where this took them. Seize the day.

They walked down to Camden Lock, bought bagels and freshly squeezed orange juice from one of the stalls, and sat down on the edge of the canal, looking out at the narrow boats and the crowd.

Claire found the list on her phone. ‘Ready?’ she asked.

‘Yup. And remember you’re doing this, too,’ he said.

‘OK. Your favourite kind of book, movie and music?’ she asked.

He thought about it. ‘In order—crime, classic film noir and anything I can run to. You?’

‘Jane Austen, rom-coms and anything I can sing to,’ she said promptly.

‘So we’re not really compatible there,’ he said.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘We’re not that far apart. I like reading crime novels, too, but I like historical ones rather than the super-gory contemporary stuff. And classic noir—well, if Jimmy Stewart’s in it, I’ll watch it. I love Rear Window.’

‘I really can’t stand Jane Austen. I had to do Mansfield Park for A level, and that was more than enough for me,’ he said with a grimace. ‘But if the rom-com’s witty and shot well, I can sit through it.’

She grinned. ‘So you’re a bit of a film snob, are you, Mr Farrell?’

He thought about it for a moment and grinned back. ‘I guess I am.’

‘OK. What do you do for fun?’

‘You mean you actually think I might have fun?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘You can be a little bit too organised, but I think there’s more to you than meets the eye—so answer the question, Sean.’

‘Abseiling,’ he said, his face totally deadpan.

She stared at him, trying to imagine it—if he’d said squash or maybe even rugby, she might’ve believed him, but abseiling? ‘In London?’ she queried.

‘There are lots of tall buildings in London.’

She thought about it a bit more, and shook her head. ‘No, that’s not you. I think you’re teasing me.’ Especially because he knew she was scared of heights.

‘Good call,’ he said. And his eyes actually twinkled.

Sean Farrell, teasing her. She would never have believed that he had a sense of humour. ‘So what’s the real answer?’ she asked.

‘Something very regimented,’ he said. ‘Sudoku.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with doing puzzles,’ she said. Though trust Sean to pick something logical.

‘What about you? What do you do for fun?’ he asked.

Given how he’d teased her, he really deserved this. She schooled her face into a serious expression. ‘Shopping. Preferably for shoes.’ Given what she did for a living, that would be totally plausible. ‘Actually, I have three special shoe wardrobes. Walk-in ones.’

‘Seriously?’ He looked totally horrified.

‘About as much as you go abseiling.’ She laughed. ‘I like shoes, but I’m not that extreme. No, for me it’s cooking for friends and watching a good film and talking about it afterwards.’

‘OK. We’re even now,’ he said with a smile. ‘So what do you cook? Anything in particular?’

‘Whatever catches my eye. I love magazines that have recipes in them, and it’s probably one of my worst vices because I can never resist a news stand,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

‘I can cook if I have to,’ he said. ‘Though I admit I’m more likely to take someone out to dinner than to cook for them.’

She shrugged. ‘That’s not a big deal. It means you’ll be doing the washing up, though.’

‘Was that an offer?’ he asked.

‘Do you want it to be?’ she fenced.

He held her gaze. ‘Yes. Tell me when, and I’ll bring the wine.’

There was a little flare of excitement in her stomach. They were actually doing this. Arranging a date. Seeing each other. She could maybe play a little hard to get and make him wait until Friday; but her mouth clearly had other ideas, because she found herself suggesting, ‘Tonight?’

‘I’d like that. I’ve got meetings until half past five, and some paperwork that needs doing after that—but I can be with you for seven, if that’s OK?’ he asked.

‘It’s a date,’ she said softly.

He took her hand and brought it up to his mouth. Keeping eye contact all the way, he kissed the back of her hand, just briefly, before releasing it again; it made Claire feel warm and squidgy inside. Who would’ve thought that Sean Farrell was Prince Charming in disguise? Not that she was a weak little princess who needed rescuing—she could look after herself perfectly well, thank you very much—but she liked the charm. A lot.

‘Next question,’ he said.

‘OK. What are you most proud of?’ she asked.

‘That’s an easy one—my sister and Farrell’s,’ he said.

His family, and his family business, she thought. So it looked as if Sean Farrell had a seriously soft centre, just like the caramel chocolates his factory made along with the toffee.

‘How about you?’ he asked.

‘The letters I get from brides telling me how much they loved their dress and how it really helped make their special day feel extra-special,’ she said.

‘So you’re actually as much of a workaholic as you think I am?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ she said dryly. ‘I know you see extreme things on a fashion catwalk and the pages of magazines, but it doesn’t mean that designers are all totally flaky. I want my brides to feel really special and that they look like a million dollars, in a dress I’ve made just for them. And that means listening to what their dream is, and coming up with something that makes them feel their dream’s come true.’

‘Having seen the dress you made for Ashleigh, I can understand exactly why they commission you,’ he said. ‘Next question?’

‘What are you scared of?’

‘Easy one. Anything happening to Ashleigh or the business.’

But he didn’t meet her eye. There was clearly something else. Something he didn’t want to discuss.

‘You?’ he asked.

‘Heights. I’m OK in a plane, but chairlifts like that one in Capri make my palms go sweaty. Put it this way, I’m never, ever going skiing. Or abseiling.’

‘Fair enough. Next?’

She glanced down at her phone to check. ‘Your most treasured possession.’

‘I can show you that.’ He took his wallet out of his pocket, removed two photographs and handed them to her. One was of himself with Ashleigh, and the other was himself on graduation day with his parents on either side of him. Claire had a lump in her throat and couldn’t say a word when she handed them back.

‘You?’ he asked.

‘The same,’ she whispered, and took her own wallet from her bag. She showed him a photograph of herself and her parents on her seventeenth birthday, and one of her with Ashleigh and Sammy and the Coliseum in the background.

He took her hand in silence and squeezed it briefly. Not that he needed any words; she knew he shared her feelings.

She put the photographs away. ‘Next question—is the glass half full or half empty?’

‘Half full. You?’

‘Same,’ she said, and glanced at her watch. ‘We might have to cut this a bit short. Last one for now. Your perfect holiday?’

‘Not a beach holiday,’ he said feelingly. ‘That just bores me silly.’

‘You mean, you get a fit of the guilts at lying on a beach doing nothing, and you end up working.’

‘Actually, I’m just not very good at just sitting still and doing nothing,’ he admitted.

‘So you’d rather have an active holiday?’

‘Exploring somewhere, you mean?’ He nodded. ‘That’d work for me.’

‘Culture or geography?’

‘Either,’ he said. ‘I guess my perfect holiday would be Iceland. I’d love to walk up a volcano, and to see the hot springs and learn about the place. You?’

‘I like city breaks. I have a bit of an art gallery habit, thanks to Sammy,’ she explained. ‘Plus I love museums where they have a big costume section. I should warn you that I really, really love Regency dresses. And I can spend hours in the costume section, looking at all the fine details.’

‘So you see yourself as Lizzie Bennett?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘and I’m not looking for a Darcy—anyway, seeing as you hate Austen, how come you know more than just the book you did for A level?’

‘Ex-girlfriends who insisted on seeing certain films more than once, and became ex very shortly afterwards,’ he said dryly.

‘Hint duly noted,’ she said. ‘I won’t ever ask you to watch Pride and Prejudice with me. Even though it’s one of my favourite films.’

‘Nicely skated past,’ he said, ‘but let’s backtrack—you said you like holidays where you go and look at vintage clothes. And you said you look at details, so I bet you take notes and as many photos as you can get away with. Isn’t that partly work?’

‘Busted.’ She clicked her fingers and grinned. ‘I have to admit, I don’t really like beach holidays, either. It’s nice to have a day or two to unwind and read, but I’d rather see a bit of culture with friends. I really loved my trips in Italy with Ash and Sammy.’

‘So what’s your perfect holiday?’ he asked.

‘Anywhere with museums, galleries and lots of nice little places to eat. Philadelphia and Boston are next on my wish list.’

‘This is scary,’ he said. ‘A week ago I would’ve said we were total opposites.’

She thought about it. ‘We still are. We have a few things in common—probably more than either of us realised—but you like things really pinned down and I like to go with the flow.’ She smiled. ‘And I bet you have an itinerary on holiday. Down to the minute.’

‘If you don’t know the opening times and days for a museum or what have you, then you might go to see it when it’s closed and not get a chance to go back,’ he pointed out. ‘So yes, I do have an itinerary.’

‘But if you go with the flow, you discover things you wouldn’t have known about otherwise,’ she pointed out.

‘Let’s agree to disagree on that one.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better head back.’

‘You don’t have to walk me back, Sean. Go, if you have a meeting.’

‘I was brought up properly. I’ll walk you back,’ he said.

‘I’m planning a slight detour,’ she warned.

He looked a little wary, but nodded. ‘We’ll do this your way, then.’

Her detour was to an ice cream shop where the ice cream was cooled with liquid nitrogen rather than by being put in a freezer. ‘I love this place. The way they make the ice cream is so cool,’ she said, and laughed. ‘Literally.’

‘It’s a little gimmicky,’ he said.

‘Just wait until you taste it.’

To her surprise, he chose the rich, dark chocolate. ‘I would’ve pegged you as a vanilla man,’ she said.

‘Plain and boring?’

‘Not necessarily. Seriously good vanilla ice cream is one of the best pleasures in the world—which is why I just ordered it.’

‘True. But remember what I do for a living. And my favourite bit of my job is when I work with the R and D team. Am I really going to pass up chocolate?’

This was a side of Sean she’d never really seen. Teasing, bantering—fun. And she really, really liked that.

She watched him as he took a spoonful of ice cream. He rolled his eyes at her to signal that he thought she was overselling it. And then she saw his pupils widen.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘This is something else,’ he admitted. ‘I can forgive the gimmicky stuff. Good choice.’

‘And if you hadn’t gone with the flow, you wouldn’t have known the place was there.’ She grinned. ‘Admit it. I was right.’

‘You were right about the ice cream being great. That’s as far as I go.’ He held her gaze. ‘For now.’

It should’ve been cheesy and made her laugh at him. But his voice was low and sexy as hell, and there was the hint of a promise in his words that made her feel hot all over, despite the ice cream. It was enough to silence her, and she concentrated on eating her ice cream on the walk back to her shop.

‘Well, Ms Stewart,’ he said on her doorstep. ‘I’ll see you later. Though there is something you need to attend to.’

She frowned. ‘What’s that?’

‘You have ice cream on the corner of your mouth.’ Just as she was about to reach up and scrub it away, he stopped her. ‘Let me deal with this.’

And then he kissed the smear of sweet confection away. Slowly. Sensually. By the time he’d finished, Claire was close to hyperventilating and her knees felt weak. Sean was kissing her in the street. This was totally un-Sean-like behaviour and it put her in a flat spin.

‘Later,’ he whispered, and left.

Although Claire spent the rest of the day alternately talking to customers and working on the dress, in the back of her head she was panicking about what to cook for him. She had no idea what he liked. She could play safe and cook chicken—she was fairly sure that he wasn’t a vegetarian. Wryly, she realised that this was when Sean’s ‘plan everything down to the last microsecond’ approach would come in useful.

She could text him to check what he did and didn’t like. But that meant doing it his way and planning instead of being spontaneous—and she didn’t want to give him the opportunity to say ‘I told you so’. Then again, she didn’t want to cook a meal he’d hate, or something he was allergic to, so it would be better to swallow her pride.

She texted him swiftly.

Any food allergies I need to know about? Ditto total food hates.

The reply came back.

No and no. What’s for dinner?

She felt safe enough to tease him.

Whatever I feel like cooking. Carpe diem.

When he didn’t reply she wondered if she’d gone too far. Then again, he’d said that he was going to be in meetings all afternoon. She shrugged it off and concentrated on making the dress she’d cut out that morning.

Though by the end of the afternoon she still hadn’t decided what to cook. She ended up having a mad dash round the supermarket and picked up chicken, parma ham, asparagus and soft cheese so she could make chicken stuffed with asparagus, served with tiny new potatoes, baby carrots and tenderstem broccoli.

Given that Sean was a self-confessed chocolate fiend, she bought the pudding rather than making it from scratch—tiny pots of chocolate ganache, which she planned to serve with raspberries, as their tartness would be a good foil to the richness of the chocolate.

Once she’d prepared dinner, she fussed around the flat, making sure everywhere was tidy and all the important surfaces were gleaming. Then she changed her outfit three times, and was cross with herself for doing so. Why was she making such a big deal out of this? She’d known Sean for years. He’d seen her when she had teenage spotty skin and chubby cheeks. And this was her flat. It shouldn’t matter what she wore. Jeans and a strappy vest top would be fine.

Except they didn’t feel fine. Sean was always so pristine that she’d feel scruffy.

In the end, she compromised with a little black dress but minimal make-up and with her hair tied back. So he’d know that she’d made a little more effort than just dragging on a pair of jeans and doing nothing with her hair, but not so much effort that she was making a big deal out of it.

The doorbell rang at seven precisely—exactly what she’d expected from Sean, because of course he wouldn’t be a minute late or a minute early—and anticipation sparkled through her.

Dinner.

And who knew what else the evening would bring?