She hesitated. ‘It’s Gucci. You don’t want me to at least try to fix it?’
He shook his head. ‘No, just bin it. I’d rather not remember yesterday, to be honest.’
Not true, he thought as he shuffled into the bathroom. He wanted to remember everything about her, about Abigail. He wanted to fall asleep remembering the way she’d spun a rose out of a piping bag, and the delicious discovery that her nose creased when she laughed. Everything else could slip into oblivion. The drinking. The drinking and then the driving, which had led to a slow-motion collision that had almost ruined a woman’s wedding. That had forced Abigail’s temple to crash into her side window, and her van to crumple.
He’d vowed to stop drinking the moment the cars had lurched to an unnatural halt. Promised himself he’d seen the last of the bottles that kept him company most nights. He’d thought fleetingly of his possible blood alcohol level, then thought only of her: the blonde who had blinked dazedly out at him from the driver’s seat of the sweet little van he’d obliterated with his bad decisions.
He hadn’t drank that morning. At least, not since a little after two o’clock that morning … nine hours before he’d got behind the wheel of a tank and run her off the road, but the alcohol was to blame. He’d been so hungover. So unbalanced. His stomach had been churning. He’d been reaching for something to be sick in when it had happened.
He hadn’t seen her because he hadn’t been looking.
He’d make it up to her. Through insurance of course, but through kindness too. And good old-fashioned grovelling generosity that would leave her feeling suitably better off for the whole thing having happened.
He paused, turned, and retraced his steps to the kitchen, where he vaguely remembered seeing his phone tossed behind a third bottle of wine he hadn’t gotten around to before passing out.
He picked it up, wiped down the smudged screen, then unlocked it. He found what he was looking for in the gallery. He scrolled past the picture of him and the funny young woman from the shop, to the photo he’d taken sneakily by flipping the camera forward when Brittany had thought he’d been taking a second photo of them.
There she was; curled around a bouquet of edible roses, buttercream on her knuckles and cheek, a look of concentration on her striking face. A flawless, statuesque woman with chiselled cheekbones and a face so symmetrical artists and mathematicians alike would revere her.
Dillon wanted her more than he could remember recently wanting anything.
He scrolled right, to the photo he’d taken of her with the bride, both of their faces alive with delight. Two sneaky photos, because even whilst he’d been with her he’d worried it would be for the last time.
But it wouldn’t be for the last time, because he knew where she was.
Neal’s Yard was a kaleidoscope of eclectic shops facing a small courtyard near Shaftesbury Avenue. Climbing plants curtained the high brick walls. Low benches circled fifty-gallon drums. Small shrubs sought the grey sky, and between a blue door and a green door was the orange door Dillon was seeking. He paused in front of the window display.
A wine barrel was overflowing with summer flora that at first glance could be mistaken for real flowers. Burgundy sweet peas and pretty peonies. Roses, of course. Pink and red stocks. Vintage wooden crates and small terracotta pots held the living things, and he could lose a day comparing the real to the imitation. It was art. Edible art that he’d never considered might exist before the moment Abigail had folded icing sugar into seemingly endless overlapping strips, then held up a rose.
There was a profusion of fresh cow parsley towering over a small bundle of roses, all arranged artfully in a large old olive oil can. The New Covent Garden Market was close enough that the clever woman inside could conveniently keep herself in flowers all season.
He checked his watch. It was after five. It had taken him a long time to pull himself together, and longer still to give himself the appearance of a refreshing weekend. He’d caught a taxi here; his stomach still didn’t feel right and he’d thought it might say something positive to her that he was taking some time before getting back behind the wheel.
There was a risk she wouldn’t be here, but he suspected she would be; toiling away in the back, preparing orders for Monday, generating stock for the displays inside that would dazzle and delight. Bakers were early risers. He’d be lucky if he could convince her to share an evening with him, especially considering his role in her weekend. But he’d try.
He pushed his palm down his shirtfront, rolled his shoulders back, then knocked sharply on the doorframe. The closed sign bounced lightly against the glass.
He waited a moment, then knocked again.
The door blind was drawn, but he could see a light on above the half-height room divider behind the window display. A shadow moved across the silk-covered ceiling. The blind shifted just enough to accommodate one pale blue eye. ‘We’re close—’
The eye blinked, then disappeared.
The blind retracted. So suddenly he jumped. And then there was only a pane of glass between them; him in his tea best, her in a long flared skirt and that overtly feminine frilled apron. Her hands went to her waist and her mouth became smaller.
Of course, he should have expected this reaction.
He’d asked her out. She’d turned him down, kindly and politely, and now here he was—stalking her at her place of work. He needed to talk fast. Ease her mind.
‘Ah, please don’t look at me like that. I promise I’m not a creep.’
She crossed her arms and popped her hip. ‘Wouldn’t a creep say the same?’
Touché. ‘I can give you references.’
He couldn’t. Every number he could give her would connect her with an assortment of people who’d all vouch he was … well, the nicest thing to call him was lost.
Her lip twitched.
‘This looks bad, me showing up here after you so sweetly told me to piss off, I know. But I can’t stop thinking about you. About what I did to you. I know you’ll get your van back, I know you’ll work around the inconvenience of me crashing into you, but I want to make it up to you.’
‘Yesterday you wanted to date me, and, I presume, sleep with me. Now I’m supposed to believe you’ve a Good Samaritan’s heart?’
‘I still want to date you. And I would definitely not kick the likes of you out of my bed. But truly, I want a conversation. I want to buy you things until my conscience stops thumbing at the back of my eyes.’ He pushed his hand into his pocket and withdrew a black shape the size of a matchbox. ‘Here.’ He pushed it through the mail slot and she caught it before it slipped to the floor.
It was the key to the van Steve had driven yesterday.
‘No strings attached. Free for as long as you need.’
She bounced the key in her hand then regarded him curiously. ‘My insurance covers a replacement vehicle.’
‘They’re going to give you a van?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘One as good as the one you loved so much yesterday?’
He knew he’d struck gold the second before she smiled.
‘I’ve already given a statement to the police and lodged a claim with my insurance company,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to change my story for this bit of convenience.’
He rested his hands on either side of the doorframe. ‘I said no strings. All the details you need are in the glove box. You can return it whenever you want. No charge. No obligation. I’ve even put Steve’s number in the van, so you don’t have to speak to me if you don’t want to.’
Abigail rolled the key end on end. Her glorious lips were pressed together in thought, but were so pout-like that he had the insane urge to kiss the glass dividing them. This was what men must have felt when they’d spoken with Marilyn Monroe.
‘You have my number,’ she said. They’d exchanged details at the crash site. ‘Why didn’t you just call?’
‘Because I couldn’t have pushed that—’ he pointed at the key, ‘—through the phone.’ And
he’d have wanted to video call, which was a step up on the creep scale. ‘Listen, there’s this place.’ He lifted a scrap of paper from his pocket and read aloud Mary-Anne’s tiny, cramped handwriting. ‘Inama. No, Inamo. “Memorable” Pan-Asian cuisine.’ He looked up. ‘I thought we could try it. We could order a round of drinks, and if you can’t stand me you can get your food to go. What do you say?’
She watched him wordlessly, and he ached for her answer.
Should he say more? Should he wait her out?
She took a deep breath, and he expelled a defeated one. No. Another no.
‘I’ve been wanting to try that place,’ she said.
Dillon blinked in surprise. This sounded promising. Words built on his tongue, dozens of them. Nonsensical and non-essential. He pressed his mouth together to hold them in.
‘I have a few things to finish up here,’ she went on. ‘But I could meet you there in half an hour. It’s a five minute walk that way.’ She pointed.
‘I could wait.’ He regretted the offer the moment it was between them. She didn’t want to invite him into the shop, she was clearly alone. He held up his hand. ‘Forget I said that. I’m not usually this slow, I promise.’
Abigail smiled so deeply that her nose creased.
‘I’ll get us a table.’ He took a step back from the door, then another. He reined his smile in, kept it measured. ‘I, uh, will see you soon.’
‘See you soon,’ she echoed.
He left. He wanted her to see him leave, to know that he wasn’t just going to bounce from foot to foot on her doorstep until she came outside. He concentrated on his stride, kept his head high, and didn’t stop to check his phone for directions until he was around the corner out of sight.
When he looked up, the world seemed different.
Chapter 3
Choose your own tablecloth
She arrived exactly on time. Granted, Abigail had stood outside for a few minutes so that she would be on time, but she’d never confess to that.
There were few people inside, but it was still early for tea. Dillon wouldn’t have had trouble getting a table—he might have even had his pick of the best ones. She smoothed her skirt and touched her hairline. There was nothing she could do about her appearance, she’d dressed for a day in the shop; sensible shoes, a non-descript top. A jacket with more pilling than patterned curls. She’d expected to be working until nightfall, not in a restaurant with a man who’d literally collided with her life.
The tables were abnormally bright, and from her vantage point by the door, her thoughts filled with texture. Each surface was different. The wall on the left had a triangular geometric pattern. The partitions looked like a jumble of pick-up sticks interspersed with smooth slabs of marble. The chairs had thick-backed curves and the ceiling was industrial, like that of a disused warehouse. Nothing matched, and in the differences everything was united.
She liked it enormously.
A waiter appeared, his uniform an impressive combination of straight lines and bold colours.
‘Good evening,’ he greeted her pleasantly. ‘Table for one?’
‘Ah, no. I’m meeting someone.’ It had been a long time since those words had crossed her lips. They tickled slightly. ‘Dillon Wheeler.’
The waiter nodded and extended his arm to the right. ‘He is seated upstairs. This way please.’
He led the way, past sectioned dining spaces and a busy kitchen where food sizzled and heat lamps made countertops shine gold, to a curved glass staircase enclosed by a pebbled wall. She stared at it, lips parted, and thought of a flawless creek bed. The pendant lights were mismatched—golden dodecahedron shapes hanging at varying heights.
Dillon was seated in a far corner at an intimate table for two. He stood when he saw her, and upon seeing him, Abigail felt that same curious mix of interest and caution that she’d felt yesterday. And that she’d felt when he’d appeared at her shop. There was something about him that kept her instincts on guard, something secret and dark.
She’d never been drawn to the bad boy type; all her life she’d gravitated towards men with clever words and charm. Men who pursued accomplishments and social services. But look where that had gotten her. So, Abigail’s ‘type’ had reversed in a sense. She was now drawn to those she wouldn’t ordinarily be drawn to. Which meant she was here against her own good sense and caution.
What a curious weekend.
She offered Dillon a smile, then settled in the seat opposite him.
He sat, his gaze riveted to her face. His intensity was both flattering and disconcerting. She couldn’t decide which it was more—not yet. Maybe after a drink.
The waiter stood at the end of the table and rest one hand over the other. ‘Have you dined with us before?’
Abigail glanced at Dillon, then shook her head. How she would have loved to say yes, to be confident of something this evening. But everything was new; from the environment to the company, to the nerves that felt like a distressed bird in her belly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘First time.’
The waiter leaned forward and pointed to a spot on the brightly lit, floral patterned tablecloth. ‘You are in complete control of your dining experience with us tonight. Here—’ he touched the tablecloth and a menu appeared, ‘—you can select from our extensive range of drinks.’
Abigail’s hand flew to her mouth.
The tablecloth changed again. ‘Here, you can view our meals before choosing one.’
It was a projection. A clever, interactive projection that made traditional menus look hackneyed and quaint. She leaned forward in her seat to better see.
‘I’ll leave you to explore, but you need only touch here if you need any further assistance.’ The place where she would usually place her drink was like the service button on an aeroplane. Naturally.
He smiled at them both, then melted into the background.
Dillon leaned forward. ‘We can change the tablecloth too, if you like.’ He paused. ‘I’m glad you came. A little surprised, but a lot glad.’
She returned his nervous smile. ‘I realised you didn’t tell me where the van was parked.’
There was that top row of teeth—that rare, real smile. ‘A deliberate move on my part.’ He said it like it was a confession. ‘It’s in the parking garage nearest your shop. I rented a spot for a month. I’ll extend the lease if it takes longer to fix your van, of course.’
Abigail held up her hands and he lapsed into silence. ‘There’s no “of course”,’ she said. Her stomach rolled. ‘You don’t owe me anything beyond an insurance pay-out. This … this extreme generosity, it’s …’ Words failed her.
Dillon supplied some. ‘Making you uncomfortable.’
‘Yes!’ She slapped her hands onto the table, surprising both herself and the interactive tabletop. She lifted her hands quickly away, then tentatively tapped a point on the table that looked like the home screen. The snarl of images disappeared.
Dillon shifted in his seat. He pushed at the hair on the back of his neck and glanced around the striking room. ‘I’m sorry.’
He looked nothing like the glassy-eyed, pale figure that had ghosted around the crash scene yesterday then fumbled around her shop. His hair was tamed. Swept attractively to one side and high on his forehead. She’d never been partial to long hair on men, but on Dillon it worked. There was a James Dean quality to it, and coupled with his thick low brows and brown leather jacket, an appeal. He’d shaved. Clumsily judging by the nick near the slight cleft in his chin. And tonight he smelled good. The cardamom vanilla spice of his aftershave was potent enough to compete with the smell of richly flavoured food wafting up the stairs.
This Dillon she’d be happy to share a long drive with. Yesterday’s Dillon … not so much.
She dropped her gaze to the table. ‘No, I’m sorry. I’m being ungrateful. In my experience, people don’t rush forward to take responsibility—even when they’ve just nicked your paintwork. But here you are buying me tea and renting a car park
. And renting that van, too.’ She hesitated. She didn’t want to offer him an out—she needed the parking space and the van to continue her deliveries—but it was the right thing to do. ‘You don’t need to do all this, though. Your insurance premiums might go up because they’ll determine you at fault; you’ve your own car, your own … whatever that thing was … to worry about.’
Some of the light went back into his eyes. ‘A Humvee. A High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle.’
‘It’s as wide as an entire lane of traffic,’ she returned, smiling, ‘but, nevertheless, it’s going to need a lot of work too.’
He waved a hand. ‘Insurance. My company pays a small fortune to its insurance company every year, we won’t be out of pocket.’
She wasn’t going to win this one. He was determined to help her and throw money at the problem. And the problem was, she needed the money.
So, okay.
She sat back. ‘Then … thank you.’
Her acceptance appeared to delight him.
‘Excellent.’ He opened his arms over the table. ‘Let’s order some drinks. I hear the cocktails are amazing.’
They certainly looked and sounded amazing. The interactive menu was full of colour and mouth-watering descriptions, and after playing one choice off against the other, she decided on a saké mojito. Dillon ordered an Inamo Spark, and the whole experience felt curiously like ordering take-out through an app on her phone, except she was in a beautiful place instead of on her too-comfy couch.
She touched her fingers to her temple—the place where she’d smacked against the window. She’d had a dull headache ever since, but the pain was weaker now, almost below notice.
‘Okay, stranger,’ she said. She was unsure where to put her hands. The table seemed too risky so she settled them awkwardly on her lap. ‘I know you don’t like to take no for an answer. I know you’re a terrible driver and you work at a car hire company.’
He nodded. ‘Wheels.’
She knew the place, she’d driven by it many times on various deliveries. The front yard was crowded with incredible cars; everything from Jeep Wranglers as red as the London telephone boxes, to sleek, oyster-coloured stretch limousines. Convertibles. Classics. Wonderful little Smart cars and enormous American utes. The business was a London favourite. It was listed in almost every tourist brochure and weekender lifestyle magazine: a lavish way to see the Swinging City, a glamorous way to enjoy the Big Smoke.
Have Your Cake Page 4