Text Me On Tuesday: All is Fair in Love and Texting ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 1)

by Whitney Dineen

  I am pathetic. A total disappointment to myself—first tossing my sense of honesty aside to carry on text conversations with Aimée under false pretenses, then trying to what? Start a relationship I shouldn’t be in?

  Dammit, Noel, use your head for more than a hat rack.

  But it’s too late now because I’ve already started the ball rolling. In about half an hour, an extremely expensive meal is going to show up and the two of us will linger over it while I try not to think about how badly I want to kiss her. And there’s no way I can kiss her (or do any of the other delicious things that have been rolling through my mind since she first skidded into my arms). I’ve literally lured her into my lair. If I make even the smallest move in the direction of anything physical, it will make me the worst sort of man—a slimy predator with no intention of a long-term relationship.

  I need to back this train up, like now. Grabbing a couple pads of graph paper and two pens, I loosen my tie and sit back down to wait her return. I need to keep this strictly business, so she won’t think me some sort of a letch who’s trying to take advantage of her. But if she were to make the first move, that would be an entirely different story …

  My phone pings and I grab it out of my pocket.

  SexyCaterer: Did you tell his Highness I had a big wet kiss for him?

  Me: Of course not. But do you?

  For God’s sake, Noel. Stop this!

  SexyCaterer: Tell me the truth. Are you trying to set me up with him?

  Me: I’d never do that. Why, does he seem interested?

  SexyCaterer: If I didn’t know any better, I’d say yes. He asked me to start coming in every Friday to cater a staff lunch, then he ordered dinner for us from Daniel so we can have a work meeting. That’s Daniel Bou-freaking-lud’s! Do you know how pricey that place is?

  Me: I’ve heard. It definitely sounds like he could be interested in you.

  A little squealing sound comes from the other side of the door, and I find myself grinning from ear to ear. She likes me.

  SexyCaterer: …

  SexyCaterer: …

  Me: You okay?

  SexyCaterer: Yes, good, but let’s just say it’s been a long day and I’m not exactly spring fresh.

  Me: Don’t worry about that. He has almost no sense of smell. Plus, he’s a gentleman. He would never make a move without knowing with 100% certainty it will be enthusiastically received. And at that point, he’s not going to care how you smell.

  SexyCaterer: Good to know. Okay, I should go back out there. I’ve been in his bathroom for a while now and he’s probably wondering what’s taking so long.

  Me: Let him wait. It’ll make you seem more unattainable. Straight men love that.

  SexyCaterer: But not potential employers, which is essentially what he is.

  Me: Po-tay-to, po-tah-to …

  I slip my phone back in the pocket of my trousers as soon as I hear the lock click. Aimée comes out and offers me a polite smile as she crosses the room. “That’s better.”

  “All set?”

  “Absolutely,” she says, sitting down on the tan leather armchair that sits perpendicular to the sofa.

  I’m on the cushion closest to the chair, which means our knees are only a few inches apart. “I got you a pad and pen in case you want to take notes.”

  “Oh, thanks.” She reaches for them at the same time I make a move to hand them to her. Our fingers touch again, and we both laugh awkwardly. I say, “sorry,” at the same time she says, “I’ve got it.”

  I pick up my own pad and jot Catering Meeting along with the date on top. “I know I sprang this whole thing on you, so no pressure to start pitching full menus or anything. I thought it would just be a good opportunity to discuss expectations and toss some ideas around.”

  “Sure,” she says with a nod. “Let’s start with the basics. How many people will I be feeding?”

  “There are a total of forty-two employees including me.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of people to be responsible for.”

  “It is,” I say, nodding.

  “That must feel like a lot of pressure.”

  It is. It really, really is. Shrugging, I say, “It’s nothing I can’t handle. I already have a fully staffed firm in London with eighty-nine employees. The trick is to stay focused, treat your staff and clients well, and work your arse off at all times.”

  She laughs, then puts on a falsely modest tone. “Oh, but it’s nothing really …”

  I offer a conciliatory nod. “It can be a lot. Luckily, I have broad shoulders.”

  “But still … you must have to keep so many balls in the air in order to make sure the money’s always flowing in.”

  “Yes,” I say with a smirk. “Big ones.”

  She blushes and shuts her eyes. “Why is it everything I say around you sounds dirty?”

  I glance at her full lips. “I have no idea, but I don’t mind as much as you might think.”

  Her face turns a slightly darker shade of pink and she quickly looks down at her paper. “Okay, so forty-two people. I’d need a list of allergies so I can make sure I accommodate them.”

  “I’ll have Byron get you the answer to that.” I jot down, allergies. Yes, this seems convincingly like a real meeting.

  “Great. Any special preferences?” She glances up and our eyes lock.

  “No, I trust you. It’s not a sit-down thing like our pitch the other day. I’ll just have you set up a buffet in the kitchen and keep it open for an hour or so. That way everyone can eat according to their own schedule.” I stare at her longer than is typically considered polite.

  She swallows hard, before asking, “Any preferences as a fellow foodie? Speaking of which, how was your curry the other night? Did it turn out?”

  She means the one I pretended I was going to make. The one I ordered was delicious. Nodding, I say, “Umm, I doubt it would have impressed you.”

  “Too many dried-up old grapes?” she asks with a playful grin.

  I let out a laugh, then nod. “Something like that.”

  “I’ll make sure I go easy on the raisins then. There is such a thing as too sweet.” She stares at me in a way that I hope means what I think it means. In response, I give her a lingering gaze that effectively jolts her out of whatever mood she might have been getting into. “What about theme lunches once a month? Sort of an around-the-world tour?”

  “Brilliant!” I answer. “I love that idea. Just not Scotland. What they call food is an abomination.”

  Laughing, Aimée writes something down and says, “No haggis.”

  “And no deep-fried Snickers bars either,” I say with an overly dramatic shiver.

  Grinning, she asks, “Have you never tried one?”

  I shake my head.

  “Right, you’re not a dessert guy. Well, take it from someone who can’t get enough sweets, they’re like deep-fried sin.”

  “I don’t mind a little sin,” I say, the air thick with my true meaning.

  She reaches down and picks up her wine glass, then guzzles back a surprising amount in one go.

  “Thirsty?” I ask.

  “Yup,” she squeaks out. “Okay, so what’s your budget?”

  “Oh, well, I haven’t thought about that. Should we say midrange? Something that says, ‘I appreciate you’ without breaking the bank?”

  “So, no saffron threads.”

  “Absolutely not. They’re fine people, but I do have a bottom line to consider.”

  The glass doors open and a man calls out, “Delivery for Noel Fitzwilliam.”

  I wave him into my office. After I sign for our meals, he hands over the bags, and leaves us alone again. The heavenly scent of our dinner fills the room, adding a new layer of temptation to an atmosphere already thick with it.

  Turning to Aimée, I hold up the bags. “Should we eat at the table?”

  “Sure.” She gets up, grabs the wine glasses and the bottle, a
nd makes her way over to the table while I pull the containers out of the bags. After a minute, we’re sitting down to what would be a decidedly romantic dinner for two if it weren’t supposed to be a meeting. Who needs a tablecloth, candles, and music when the most enticing woman you’ve ever met is sharing supper with you?

  We eat in silence for several minutes, with the exception of the moans of pleasure coming from my companion. She really has to stop doing that or I won’t be able to stand up without spokes-modeling the sham reason we’re eating together. I shift in my chair and top up our wine glasses.

  “Oh, I really shouldn’t,” she says, then she bites her bottom lip. “Well, maybe just half a glass.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let you leave here intoxicated. If need be, you can always sleep it off,” I say, sounding like one of the Brotherhood of British Scouts, of which I was once a member.

  Aimée glances at the sofa and interrupts my borderline erotic thoughts by saying, “That wouldn’t exactly be very professional of me, would it?”

  Or safe, I think while slicing into my flakey snapper and having a bite.

  When I glance up at Aimée, she’s got her eyes shut and she’s chewing like it’s the single greatest thing she’s ever tasted.

  “Are you enjoying your food?”

  “So good …” she says with a sigh that could only be described as highly suggestive. “Do you eat like this all the time?”

  “No, I usually stick with more somber fare—grilled salmon, brown rice, veggies. That sort of thing.”

  “That’s how you got that body,” she says, then her eyes grow wide and she sputters a bit. “Sorry, I did not mean to say that.”

  I do my best to look scandalized. “Ms. Tompkins, I am shocked. Are you objectifying me?”

  “No! I would never want to make you feel uncomfortable,” she says quickly. “I mean you do have a tremendously hard body. Not that I’ve been staring or anything. It’s just when … last week … in the bathroom … your arms and chest … and … nothing.” She grabs for her glass and tips it back.

  “Relax,” I say with a grin. “I really don’t mind hearing about my tremendously hard body. Especially from someone as lovely as you.”

  She swallows, looking temporarily stricken. “As lovely as me?”

  Don’t say it, Noel. Just get this meeting back into the safe zone. “Beautiful, smart, fun, amazing in the kitchen …”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m the whole package,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

  Sitting back in my chair, I lower my tone. “Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t put yourself down like that. You’re an extraordinary woman. Any man would be lucky to call you his.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aimée

  Noel just called me beautiful, smart, and fun. Oh, and amazing in the kitchen. My blood feels hot and thick like maple syrup being poured over a stack on hotcakes. My insides are quivering in a similar kind of anticipation. How do I respond to a comment like that? I know what I want to do, but jumping into his lap and attaching myself to him like a barnacle on the bottom of a boat might scare him away. Also, what if he’s not really flirting with me and I’m making this all up? Desperate stray, party of one …

  “Aimée? Did you hear me?”

  I look up from my plate and stare at him like he’s another species entirely. “Thank you,” I tell him sincerely, while trying to hold back a wall of emotion that’s building in my brain.

  “Thank you for asking if you want more wine?” he looks confused.

  “Did you ask me that? I’m sorry, I guess I was wool-gathering.” I push my glass toward him and say, “More wine would be nice.” I need another glass of wine like I need to gain ten pounds of cookie weight, but if I’m drinking, then at least I’m not talking. That’s solid reasoning, right?

  Noel opens another bottle and brings it back to the table. “When I was a boy, I used to think I wanted to grow up and be a refuse collector,” he tells me.

  A giggle pops out of me before I can stop it. “Why?”

  “Because our refuse collector was such a happy man. He always waved to people and wished them a good day. I thought it was his job that made him so happy.”

  “That’s sweet,” I say. “What did your parents say when you told them about your ambitions?”

  He releases a pent-up breath before answering, “My mother cried, and my father threatened to disown me.” Then he says, “They weren’t overly fond of me becoming an architect either, but they didn’t fight me too hard. Probably afraid I’d make good on my childhood aspirations if they pushed.”

  “What did they want you to do?” I ask, feeling oddly protective of Noel, the boy.

  “Get into politics. That’s where the real power is. And it’s one of the only suitable professions for the son of a lord.”

  “Oh … I see.” I reach across the table to take his hand in mine. I don’t know what to say to him, but darn if he doesn’t seem like he could use some comfort. I finally go with, “It’s hard when people have preconceived ideas about you, isn’t it?” I quickly let go, afraid I’m going to give him the wrong impression. Aaaaaaand sip.

  “You sound like you have some experience with that.”

  “Not with my parents, no. They’re totally supportive and encouraging of my dreams. I mean, they were hoping I’d be happy making my mark in the catering world back home in Rochester, but otherwise, they’re always in my corner.” I pause for a second, then add, “It’s just, I guess I feel that sometimes in relationships with men—the preconceived notions thing.” Why did I go down this alley again? Sip, sip.

  “How do you mean?”

  I really, really, super really don’t want to talk about this, but I opened the door, and the wine has loosened my tongue. Before I can stop myself, I say, “Men sometimes think that because I’m in the service industry, I’m easy.” I inwardly pray for a hole to open in the floor and swallow me.

  “How so?” He asks.

  “Take the guy I went out with last week. He took me out to dinner—appetizers really—and he talked about himself the whole time. Then when we got into the cab afterward, he told the driver his address, not mine. When I said I wasn’t going home with him, he told the cabbie to pull over and drop me off on the street.”

  “I hope you kneed him in the jolly roger on your way out.”

  I love how angry he is on my behalf.

  I take another fortifying gulp of wine. Or two. Okay, three. “I wish I had. I did tell him that only letting your date order an appetizer was like advertising you weren’t packing anything substantial in the junkular region.”

  Noel lifts his wine glass in the air and shouts, “Hear, hear!” Then he asks, “But I don’t understand what that man’s idiocy has to do with your employment. Maybe he was just a total cad.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Guys who ask you out when you’re serving them tend to think they won’t have to work too hard to get you into bed. That happens to a lot of us.”

  “That’s despicable.” Noel suddenly sits up straighter and tightens his tie. “And maybe I’m not much better than the rest of them. I feel that I owe you an apology. You must think I’m horrible for inviting you into my office for supper. After hours, even.” He starts to nervously tidy up the table.

  “I don’t think badly of you at all,” I declare. Then I fling my hand through the air like I’m tossing a baseball. Poorly. “Thish is handsh down the best meal I’ve had in years and you haven’t once made a move on me.” More’s the pity.

  “Yes, well, I held you naked in my arms and that certainly must have given you a moment for pause.” Beads of sweat pop up on Noel’s forehead and he loosens his tie once again.

  “That was an unexshpected comedy of errors. How can you feel responshible when you didn’t even know I was there?” Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

  “I’m afraid I held on a bit
too long,” he confesses, like I’m his childhood priest. “And before you excuse my behavior, you should know that I liked it.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I tell him, suddenly feeling the effects of three plus glasses of wine. My heads spins and my stomach bucks. It’s like I’ve just come off the Darian Lake Ride of Steel rollercoaster—the only rollercoaster I’ve ever vomited on.

  “You look a little peaked. Do you think you might need to lie down for a minute?”

  “Please.” I kick off my shoes and stand up which causes me to stagger. Oh, boy, I think I’m drunk. This meal is the first food I’ve had since my half bagel at breakfast and whoaaaaaa! the wine got to me before the food could do its job and soak it up.

  Noel leads me to the couch and hangs onto my hands while I drop my butt onto the cushion. “Thissssshish nice, thanks.”

  “Would you like a blanket? I have one in my closet.”

  “Totally. I would totally, totally, totally like a blanket. Toooooootally.”

  Noel hurries across the room and comes back with a beautiful silver-grey throw. He hands it to me, and I rub it all over my face. Sooooo soft. “Shmeer?” I ask him.

  “I’m sorry, what?” God he’s good looking, all British with his black hair and grassy green eyes. Eyes I could roll in … wait, how would that work?

  “Shmeer, shmeer, cashmeere …” My lips feel funny. Kind of tingly and numb at the same time.

  “Cashmere! Yes,” he says. “It’s a cashmere blanket.”

  “Wanna sit down with me?” I ask. “You’re such a nice man.”

  “Um, well, I don’t know. I don’t want you to think I’m getting inappropriate.”

  “Nah, sit down!” I slap the spot next to me with authority. Once he’s situated, I lean to the side and lie down, placing my feet on top of him. “Wanna rub my feet?” I ask. I love having my feet rubbed. So much so that if a strange man with a foot fetish asked if he could rub my feet, I’d totally let him. TOTALLY.