Читать книгу Hired Girlfriend, Pregnant Fiancée? - Nina Milne - Страница 10

WHAT ON EARTH was she doing here? Gabby Johnson forced a smile to her face and her nerves into submission as the word mistake flashed through her mind in neon. Get a grip, Gabby. This was supposed to be fun, for heaven’s sake—a hen weekend, friends together for two days of female solidarity and a good time to be had by all.

The problem was it depended on your definition of a good time.

‘Right!’ The maid of honour, to whom Gabby had just been introduced, a vivacious petite redhead called Lorna, clapped her hands together. ‘Ladies, I have a timetable of fun activities planned to celebrate the upcoming wedding of our very lovely friend Charlotte.’

Gabby relaxed slightly as everyone cheered. She reminded herself that this was a celebration—that it had been kind of Charlotte to include Gabby. They had been friends in college, lost touch and then reignited a friendship of sorts after bumping into each other a few months ago.

‘OK,’ Lorna continued. ‘So here we are in the lovely city of Bath, in this fantastic house right in the centre, and this is our plan for the evening. I promise that cocktails will be involved later. But first, I have a fun activity planned. Before I explain that, it’s time to have a glass of bubbly whilst we all get changed.’ Lorna turned around and gestured to seven luminous pink bags. ‘These are all named, and I hope I have got the sizes roughly right.’

Gabby stepped forward with everyone else and took her designated bag, watching as everyone else peered into theirs, listening to their shrieks of laughter. Panic began to shrivel the edges of her introverted soul.

Come on, Gabby. Woman up. How bad can it be?

The pops of champagne corks as everyone pulled mini bottles from their bags should have reassured her, but then...

‘It’s a bunny suit!’ one of the women exclaimed. ‘I have always wanted to try one of these on.’

A bunny suit? Somehow she’d expected a more low-key affair. Dinner and drinks. Maybe a cocktail. Bunny suits hadn’t figured anywhere in the equation. Now she was going to spend the evening in one.

Why, oh, why couldn’t she be like all the other women in the room, who seemed enthused by the whole idea? She would have sold her rapidly contracting soul in exchange for some of the palpable joie de vivre and confidence that filled the room.

Gazing into the contents of the bag, she forced herself to maintain a smile as she tugged the costume out. A bright pink corset, a pom-pom tail, bunny ears, sheer tights... Now she understood why she’d been asked to bring a pair of pink stilettos.

Ideas streamed through her mind: perhaps she could fake illness, perhaps she could object on the grounds of political correctness...? Get a grip, Gabby. There was nothing worse than a party pooper, so all she could do was exchange her jeans and T-shirt for the bunny outfit.

Somehow she had to loosen up. Her childhood mantra ran through her head—in twenty-four hours it will be over. It came from the times when she’d been scared, hiding in whatever sanctuary she’d been able to find whilst her mother partied.

Even aged three she’d known with chilling certainty that her mother would not be able to keep her safe, would be too far under the influence of drugs and alcohol. So she had always scoped out a place to conceal herself—in a cupboard, under a bed... And wherever she’d been she’d kept telling herself that she would get through it, that at this time tomorrow it would be over. Comparatively speaking, parading the streets in a bunny suit would be a doddle.

‘You OK?’ Charlotte had moved next to her in her bridal bunny costume. ‘I know this probably isn’t your cup of tea, but...’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s a laugh,’ Gabby managed and adjusted her bunny ears with an enthusiasm she hoped came across as genuine.

Time to douse her inner cringe. Irritation threshed at her nerves—why couldn’t she take this in the right spirit and have fun? It wouldn’t be that bad; she was in a group of eight, all dressed the same—she could just fade into the background. After all, that was one of her best skills.

‘OK, ladies. Gather round!’ Lorna called as she produced her next exhibit—a pink top hat. ‘This hat contains eight challenges. Each of us will take one and then off we’ll go to attempt the challenges. We’ll pretty much stick together, but I do require photographic proof that the challenges have been completed!’

Fabulous. Even her fade-into-the-background skills would struggle to provide invisibility in this situation. And what sort of challenge?

Panic began to twist in her tummy. Gabby might chafe against her introvert nature, but she accepted it as a cast-iron personality trait. Acknowledged that it had helped keep her invisible and under the radar when she’d most needed to, and had kept her safe amidst the chaos of her mother’s lifestyle. Then later, after the horror of her mum’s death—the result of an overdose—Gabby’s quietness, her ‘invisibility’, had meant she had been allowed to live with her grandparents despite her social worker’s concerns about their ages.

‘Read it! Read it! Read it!’

The chant pulled Gabby back to the here and now and she realised that someone had pulled the first challenge from the hat.

‘“Exchange an item of clothing with a man you don’t know.”’

Gabby looked on as everyone laughed, and felt anxiety tornado as Lorna held the hat out to her.

Breathe. In twenty-four hours this will be over. Her dignity would be in tatters, but it would be over.

Inwardly praying, she pulled out a slip of paper and looked down at it. Someone, somewhere had to be kidding.

‘Read it! Read it! Read it!’

Stomach hollow, she did just that. ‘“Find a hot stranger and get a kiss on camera.”’

This caused much merriment and Gabby forced herself to join in, etching a smile on her face in a gallant attempt to join in the spirit of the occasion. Time to channel personality trait number two—the art of faking it. Throughout childhood she’d made sure she’d played a part—whatever part she’d needed to play to survive.

A couple of hours later, as afternoon segued into the beginning of evening, her cheek muscles ached and her panic had escalated to the point of a need for a paper bag to breathe into. All around her Kate, Charlotte, Lorna, et al. had danced and spun through their challenges, and soon it would be only Gabby left. She would be the focus of attention.

Moisture sheened her neck, even as she maintained the smile and her brain raced.

At that moment Lorna moved over to her, a friendly smile on her face. ‘Gabby, it’s just you now. How can we help? Or if you want to give it a miss, it’s no big deal. I should have known that this wouldn’t be everyone’s thing. If you want to skip it, then it’s not a problem. We can head straight to the cocktail place.’

For a moment Gabby nearly collapsed in relief at the opt-out clause—but then sheer annoyance at herself surfaced. Did she want to be the one person on this hen do who didn’t complete her challenge? The one person who didn’t provide a photograph for the album Lorna would be putting together for Charlotte to look back on? Dammit—she had to try.

Keeping her lips upturned and her body relaxed, she even managed a laugh that hopefully held insouciance.

‘Actually, would it be OK if I slip off by myself and give it a go? I could meet you at the cocktail place after.’

‘Sure. That works.’

So, challenge in her hand, tugging at the ridiculous bunny suit, Gabby Johnson ventured forth into the dusk.

* * *

Zander Grosvenor looked around the table and reminded himself that he was an ultrasuccessful multimillionaire, not a scrubby schoolboy any more. Yet, as he surveyed the faces of his mother and two elder sisters, it was hard to hold on to that fact.

His father had clearly had the right idea when he’d absconded to the golf course This felt way too reminiscent of those awful sit-down chats from when he had been a schoolboy—and a very unsuccessful one at that. For a moment the remembered burn of frustrated humiliation, the sting of failure, pinged his nerves. He remembered the knowledge of his own stupidity, the knowledge that he couldn’t live up to the bar set by his sisters however hard he tried. Hell, he couldn’t even manage to read a baby book.

Enough. That was the past. And it had been resolved when eventually he had been diagnosed with dyslexia. So simple an explanation, and yet it had occurred to no one. And that was why they were sitting here now—the Grosvenor family.

His mother had been racked with guilt that she hadn’t realised sooner and, once the diagnosis had been made, had supported him every step of the way—as had his father. Julia, his eldest sister—ten years his senior—was now a successful human rights lawyer, divorced with two children, one of whom had just been diagnosed with dyslexia, too. Gemma was a successful surgeon, four years older than Zander, and engaged to Alessio Bravanti, internationally successful racing driver and Zander’s best friend.

The four of them had gathered here to discuss the fundraiser he had organised and would host to raise money for and awareness of dyslexia. For a minute the reminder of his duties as host, the need to make a speech, twanged his nerves with anxiety. Not now, Zander. He’d manage it; he’d tamed his fear of public speaking and it wouldn’t get the better of him at such an important event.

It was an event his family all wanted to be a part of, and he was grateful for that. Yet as he looked around the table he had the distinct impression of a hidden agenda.

‘OK, everyone. It’s a week until the event, so I thought we should go through any last-minute details.’

‘Good idea,’ his mother said breezily. ‘I’ve invited Brenda Davison to the gala. She’s just back from two years in Oz. She had an incredible time there and she is such a well-rounded person. Really interesting. I think you’d like her, Zan.’

Gemma beamed at him. ‘And of course you remember Louise Martin. I asked her to attend the gala, but she’s busy that day so I’ve asked her to the wedding instead. She’s exactly your type.’

Zander blinked. ‘That wasn’t the sort of last-minute detail I had in mind,’ he said sharply. Aware that he might have raised his voice a touch more than necessary, he tried a smile. ‘I’d like to look down the auction list, talk about the caterers—not listen to a staged intervention on my love life.’

‘It’s not an “intervention on your love life” because you don’t have one,’ Julia pointed out gently. ‘We’re not trying to interfere. We want to help.’

‘I don’t need help.’ Reminding himself that his family had the best intentions, that he loved them dearly and that love was mutual, Zander tried to keep his voice even.

His mother let out a small sigh and he could see the worry in her grey eyes. ‘Sweetheart, Claudia wouldn’t have wanted you to never have another relationship. It’s been five years now since she died.’

‘I know that.’ Aware of the tautness of his tone, he tried to soften it. ‘I am fine, Mum. Truly.’

Laura Grosvenor shook her head. ‘We’re not suggesting you remarry or enter into a long-term relationship...’

‘Our suggestion is just to go out there and date... Have some fun,’ Gemma said.

‘When I want to do that, I will.’

Julia leant forward, blonde hair swinging, and touched his arm. ‘We just hate to see you still grieving so much. We know you loved Claudia, and none of us will ever forget her, but we all think it’s time for you to move on.’

For a second he closed his eyes, couldn’t meet his family’s gaze as the guilt stabbed him.

Yes, he had loved Claudia; they had been childhood sweethearts and he had worshipped the ground she’d walked on. They had swept into marriage aged twenty, full of optimism and hope for the future. But it had turned out their visions of that future were polar opposites, and soon Zander had known that they had made a mistake—that he had made a mistake.

It was a knowledge he had never shared—not with Claudia, not with his family, not with anyone. Because he would never have reneged on the vows he had made. Because whilst his feelings had changed, Claudia’s hadn’t. And then illness and tragedy had struck.

And after Claudia’s death what had he done? Zander Grosvenor, grieving widower, had decided to follow his vision of the future, pursued his own dream and achieved phenomenal success. Accomplished a life and found fulfilment he would never have experienced if his wife had lived.

Sensing the heaviness of the silence, he opened his eyes. ‘Look. I appreciate your concerns. I really do. But truly I am happy with my love life as it is.’ As in non-existent. ‘So, please, no more worrying. And no more matchmaking, OK?’

‘OK...’

Three heads nodded, two blonde and one dark, but Zander didn’t believe a word of it. Pushing his chair back, he rose to his feet. ‘I’ll be back soon—I need to go to the shops. Anyone want anything?’

Minutes later, he strode towards Bath’s town centre, hoping the exercise would dispel the fumes of guilt, but knowing they wouldn’t.

His family cared about him, but how he wished they would respect his decision to eschew the world of relationships. In their defence, they didn’t understand the truth. Of course he grieved for Claudia—grieved the loss of life so young, the tragic waste, the loss of the girl he had once loved. But it was a tainted grief, besmirched by the cold, hard knowledge that if Claudia had lived, he wouldn’t be the person he was today.

On impulse he turned towards the abbey, made his way through the throng of people and headed for a place of cool walls and sanctuary. A place to look at the architecture, think of history and seek assuagement of the emotional turmoil that thoughts of Claudia still evoked five years since her death.

As he approached the imposing grandeur of the sandstone spires, touched by the orange rays of the setting sun, a flash of pink distracted him. A woman stood irresolute in the courtyard—a woman clad in a pink bunny suit. Not the usual garb for a visit to the abbey.

In the shadow of the abbey walls he could see her serious expression, her enormous hazel eyes filled with doubt, a straight nose, generous mouth. Glossy chestnut hair topped by pink bunny ears fell in a sleek curtain to her shoulders.

As if deciding to abandon her plan for entry, she turned and recognition jolted his brain. He wasn’t sure why—who was she?

Her gaze met his in a fleeting skim; he saw an answering recognition and then she ducked her head and made to step past him. Just as memory kicked in.

‘Gabby?’ She’d been in the year below him and Claudia at high school.

For a moment he thought she’d deny it, and then she gave a small reluctant nod. ‘Yes. I’m surprised you remember me.’

The memory came back. A young Zander, seventeen years old, walking down the school corridor as a tall slim girl with glossy chestnut hair came towards him, a pile of books clutched to her chest. As she’d passed, the books had cascaded to the floor and he’d automatically bent down to pick them up. He’d recognised the title of one, more from familiarity than an ability to decipher the words, but at least he’d seen the film.

They’d engaged in a conversation. He’d played the cool kid, one who didn’t bother with books because films were way better, and she’d been so earnest in her disagreement that he could still recall her expression. Then Claudia had suddenly appeared. He’d later found out she had been alerted by a ‘well-wishing friend’. Within seconds the chestnut-haired girl had been graciously dismissed and Zander had been swept away.

His attempts at remonstrance had been met with a shake of the head.

Dropped her books by accident? Don’t be stupid, Zan. That girl—Gabby Johnson—likes you. I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, but she’s a bit of a dark horse. No one knows much about her except that she lives with her grandparents. I just wanted her to know you’re taken.

In the here and now, he decided there was little point in reliving the details. ‘I do,’ he settled for saying. ‘So, how have you been?’

‘Fine. I’m sorry about Claudia.’ The words were simple but sincere, and, to his relief, she left it at that. No intrusive questions or additional sympathy.

‘Thank you.’

‘Right, well. Nice to see you again. I’ll leave you to go in.’

As she moved forward, a piece of paper fluttered from her hand and she looked down at it, made to reach for it and then clearly recalled that she was wearing a bunny suit.

‘We must stop meeting like this.’ Zander squatted down and rose. He handed her the paper, his gaze inadvertently taking in the words. Challenge No. 8. The penny dropped. ‘Hen party?’

‘No,’ she said, deadpan. ‘I usually parade around Bath dressed like this.’

‘Lucky Bath.’ OK. That was not what he had meant to say. But somewhere between his brain and his mouth, that was what had come out.

Gabby stared at him. ‘No. Not lucky Bath—and definitely not lucky me. Would you like to parade the streets dressed like this? Or the male equivalent, whatever that is. How about in a pair of tighty-whities?’

There was a silence as they both contemplated the scenario. Her face turned pink and her look of appraisal morphed into one of confusion. ‘And bunny ears,’ she added.

‘Probably not many women’s fantasy.’ Another vocal miscue. ‘Not, of course, that a bunny suit features in my fantasies. At all.’ And that was worse. It was obvious that it had been a long time since he’d interacted socially with a woman. Time for a subject change. ‘Anyway—did you manage the challenge?’

‘Nope. Not yet. I thought I’d come to the abbey and have a bit of time out...maybe come up with a strategy. Or even some courage would do. But I don’t feel comfortable going in dressed like this. It doesn’t seem right. Plus I’m nearly out of time, so I’d better get going.’

‘Maybe I can help?’

This caused her to pause. ‘Why would you want to help?’

‘I’m a nice guy. I wouldn’t like you to fail a challenge. Old times’ sake. Take your pick. So, what is the challenge?’

Reluctance warred with the hope on her face.

‘I need to get a photo of myself kissing a h—a...a stranger.’

Ah. This was what happened when you started a social interaction with a woman dressed in a bunny suit. Not that it was a problem; a simple peck on the cheek and they could both go their separate ways. Yet his awareness of her ratcheted up. His gaze skimmed the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose, the impossible density and length of her eyelashes, the glossy lushness of those kissable lips.

Stop. What was the matter with him? He quite simply didn’t look at women like this—hadn’t done since Claudia. The sooner he got this over with the better.

‘OK. I’ll help. I know we aren’t technically strangers, but it’s close enough.’

Uncertainty touched her features and then she expelled a sigh. ‘OK. Let’s get it over with.’

Despite the echo of his own sentiment, he felt irrational chagrin touch him.

As if she sensed his reaction, she reached out and touched his arm. ‘Sorry. That came out wrong. This is just a highly embarrassing situation for me. I’m a university librarian. An introvert. Being dressed like this... Asking someone to kiss me for a selfie is... I feel like an idiot. That’s what I meant. But what I should have said is thank you—I really appreciate this.’

‘No worries—and it’s not a big deal. Where shall we pose?’

They moved to the side of the entrance.

‘Here is fine.’ Reaching into her small clutch bag, she pulled out her phone. ‘OK. I’m ready.’

Zander leant forward and aimed for her cheek, ridiculously aware of her elusive flower scent, the smoothness of her skin and the glint of the chestnut sheen of her hair. Then at the last second she moved slightly, presumably in an attempt to position the shot, and instead of her cheek, his lips brushed hers.

Of course the right thing to do—the sensible action, the gentlemanly option—would have been to draw back. But that didn’t happen. Instead he froze, caught in a sudden surge of sensation, tantalised, yearning, preternaturally aware.

Gabby drew in the slightest of breaths, and that triggered something else. Did he pull her forward? Did she step towards him? He didn’t know and it didn’t matter. Because all he could think about was the imperative need to deepen the kiss.

Her lips were soft, pliant against his, and somehow—impossibly—it felt as though they were the only two beings bathed in the last rays of sunshine that hazed around them and added magic to the ambience. Strands of desire twined together into a knot of longing in his gut as Gabby gave a small moan, pressed against him, looped her hands round his waist.

Until the spell was broken as a teenager jostled them, then jumped back with an embarrassed muttered apology.

Gabby, too, moved backwards in a jerky movement, hazel eyes wide in shock, her breathing fast. ‘I... I...’

But clearly speech had deserted her, and without another word she spun round and walked away, her pace rapid. For a moment he opened his mouth to call her back—and then closed it again.

Bad idea. Bad move. Since Claudia’s death Zander had eschewed the whole dating scene for a reason. Too complex. Too confusing. Too complicated. Just like that kiss had been.

And so he stood still and watched Gabby walk away.