‘Perfectly.’ His growl wasn’t nearly as scary as he intended. ‘This is my first time at organising a wedding breakfast and I want to get it right. I’ve absolutely no intention of doing it again.’
‘I’m sure Mrs Brennan-to-be will be very glad to hear that.’
‘What?’ Some tooting and a curse from a voice that wasn’t dark and rich interrupted the conversation. Then he was back. ‘Sorry?’
Cassie spoke slowly. ‘Your intended? Mrs Brennan-to-be. Will she be joining us tomorrow? I find that it cuts down on problems and saves a lot of everyone’s time if the happy couple thrash out ideas and differences way before the event. So I’d prefer to meet you both. Tomorrow. If that’s okay?’
There was a pause. Then, ‘There is no Mrs Brennan-to-be.’
Ah. She knew it—that deep voice was way too good to be heterosexual. ‘Oh. Sorry. Er...well, bring Mr Brennan-to-be along.’
‘No. No. No. Not at all. I’ll explain tomorrow...er...?’ She imagined him sitting in the back of a cab, squinting through a monocle at her business card, trying to make out the name of the woman he was phoning.
‘Cassie,’ she reminded him. No wife? No husband. ‘Erm...you’re not one of those marrying his pet iguana kind of guys, are you? I mean, I’m not one to judge, but I’m not sure what iguanas eat.’
He laughed. Finally. Hesitant—reluctant, even, but there. Free for a moment, unctuous like thick, warm chocolate ganache. Or was it just a gasp? Whichever, it was gone as quickly as it appeared. ‘I have no intention of marrying a man or an iguana. Or anyone, for that matter, Cassie. Yes. Short for Cassandra?’
‘Says the guy who doesn’t want my life story.’ But now she really, really wanted his. Although she wasn’t surprised such a grumpy, tetchy man hadn’t got a wife-to-be or a husband and was only appealing to a reptile.
But she really, really needed his money.
There was another toot of a horn, his voice fading in and out. ‘Tomorrow, then. Oh, and one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Leave the paring knife at home.’
This had to be the weirdest conversation she’d ever had. Organising a wedding breakfast for a man who wasn’t getting married. Maybe he’d had his heart broken and couldn’t move on? Maybe he was channelling Miss Havisham? Tragic.
And that was definitely none of her concern. Because she was not going to allow any man to wheedle his way into her business or her heart—especially her heart—ever again.
* * *
Jack Brennan jogged down the steps of his Notting Hill home and checked his watch—time minus twenty minutes. What the hell he was doing he didn’t know. But if he could organise a film crew to shadow a rock group across twenty European music festival venues at the drop of a hat, he could organise a few flimsy sandwiches.
No.
His heart squeezed a little. Lizzie was not getting sandwiches for her wedding. He’d make damned sure of that. She deserved a whole lot better, whether she liked it or not. He just had to find the time—and courage—to tell her.
A wall of noise greeted him as he opened the door to Bean. The café was filled with the Friday after-work-before-dinner crowd. With standing room only, he was grateful that the scatty-sounding Cassie had shown a little foresight to book a room, because discussing the finer points of canapés across this racket would be impossible. Still, the food smelt of something exotic and spicy—garlic, chilli and coriander—sending his stomach into a growling fit, and he remembered he hadn’t eaten. Editing his current documentary had taken up the majority of his afternoon. Food had, as always, taken a back seat.
Ten minutes later he was still standing there, blood pressure escalating. Unused to being stood up, looked over or generally let down these days, he made for the exit. Cassie Sweet had had her chance. If she couldn’t make it on time for the initial meeting, how could he trust her to be reliable for the event? The event he needed so badly to be a success.
As he reached for the handle the door swung almost off its hinges and a blur of colour rushed in. ‘Hey—Mr Brennan? Jack? Are you Jack? I’m Cassie.’
‘You’re late.’
‘I know—I’m sorry. I tried to call but reception was patchy—’ She dug deep into a large battered brown satchel that looked like a relic from way before his school days and pulled out a phone and showed him it. ‘I got held up with a client at a birthday party. There was an emergency and I just couldn’t leave her with all those children.’
From the phone call last night and what he knew about chefs—which was diddly-squat—he’d conjured up an image of an older, larger, bitter woman, hair piled up on her head exposing two fat ruddy cheeks and small glittering eyes. Okay, so what he knew about chefs amounted to a TV reality show about some Scottish bloke swearing in a sweat-filled steel kitchen and the overly cuddly nineteen-twenties period drama below-stairs cook.
Wrong. So damned wrong on every level.
A twinkle in her eye, yes. A cocky mouth, yes. But he hadn’t imagined such a mouth—teasing and smiling. Lips that were full and covered with a slick of something shimmery and red. Pinned-up hair, yes. But secured with a pair of chopsticks on the top of her head, with wisps of vibrant auburn corkscrewing at angles round her face.
Something glittered on her cheek, a smudge that sparkled—he thought for a moment about pointing it out. But it kind of went with the whole chaotic look.
And curves, yes. Very interesting, framed by a bright loose-fitting top in dazzling browns and blues and oranges, the kind of thing an old-fashioned gypsy might wear, secured by a thick dark brown belt. Below that, a layered frilly white skirt ended just above her knees. On her feet she wore flat leather laced tan sandals. All Greek goddess meets hippy. A crazy artsy type with her head in the stars. So not his type. A pretty head, though, porcelain skin. And that hair...
As wild and crazy as she was.
This whole escapade was already shifting him way too far out of his comfort zone; he didn’t need a too-hot boho airhead added to the mix. Regardless of the curves and the hair...and the curves...
He shook his head. ‘Well, I’m sorry. You’ve had your chance; I’m leaving.’
‘Oh. But we haven’t even—’ Her mouth turned downwards, her hand on his arm. ‘Please don’t. I did try to call...’
‘I don’t have time to be wasted. Nate said you were reliable. And keen.’ Frazzled more like, as if she was juggling a zillion things in the air and they were all dropping around her. But she was still smiling and he was drawn to that, in some kind of weird masochistic way.
So she was pretty. Didn’t mean a thing. Certainly didn’t mean the woman could cook.
Nate had also mentioned she’d been babied during a difficult upbringing, that she’d had little direction in her life apart from partying and that she was trying to prove herself with this catering venture. She’d already dabbled at other things like...nannying, was it? Dog-walking? And lost not only cash but interest far too quickly.
Nate hadn’t mentioned anything about an ex-business partner, though, or the need for a paring knife. So Jack guessed Cassie kept her family in the dark about some things.
Which suddenly made her a whole lot more interesting. In a purely professional way. Teasing dark secrets from people had made him a stack of money and cemented his reputation as the best gritty documentary maker in the UK.
‘So Nate told you about me?’ Two pink patches on her cheeks darkened to red. ‘Nate Munro? I wondered.
..usually people use a search engine or a business card rather than a world famous rock star to find a caterer.’
‘Yes, he recommended you. Although why I bothered I don’t know—’ But his new mate had done him a huge honour by allowing him to film his more intimate home life for a documentary which could well be award-winning—if only for the usually very private subject. Which meant Jack owed him precisely five more minutes to hear Cassie out before he took his leave and found a more organised, punctual and less disturbingly off-the-scale attractive caterer.
The flush turned from embarrassment to irritation. She wore her emotions very obviously on her face—as if there was no caution button. No keeping things in check. How could people live like that? Spilling their feelings out at any given moment? Did they have no control? It was his endless fascination and what made his films so damned compelling to watch.
‘Nate’s almost as bad at interfering in my life as his wife. That’s my sister, Sasha. I keep telling them to butt out and I know they mean well, but...’ She inhaled deeply and breathed out slowly. ‘But, well, you’ve already said you don’t want my life story.’
‘I already know Nate’s, and a little of your sister’s...and therefore some of yours.’
‘Not the best bits.’ She winked, but he refused to laugh. He did not want to know about the best bits of her life. Or the worst. Or anything more about her. Five minutes. Her hands moved as she talked. Was there not a serene molecule in that far too interesting body? ‘So you’re the rock-umentary producer man—my sister did mention you. And Nate’s right; I am reliable. I’ve just been having a trying time recently.’
‘Yes.’ He tried to keep up. ‘Something about a paring knife?’
‘I left it at home. Which is probably a good thing, seeing as you look like you might want to use it.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘Okay. Can we begin again? I’m Cassie Sweet. Caterer extraordinaire. And just a little bit out of control right now. But normal service is being resumed. And my cooking is brilliant.’ She smiled.
‘Jack Brennan.’ Always in control. He shook her hand. It was warm and soft. And why the hell he’d even noticed he didn’t know.
She took a step back and looked around at the crowd, then raised her voice above the chattering. ‘I’ve booked a room. Hang on a sec.’ She turned to speak to a passing waitress, who shook her head and shrugged.
‘Shoot.’ Cassie sighed loudly and her fist curled tight around the satchel strap. Was that a curse under her breath? ‘They gave the room to someone else because I was late.’
Typical. This escapade was turning into a disorganised farce. He needed to leave and take his chances on someone more professional. ‘Look. Forget it. I’ll find someone else. Some time else.’
‘No. Please. Please. Tell me this isn’t happening.’
‘It is. In full glorious Technicolor.’ Your problem, my nightmare.
‘I’ll have a word with Frankie, the manager. He’s just over there.’ Shoving her bag at Jack, she disappeared into the crowd. ‘Frankie! Hey, Frankie!’
Did she have another speed? Like just plain old fast instead of whirlwind? And now he couldn’t leave unless he took the bag with him or left it here. Unattended, in a crowded bar. It could end up in anyone’s hands. And not that she didn’t deserve it, but he didn’t need that on his conscience. It was full enough already.
In a few moments she was back, breathless but grinning. ‘Good old Frankie. There are a couple of free tables outside. Saves those for his best clients. Talking about food always makes me hungry so I’ve ordered some nibbles. They do the best soft shell tacos here with pork belly crackling. You must not leave without trying those. And he gave us a bottle of red on the house for the mix-up. Result!’
She brushed past him and Jack caught a scent of vanilla sugar and something distinctly soft and pretty, which he dutifully followed, trying not to watch the sway of her hips as she walked. Her backside looked just about the perfect size for his hands—jeez, he swallowed. Hard. What the hell was wrong with him?
With her? No caution or stop button. She was at warp speed. And now he was caught up in her chaos too.
So much for the five-minute plan. He blinked as he entered a small courtyard. Ivy, intertwined with scarlet flowers, curled over the walls, white gravel covered the ground. Small iron tables dressed with lit tea light candles dotted the space. It was like a secret garden from a movie he’d seen as a kid. Back when he’d believed in fairy tales like family and happy ever after. ‘This is impressive.’
‘Glad you like it. I wasn’t sure if you’d think it was too...out there.’ She raised her fingers and did quotation marks with them to emphasise her words, and he caught a teasing twinkle in her smile.
Then her eyes met his—darkest blue and wide and honest—and she seemed, for a moment, a little startled, but she didn’t turn away. His heart thumped in his chest as he was drawn into that gaze, sucked deep and then deeper, and deeper still, as if he was tumbling somehow, like Alice down the rabbit hole.
A blush hit her cheeks again and she shook her head, breaking a tentative connection that left him feeling a little unnerved.
Opening her satchel, she pulled out a thick creamy notepad and folder of papers. ‘Okay. Right. Let’s get started. We have a lot to get through.’ As she opened the folder a gust of wind caught the top sheets and sent them spiralling into the air. ‘Oh, wait... Sorry. Oh, no, I can’t believe this is happening. I’m sorry.’
Next, she was on her feet chasing the papers, stamping on a few to stop them floating away like confetti on the gentle breeze, more tendrils of her hair falling from the chopsticks.
He watched for a moment until it became clear he either helped or he’d be sitting here all night waiting for her to switch to simmer.
‘Here you go.’ He handed her the papers and she placed them back on the table and weighted them down with a large bowl of delicious-looking silky stuffed olives.
Popping one in her mouth, she bit down and smiled. ‘Not just delicious, but useful too. Thanks. So not my day.’ Finally she sat, took a long deep breath and slowed to a mode Jack could follow. She smiled again. She had a lot of them—endless smiles. Polite smiles. Embarrassed but intriguing smiles. Smiles that didn’t quite hit her eyes. He got the impression she was trying very hard to be professional and thought that smiling would be the way to go.
But endless cheerfulness wouldn’t convince him she’d be any good at helping him—and he needed help right now. Reliable. Organised. Straightforward help. ‘Er...the wedding? Are we going to cover that tonight?’
‘The wedding. Okay. Yes.’ She leaned forward and there was the scent of vanilla sugar again. Sweet and soft. ‘So, talk me through the day, Jack. Can I call you Jack? What’s planned? What do you need?’
Hell if he knew. Now she’d actually focused, he suddenly felt way out of his depth. This was a stupid idea. He should have asked first instead of interfering...as Cassie had so succinctly described honest and well-meaning sibling interest.
He spoke slowly to give himself time to think and to engage her full attention. ‘As I said, it’s in three weeks’ time. I’m not a hundred per cent sure of exact timings so I’ll get back to you on that. The wedding ceremony is going to be in a community art space off Portobello Road. It’s a small gathering of friends; there’s an Irish band booked in the evening. The details are being finalised.’
She tucked one of the errant curls behind her ear. ‘It’s very short notice but, luck
ily, I do have space in my calendar. Tell me, though, you’ve waited until now to sort out the food because...?’
‘I’ve just got back from filming; my schedule got changed a little.’ And he’d been too damned busy to pay much attention to Lizzie’s emails. Plus the word help had never been in her vocabulary. Even when she’d needed it the most. And he was, apparently, the world’s worst at working out what women wanted. Why they didn’t just straight out tell him, he didn’t know. But he wanted to make this work, wanted to make her happy. After everything they’d been through, Lizzie deserved a slice of that.
Another smile. ‘Okay, well, I guess we can work out some of the finer points later, but it would be useful if we could make a start on menu choices, just a jumping off point. I like to get a feel for the couple, their likes and tastes and dreams. Do you have a memorable meal you’d like to recreate? A theme?’
‘Why all the deep and meaningful stuff? It’s just food, right?’ Clearly, there was a whole lot more to weddings than he’d ever given thought to. Actually, he’d never given thought to weddings at all—only that he’d never be having one. ‘I...er...’
‘Okay, no worries. Let’s try a different angle.’ Her eyes twinkled through a confused frown. ‘Tell me more about the iguana—was it love at first sight?’
It was the first time in a long time a woman had left him speechless.
Copyright © 2014 by Louisa George
ISBN-13: 9781460329023
The Secret Ingredient Page 18