Читать книгу The Wedding Date: The laugh out loud romantic comedy of the year! - Zara Stoneley, Zara Stoneley - Страница 13

Reasons this could possibly work:

1 1. He has not got a combover (so infinitely better than Desmond).

2 2. He has a pert bum (and the rest of him is more than a little okay).

3 3. He loves his family (which is a definite positive as he will have to cope with mine).

Jake has got a full head of his own hair, and makes the type of confident entrance that makes people stop what they’re doing and glance his way. And he’s not even famous yet (as far as I know).

We know it’s him because he looks exactly like you’d imagine him to from his profile picture on Facebook (which has to be a first in the history of social media) and because, to eliminate all doubt, Amy has stood up and rather enthusiastically shouted ‘Jake, Jake, we’re here. Where’ve you been?’

Even though the restaurant is a bit dimly lit, I’m pretty sure Jake would have spotted them, his family, unless he was pretty dim too. But it’s nice of her to make sure we’re in the picture, I just hope she doesn’t blow our undercover mission out of the water.

‘O-M-F-G, swoon-worthy or what?’ I think Sarah is trying to sell this to me rather over-enthusiastically, probably because I look like I’m about to duck out. I was actually so excited that I didn’t sleep last night, but now I’ve got what I can only think of as first date nerves, even though it isn’t a date.

So far we’ve only seen the back of him, as he heads over to his family, straight into a hug and kiss with what has to be his granny. Which I suppose is a point in his favour (see point 3, above). Being demonstrative is good, doing it in public is even better considering the role he will need to play. ‘I wish he’d turn around so I can see his face.’

‘Forget his face, just look at that cute arse.’ Sarah stops waving her breadstick and starts to eat it in a very suggestive manner. ‘That wasn’t in any of the photos.’

I am looking at his arse. I can’t stop staring at his arse, in fact. But that is not the point. ‘I have to look at his face, not arse. It’s a wedding. It’s a week.’ I bury my head in my hands (but can’t help peeping between my fingers at his very nice back view, he has a broad back, the type that is toned and probably tanned – not that I’ll be getting to see that). This is a mix of scary and exciting. ‘A week.’ With a total stranger. And my family.

It sounds a bit like a wail to my own ears, and I hope nobody else has noticed. Sarah has. She pats my hand. ‘You’ll be fine. Just think what you could get up to in a week.’ She winks, then goes all swoony again. I think I need to get a move on, or she’ll be taking matters into her own hands. Literally.

‘And eyes are important. I can’t make lovey-dovey faces if I don’t like his eyes.’ Although I did like his eyes in the photos. I could quite easily gaze adoringly at him for a week if he really does look like that and it isn’t all down to photoshopping. Because, you never know, his agent could check every photo before he’s allowed to post it online.

‘You’re just so bloody fussy. Any minute now you’ll be saying he needs a brain and—’ she puts her posh voice on ‘—good conversation.’

‘Sod off, Sarah.’

‘A man’s not for life, Sam, he’s just for a wedding.’ She giggles and tops up our wine glasses. ‘Are you eating that bruschetta, or shall I?’

‘You think this is funny, don’t you?’ To be fair, I probably would if the roles were reversed. ‘And yes, I am eating it, hands off.’ I need any carbs I can get my hands on, to soak up the wine I suspect we’re going to be drinking. I also might have to tell her to keep her hands off my man as well. Not that he’s my man yet. ‘What…’

Then he turns around and I forget whatever I was going to say next.

The main issue with staring at a man’s pert bum, is that if he spins round you find yourself staring at his crotch.

I once looked up ‘crotch’ in the dictionary. Don’t ask. I think I was in the waiting room at the dentist’s and read it in some countryside or gardening magazine. It was an article about tree pruning, with photos of some very masculine looking types hanging off branches dangling chainsaws. I was confused, and bored, so I Googled. Anyway, it means (if you ignore the obvious) a fork in a tree, road, or river. As in the trunk where it splits into two branches, get it? This fork was very snugly encased in the jeans that are also caressing his rear.

‘Oh fork.’

Sarah splutters crumbs. Christ, did I really say that? And in that way?

‘Fork indeed.’ Her eyes are watering as she spits the words out between what sounds like a cat coughing up fur balls, but I think it’s a mix of laughter and tears, and trying not to make too much noise. At least it stops the suggestive breadstick sucking.

I glance upwards, just to check he’s not looking at us because of the noise she’s making, and he is. Looking at us. Well, he’s looking straight at me, and he has got the dirtiest grin I have ever seen on his face. All Hugh Grant and awfully British, but awfully naughty. It is way, way sexier than the grin he had on his Facebook profile.

Then he winks. And my face is on fire, along with several other parts of my body.

Shit. ‘I can’t do this.’ After I’ve been caught ogling him like that, he’ll think I’m sex-starved. He’ll turn me down.

‘He is seriously gorgeous.’ Sarah is now licking the end of the breadstick in a way that could get us thrown out.

He is. ‘He thinks I’m some sort of perv before he’s even met me. He’ll probably say no.’ I stare at the very interesting tablecloth and try and peek through my eyelashes to see if he’s still looking our way. He isn’t, he’s got his arm round a woman who’s brought more bread to the table.

‘Honestly, what a flirt, what a chauvinist, I’m not sure I’d want to be seen with him.’ Does he hug everybody? I mean, I want him to hug my mother, but not spend all his time embracing other women while I look on.

‘What does it matter?’ Sarah shrugs, and stabs a piece of penne pasta. I hadn’t even noticed our meals arriving. I really, really hope she doesn’t start to suck on that. ‘He’s probably used to women staring, and he’s not going to think you’re that normal anyway, is he?’ She laughs. ‘Anyway I know you don’t mean it, you can’t stop looking at him.’

Exactly. What normal woman would think of doing this? But thinking I’m not normal is one thing, thinking I’m some kind of sex-starved not-normal is another.

‘He’s probably very big-headed, and shallow.’ I don’t think my face is glowing quite as much now, it’s calmed down to a simmer. My red blotchy chest is another matter though. Why didn’t I wear a high necked top? Embarrassment, lust and heat always make my chest blotchy. Not that this is about lust. Now he’ll think I’ve got some strange disease, as well as being sex-starved. He’ll turn me down even if (and it is an ‘if’) I do offer him the equivalent of a down payment on a bachelor pad.

How excruciating would that be to admit to? Even worse than admitting I didn’t have a new fabulous boyfriend and having to spend a week in Scotland trying to ignore pitying looks. ‘We won’t have anything in common.’ Oh gawd, now he has a little girl on his knee, and she’s giggling and looking at him adoringly as he balances a breadstick on his upper lip and I don’t mind him hugging her at all. He’s not at all self-conscious or flirty. I admit it, I wouldn’t mind at all being seen with him. Spending a whole week with him. But will he feel the same about me?

‘Methinks you doth protest too much.’ Sarah is watching me now, not him. ‘You fancy him don’t you? Go on, admit it!’

He laughs, a full-throated kind of laugh that makes me feel tingly, and I forget to take a drink from the glass I’m holding up to my mouth.

She’s right. I do fancy him. Who wouldn’t? I fancy him even more as he leans down and picks up the napkin that his mother has dropped, then leans in to replace it and whisper in her ear. He really would be the perfect date, the type of man who would have my mother in raptures and my father’s nod of approval. Even if it is all just pretend.

Sarah is still staring. Openly. ‘And anyway just think of loser Liam and up the duff Delia or whatever she’s called; he will totally buy into you two as a couple, you’ll look great together.’

To be honest, I’ve stopped caring about Liam. I can’t take my eyes off Jake. If anybody could prove to me what a total waste of my life Liam was, he’s sitting right across the room.

I grab my mobile phone.

‘What are you up to now?’ Sarah whips away my last bit of chocolate brownie before I get a chance to object. To be honest, I’ve hardly noticed the food, I’d be hard put to say what I’ve eaten.

‘Texting Amy. I want to do this, I need to do this. Taking Jake to the wedding is a brilliant idea!’

Sarah grins, then raises her glass. ‘I couldn’t agree more!’

I get a return message from Amy just after I’ve got home. Jake is up for it. He’s suggested we meet on neutral ground so we can discuss details. The address is a bit weird though. Waggytails Wescue, sorry Rescue, Centre.

Jake is a volunteer dog walker, and he’s suggested that I either join him or meet him after his shift. Rather rashly I have agreed to be a dog walker as well, and Sarah has insisted on joining me for moral support, because she loves dogs, and because she’s nosey. She has also promised not to spy on us when I’m chatting to Jake – this is weird enough without having an audience. I think her main reason for coming is to make sure I actually go through with it because she thinks this is such an ace idea. Personally, after seeing Jake in the flesh I tend to agree, but it’s still a bit awkward, isn’t it, hiring a date? It has to rate as the most embarrassing thing I have ever done.

***

‘Amy said Jake will meet us here.’ I’ve still not corresponded directly with Jake, so I hope Amy isn’t having me on. How disappointing will it be if I don’t get to look into those lovely eyes of his close up? And of course, I have to remember the important bit, I will be back to square one as far as the wedding plans go. ‘She said to go to reception and give our names, they’ll hand over the dogs and then we’ll meet him on the walk.’

Simple. What could be more perfect than a nice stroll in the fresh air, with some happy dogs and a gorgeous man?

So why do I feel all wobbly inside, and have fingers that are incapable of doing the simple things like my shoelaces? It took me an hour to get dressed this morning! I only had minor butterflies in my stomach at that point, but they have started to flap harder as the day has progressed. Now they are a tsunami of insects.

I don’t know whether it’s anticipation, excitement or just fear. I imagine this is how I’d feel if I was about to bungee jump off a big cliff. I want to jump, I need to jump, but the sensible bit of me is saying it might be a little bit dangerous.

Anyway, I started off with jeans, Converses, T-shirt and hoodie, then tried every combination of vaguely sensible (and some not so sensible) dog-walking outfits, and ended up back where I started.

I am also knackered after a bit of a jittery night. I had this dream (and I hardly ever remember my dreams) where I was denounced during the wedding speeches for being a fake and a liar. Jess was in tears, Liam had this massive head which he literally laughed off, and Johnny Depp made me walk the plank. I was grabbed by the Loch Ness monster, but then rescued by Jake who gave me the kiss of life, then slung me onto the back of his horse.

All of this has to be a good omen. He rescued me. And Liam’s head fell off. I’m therefore feeling extremely positive this morning, and know that this will definitely work.

If Jake passes the basic criteria of good manners (for the parents), good looks (I think that box is well and truly ticked) and the ability to deceive (normally the complete opposite of what you look for in a man, but this isn’t normal) then I will sit down and discuss terms with him in a very business-like manner over a cup of coffee.

The dogs’ home apparently routinely turns down unsuitable adopters, despite them offering money and good homes, and I do not intend to suffer the same fate. Not that I’m offering him a home, just food and board for a week. And not that I’m calling him a dog.

The girl on the desk, who is wearing a badge that says ‘Em’, looks at us with slight suspicion. ‘What did you say your name was again? You definitely rang?’ Anybody would think they had a kennel full of Cruft’s champions that we wanted to steal. ‘You’ll have to fill a form in. Here.’ Her hand is halfway to the form when it stops, suspended in mid-air, and she is suddenly transformed into Mrs Smiley-face.

‘Hey, there.’ It’s a deep, very masculine voice, with the hint of a drawl that makes you want to turn around and look. And from Em’s swoony face, I’d say it might be worth doing just that. Any minute now she’ll be rolling over to have her tummy tickled.

A tanned, muscled forearm lands on the desk, next to my own much smaller one, so I look. I mean, I might as well, I’m not going to get any sense out of reception girl.

He winks at me. It is him, definitely him, and somebody has turned the heating up in here.

I resist the urge to flap my T-shirt to let some air in, and stare.

‘Everything okay?’ He glances from me to Em, and she edges closer. I no longer exist in her world.

‘Epic.’ Em is much cooler than I am, in all senses; her blush is a light smattering of pink along her cheekbones, I think I’ve gone beetroot-coloured all over. ‘Are you taking the girls out next, Jake?’

Gawd. She knows. How can she know?

‘I certainly am.’ He smiles, a lovely warm smile that looks totally genuine. ‘But I just wanted to check Sam and Sarah had arrived before I go and put their leads on.’ Phew, so the girls are dogs. ‘Okay if I meet you at the start of the Woodland Walk, Sam? I’ve got to make a quick phone call but I know Em here will take good care of you.’

All I can do is nod.

‘See you shortly then.’ He raises a hand, and smiles again, and the dimples at the corner of his mouth deepen.

I could stare at him all day, if he hadn’t just headed off. O-M-G I could end up taking this man to the wedding! It is really happening. He is even more gorgeous close-up in the flesh, and he hugs puppies. He couldn’t be more perfect if I’d handpicked him out of an escort catalogue (if they have such a thing).

Sarah is nudging me, and I realise that Em is talking. She has reverted to grumpy teenager mode.

‘I didn’t realise you were with Jake. Why didn’t you say?’ She is sounding slightly miffed. ‘Jake and his sister Amy help us out lots.’ She emphasises the last word, and shoots me a ‘hands off’ look. I feel a totally irrational twinge of possessiveness, then tell myself that she’s far too young for him. ‘He’s wonderful.’ Her voice loses its edge, then the phone rings and breaks her out of her daydream. ‘Come on then, I’ll take you through and we’ll find some dogs that need walking. You are used to dogs?’

We both nod. Honestly, how difficult can walking a dog be?

‘Oh yes.’ I wave an arm flamboyantly to make my case more clearly. ‘We’ve always had dogs.’ She doesn’t look overly impressed, though teenagers don’t often, do they?

‘Retrievers, collies, rescues … difficult dogs.’ I’m getting carried away. We had a very old Labrador at home that used to steal sausages off my plate and lie on my feet snoring and farting. The most difficult thing about him was his inability to resist food of any kind. And we had the mad springer spaniel. By the time he was six months old my parents had made a strategic decision to ‘manage’ rather than ‘control’ his behaviour. Which meant he did what he liked most of the time and this caused less stress all round.

‘We had a sausage dog when I was young,’ Sarah sighed. ‘She was so cute.’ She shrugs her shoulders in a ‘want to squeeze cute dogs’ kind of way. ‘I used to dress her up, and take her to bed with me.’

‘Awesome. I’ll give you Tilly then.’ Em grins, warming to this new cuddly side of Sarah that I didn’t know existed. Dogs do that to people. ‘She really misses her cuddles, you’ll love her. She is just so sweet and sensitive.’

She says something else, but her last few words are lost as we round a corner to where the kennel blocks are, and are met with a wall of barking. I never knew dogs could make such a racket. Terriers are leaping up and down as though they’re on springs, a collie is quaking in its boots, and a brindle Staffordshire bull terrier eyes me up silently as though he has seen it all before.

Em doesn’t seem to notice the chaos. She carries on talking, and we nod in the gaps when her mouth stops moving. I haven’t got a clue what she’s saying, but it can’t be that bad.

It turns out it is that bad.

She was asking if I thought I’d be okay with Tank, seeing as I was experienced and he could be tricky.

I must have nodded.

Tank sat down as she put his lead on, cocked his head to one side and stared as though to say, ‘I’ve got the measure of you’.

‘Go across that field, just follow the signs, the woodland walk is that way. Do a couple of laps, half an hour will probably be enough, but I suppose Jake will tell you. See you later, have fun.’ And she’s gone before we have time to say anything, not that I could have said anything as Tank is off, intent on yanking my shoulders out of their sockets. Half an hour of this? You’ve got to be kidding me, I already feel like one of those rubber stretchy men that kids throw at windows.

It’s also raining, that drizzly stuff that makes you feel a wimp if you put your hood up, but leaves you soaked if you don’t. My hair has started to curl, my fingers are numb and I’ve got a nagging twitch at my temples which normally heralds a headache. And we’ve not started the walk yet. But there is a bright light on the horizon. Jake.

‘Do I look like a drowned rat?’ Will he change his mind, when he sees me like this?

‘A bit.’ Sarah laughs. ‘Chill, he liked you, I could tell. He’ll do it.’

There is a big problem with walks in rescue centres, even when you’re doing the corner of the field bit and not the under trees bit, and that is everybody walks along the same path. Which means it is muddy, unless you’re in the middle of a dry summer. Which we are not.

Now I like dogs, I love dogs, but this is no normal dog. Sarah has a cute, nervous whippet which is side-stepping the boggy bits daintily, while me and the Tank-mobile wade straight through like a Sherman tank, scattering well-meaning dog-lovers as we go, saying sorry a lot. Me, not Tank. Tank doesn’t care. He is having the best time ever. Tank is a donkey crossed with a hippo, a hippo who has discovered freedom and a mud bath. He has been along this path before, he knows the way to the woodland walk, and nothing is going to stop him.

‘Look!’ Sarah has stopped dead in her tracks. Well, not dead. She’s bouncing on the spot.

I look, it’s hard not to though it does involve taking my attention off the Tank for a moment.

Mistake. Up until now I’ve been slipping and sliding a bit, in fact I probably look a bit like a first-time water skier, but now Tank leaps forwards, and I’m yanked off my feet. For a split second I’m airborne, then I’m eating mud.

‘Noooo…’ Tank is away, dragging me along in his wake.

‘There he is! It’s Jake.’

And we are heading straight for him. Jake is standing by one of the signs that marks the woodland walk, and he’s not looking at all like a drowned rat, or wimpy. He glances up, and sees us. How can he not, when Sarah is about as subtle as a panther in the snow, and I’m hurtling towards him like a bobsleigher, determined not to let go of the leash?

Even at this distance and with the mud that’s being kicked up in my face, I can see he’s got three dogs of assorted sizes at his side (all beautifully behaved), and half the staff are milling round him, though he absolutely doesn’t need any kind of help at all. Unlike me.

Tank barks a welcome, speeding up, and I’m pretty sure Jake’s jaw has dropped as we hurtle towards him. I’m not sure if he’s amazed the dog can pull me, or worried he’s going to get trampled.

‘Oh shit.’ He throws the leads at one of the bystanders. ‘Hang on.’ I am hanging on, that’s the problem. But I can’t catch my breath to say it. I close my eyes, this is going to end badly, I just know it is.

It hasn’t. We’ve stopped.

‘Settle down, settle down, good boy.’

I open my eyes. He has got Tank by the collar, and he’s crouched down, peering at me with a worried frown on his face.

‘Are you okay?’ My God, he’s strong. He’s stopped the unstoppable. He’s holding the dog with one hand, and now he’s managing to pull me to my feet with the other. ‘Sam?’

‘Sam, Sam.’ Sarah has caught up with us, and I can see she’s not quite sure how I’ll take it if she collapses in hysterics. ‘Wow, I’ve never seen anybody do that in real life before.’

‘Tank has.’ My rescuer shakes his head and very gently tucks a bedraggled strand of my hair behind my ear, his warm fingertips brushing my skin, which makes me shiver. ‘All in one piece?’

I swallow hard, and blink. I’m not quite sure if it’s his touch or that smooth, concerned voice that’s responsible for the weird sensation. I think even my scalp has got goose bumps.

‘No harm done.’ It comes out a bit shaky, with a very nervous laugh at the end that I didn’t intend at all.

Sarah looks like a cat watching a ping-pong game, her gaze switching rapidly from Jake to me, and back again. ‘I’ll er, leave you to it, shall I? Catch you later?’ At least I think that’s what she says, but I can’t really concentrate.

He’s staring at me. ‘I think you need to sit down, you’re in shock.’

‘I, er, do feel a bit wobbly.’

‘I’m sorry, I should have met you at the kennels, but I never thought they’d give you Tank. I’ll have words.’

‘Oh no, no, don’t have words.’ Jake being all masterful is sending goose bumps down my arms (they seem to be getting everywhere), and it would be quite nice to see somebody wading in to support me. But not very fair on the staff. ‘It was my fault, I said I’d be fine, I am, er, used to dogs.’

‘Are you sure? You could have been hurt.’ He’s looking at me like he seriously cares, and my legs are going a bit wobbly.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You sound breathless.’

That is probably down to my close proximity to him, not my adventures with Tank. He even smells good.

My dream was sending out the right signals, he’s already saved me, and we’re nowhere near Scotland yet.

His eyes really are as amazing close up as they were in the photos and from the other side of the restaurant. He’s got this steady gaze that makes me feel like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Which could be dangerous.

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Eek, his thumb is on my cheek. ‘Mud.’ His smile is so familiar, I feel like I’ve known him for ages. ‘There, that’s better.’ My face might now be clean, but there is no hope for the rest of me.

‘We’ll walk round slowly, shall we? Then grab a coffee? I’ll take Tank, I’m used to him. Here, you hold little Angel, and somebody else can take the other two dogs.’

Angel who is about six inches tall, and looks like a waft of breeze would carry her away, looks up at me trustingly. I like Angel. I also like Jake.

‘You did a great job of hanging on to him, most people would have let go.’

I rather wish I’d been most people, but Jake thinks I’ve done a great job, which makes me feel warm inside.

Miraculously though, just like that, Tank seems to have lost his head of steam. Maybe Jake is also a dog whisperer, as well as an actor.

Even at a slow-for-Tank walk, we lap most of the other volunteers who are sauntering along as though they’re on a Sunday morning stroll – which helps to dry me out. At least I’m going too fast to feel embarrassed. I really wish I’d gone for a date that involved wine, not fresh air and four-legged furries in need of a good home. I need to lie down.

‘So…’ Jake is studying me out of the corner of his eye, which is a bit unnerving and distracts me from the need to lie down. ‘You’ve not been here before?’

‘No, does it show?’ We both laugh, at exactly the same time.

‘I don’t know what got into Em, giving you this thug.’

I have got a feeling I know what got into Em. ‘It’s not a problem, honest. I’m fine.’ And I now know that he is more than capable of rescuing me from Loch Ness monsters, or any other attacks. His protective streak is a definite mark in his favour, not that I’ve found any reason not to beg him to come to Scotland with me.

‘He’s a nice dog really.’

‘Just big.’

‘Just big.’ We walk along in companionable silence for a bit, and it doesn’t feel awkward at all. ‘Amy tells me you work at the travel agent’s in town?’

‘I do, so if you ever need a discount…’

‘I might take you up on that sometime, must be handy.’

‘And you’re an actor?’

‘I am, you might have caught my finest TV moment.’ I glance at him. If this is a test, I’ve failed; I haven’t caught any of his TV moments.

‘Erm.’

He’s grinning, the faintest of lines fanning out from those mesmerising eyes. ‘You don’t mean you missed it? Tut. Watch Holby City?’

‘Well, yes.’ I’m wracking my brain, trying to picture him with a stethoscope and failing. Well, I can picture him with a stethoscope, but I certainly can’t picture him in an episode of Holby. Maybe I missed one.

‘I was in the third bed along, second episode this season.’

‘Ah.’

‘Arm in a sling.’ He laughs, and Tank jumps up and licks his cheek.

‘So is that what you want to do? TV?’

‘Jake!’ A girl yells his name and I realise with a jolt that we’re back near the kennels. Which is a shame. I’d quite like to know what he wants to do.

‘I’ll take the dogs if you like, and you can clean up?’ He’s grinning as he speaks, which he seems to do quite a lot, and I look down at my clothes. I’d almost forgotten about the mud. Almost. ‘I’ll catch you in the café, and we can chat more?’

‘Great, I’d like to.’

‘And you can tell me more about your indecent proposal.’ The way he says it makes me blush, and the wink leaves me dithering between objecting and wishing it actually was supposed to be indecent.

He whisks Angel up into his arms and has gone before my mushy brain can think up a suitably snappy reply.