She texted him swiftly.
Any food allergies I need to know about? Ditto total food hates.
The reply came back.
No and no. What’s for dinner?
She felt safe enough to tease him.
Whatever I feel like cooking. Carpe diem.
When he didn’t reply she wondered if she’d gone too far. Then again, he’d said that he was going to be in meetings all afternoon. She shrugged it off and concentrated on making the dress she’d cut out that morning.
Though by the end of the afternoon she still hadn’t decided what to cook. She ended up having a mad dash round the supermarket and picked up chicken, parma ham, asparagus and soft cheese so she could make chicken stuffed with asparagus, served with tiny new potatoes, baby carrots and tenderstem broccoli.
Given that Sean was a self-confessed chocolate fiend, she bought the pudding rather than making it from scratch—tiny pots of chocolate ganache, which she planned to serve with raspberries, as their tartness would be a good foil to the richness of the chocolate.
Once she’d prepared dinner, she fussed around the flat, making sure everywhere was tidy and all the important surfaces were gleaming. Then she changed her outfit three times, and was cross with herself for doing so. Why was she making such a big deal out of this? She’d known Sean for years. He’d seen her when she had teenage spotty skin and chubby cheeks. And this was her flat. It shouldn’t matter what she wore. Jeans and a strappy vest top would be fine.
Except they didn’t feel fine. Sean was always so pristine that she’d feel scruffy.
In the end, she compromised with a little black dress but minimal make-up and with her hair tied back. So he’d know that she’d made a little more effort than just dragging on a pair of jeans and doing nothing with her hair, but not so much effort that she was making a big deal out of it.
The doorbell rang at seven precisely—exactly what she’d expected from Sean, because of course he wouldn’t be a minute late or a minute early—and anticipation sparkled through her.
Dinner.
And who knew what else the evening would bring?
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE WAS ACTUALLY NERVOUS, Sean realised.
Which was crazy.
This was Claire. He’d known her for years. There was nothing to be nervous about. Except for the fact that this was a date, and in the past they’d never really got on. And the fact that, now he was getting to know her, he was beginning to realise that maybe she wasn’t the person he’d thought she was.
Would it be the same for her? He had no idea.
He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
When she opened the door, she was barefoot and wearing a little black dress, and her hair was tied back at the nape with a hot pink chiffon scarf. He wanted to kiss her hello, but was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop himself—it had been tough enough to walk away at lunchtime. So instead he smiled awkwardly at her. ‘Hi. I wasn’t sure what to bring, so I brought red and white.’
‘You really didn’t need to, but thank you very much.’ She accepted the bottles with a smile. ‘Come up.’
She looked so cool, unflustered and sophisticated. Sean was pretty sure that she wasn’t in the slightest bit nervous, and in turn that made him relax. This was just dinner, the getting-to-know-you stuff. And he really should stop thinking about how easy it would be to untie that scarf and let her glorious hair fall over her shoulders, then kiss her until they were both dizzy.
He followed her up the stairs and she ushered him in to the kitchen.
‘We’re eating in here, if that’s OK,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a drink? Dinner will be ten minutes.’
‘A glass of cold water would be fabulous, thanks.’ At her raised eyebrows, he explained, ‘It’s been a boiling hot day and I could really do with something cold and non-alcoholic.’
‘Sure.’ She busied herself getting a glass and filled it from the filter jug in the fridge, adding ice and a frozen slice of lime. When she handed the glass to him, her fingers brushed against his; it sent a delicious shiver all the way down his spine.
Her kitchen was a place of extremes. The work surfaces had all been used, and it looked as if most of her kitchen equipment had been piled up next to the sink. The fridge was covered with magnets and photos, and a cork board on one wall had various cards and notes pinned to it, along with what looked like a note of a library fine. Chaos. And yet the bistro table was neatly set for two, and there was a compact electric steamer on the worktop next to the cooker, containing the vegetables. So there was a little order among the chaos.
Much like Claire herself.
‘Something smells nice,’ he said.
‘Dinner, I hope,’ she said, putting the white wine into the fridge.
He handed her a box. ‘I thought these might be nice with coffee after dinner.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘Toffee, I assume?’
‘Samples,’ he said, smiling back. ‘There have to be some perks when you’re dating a confectioner.’
‘Perks. Hmm. I like the sound of that, though if we’re talking about a lot of calories here then I might have to start doubling the length of my morning run.’ She did a cute wrinkly thing with her nose that made his knees go weak, then looked in the box. ‘Oh, you brought those lovely soft caramel hearts! Fabulous. Thank you.’
Clearly she liked those; he made a mental note, and hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed with what these actually were. ‘Not quite,’ he said.
‘What are they, then?’
‘Wait until coffee. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No, you’re fine—have a seat.’ She gestured to the bistro table, and he sat down on one of the ladder-back chairs.
Small talk wasn’t something Sean was used to doing with Claire, and he really wasn’t sure what to say. It didn’t help that he was itching to kiss her; but she was bustling round the kitchen, and he didn’t want to distract her and ruin the effort she’d put into making dinner. ‘It’s a nice flat,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘I like it here. The neighbours are lovely, the road’s quiet, and yet I’m five minutes away from all the shops and market stalls.’
Work. An excellent subject, he thought. They could talk about that. ‘So how did the dressmaking go today? Are you on schedule for your big show?’
‘Fine, thanks, and I think I am. How about your meetings?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ Then it finally clicked that she wasn’t as cool and calm as she seemed. She was being super-polite. So did that mean that she felt as nervous about this as he did? ‘Claire, relax,’ he said softly.
‘Uh-huh.’ But she still looked fidgety, and he noticed that she didn’t sit down with him. Was she just feeling a little shy and awkward because of the newness of their situation, or was she having second thoughts?
‘Have you changed your mind about this?’ he asked, as gently as he could.
‘No-o,’ she hedged. ‘It’s not that.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘I’m usually a reasonable cook.’ She bit her lip. ‘What if it all goes wrong tonight?’
Nervous, then, rather than second thoughts. And suddenly his own nerves vanished. He stood up, walked over to her and put his arms round her. ‘I’m pretty sure it’ll be just fine. If it’s not, then it doesn’t matter. I’ll carry you to your bed and take your mind off it—and then I’ll order us a pizza instead.’ He kissed the corner of her mouth, knowing he was dangerously close to distracting her, but wanting to make her feel better. ‘Claire, why are you worrying that the food’s going to be bad tonight?’
‘Because it’s you,’ she said.
Because she thought he’d judge her? He had to acknowledge that he’d judged her in the past—and not always fairly. ‘You
already know I’d rather wash up or take someone out to dinner than cook for them, so I’m in no position to complain if someone cooks me something that isn’t Michelin-star standard.’
‘I guess.’ She blew out a breath. ‘It’s just... Well, this is you and me, and it feels...’
He waited. What was she going to say? That it felt like a mistake?
‘Scary,’ she finished.
He could understand that. Claire fascinated him; yet, at the same time, this whole thing scared him witless. Her outlook was so different from his. She didn’t have a totally ordered world. She followed her heart. If he let her close—what then? Would he end up with his heart broken? ‘Me, too,’ he said.
The only thing he could do then was to kiss her, to stop the fear spreading through him, too. So he covered her mouth with his, relaxing as she wrapped her arms round him, too, and kissed him back. Holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his and the sweetness of her mouth against his, made his world feel as if the axis was in the right place again.
A sharp ding made them both break apart. ‘That was the steamer. It means the vegetables are done,’ Claire said, looking flustered and adorably pink.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked again.
This time, to his relief, she stopped treating him like a guest who had to be waited on. ‘Could you open the wine? The corkscrew’s in the middle drawer.’
‘Sure. Would you prefer red or white?’
‘We’re having chicken, so it’s entirely up to you.’
He looked at her. ‘You’d serve red wine with chicken?’
‘Well, hey—if you can cook chicken in red wine, then you can serve it with red wine.’
He wrinkled his nose at her. ‘Am I being regimented again?’
‘No. Just a teensy bit of a wine snob,’ she said with a grin. ‘You need to learn to go with the flow, Sean. Carpe diem. Seize the day. It’s a good motto to live by.’
‘Maybe.’ By the time he’d taken the wine from her fridge, found the corkscrew in the jumble of her kitchen drawer, uncorked the bottle and poured them both a glass, she’d served up.
He sat down opposite her and raised his glass. ‘To us, and whatever the future might bring.’
‘To us,’ she echoed softly, looking worried and uncertain—vulnerable, even—and again he felt that weird surge of protectiveness towards her. It unsettled him, because he didn’t generally feel like that about his girlfriends.
‘This is really lovely,’ he said after his first mouthful. Chicken, stuffed with soft cheese and asparagus, then wrapped in parma ham. Claire Stewart was definitely capable in the kitchen, and he could tell that this had been cooked from scratch. He’d assumed that she’d be the sort to buy ready-made meals from the supermarket; clearly that wasn’t the case.
‘Thank you.’ She acknowledged his compliment with a smile.
‘But you’re not reasonable.’
She frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You called yourself a reasonable cook,’ he said. ‘You’re not. You’re more than that.’
‘Thank you. Though I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’ She shrugged. ‘I used to like cooking with my mum. Not that she ever followed a recipe. She’d pick something at random, and then she’d tweak it.’
‘So I’m guessing that you didn’t follow a recipe for this, did you?’ he asked.
‘I cooked us dinner. It’s not exactly rocket science,’ she drawled.
Why had he never noticed how deliciously sarcastic she could be?
‘What?’ she asked
He blinked. ‘Sorry. I’m not following you.’
‘You were smiling. What did I say that was so funny?’
‘It was the way you said it.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any idea how delectable you are when you’re being sarcastic?’
It was her turn to blink. ‘Sarcasm is sexy?’
‘It is on you.’
She grinned. ‘Well, now. I think tonight has just got a whole lot more interesting. Are you on a sugar rush, Sean?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Working where you do, you have toffee practically on tap. Eat enough of the stuff and you’ll be on a permanent sugar rush. Which, I think, must be the main reason why you’re complimenting me like this tonight.’
No. It was because it was as if he’d just met her for the first time. She wasn’t the girl who’d irritated him for years; she was a woman who intrigued him. But he didn’t want to sound soppy. ‘Honey,’ he drawled, ‘the only sugar I want right now is you.’
She laughed at him. ‘Now you’ve switched to cheese.’
‘No. You’re the one who’s served cheese.’ He indicated the stuffing for the chicken. ‘And very nice it is, too.’
Her mouth quirked. ‘Keep complimenting me like this, and...’
‘Yeah?’ he asked, his voice suddenly lower. What was she going to do? Kiss him? That idea definitely worked for him.
‘Oh, shut up and eat your dinner,’ she said, looking flustered.
‘Chicken,’ he said, knowing that she’d pick up on the double use of the word—and he was seriously enjoying fencing with her. Why had he never noticed before that she was bright and funny, and sexy as hell?
Probably because he’d had this fixed idea of her as a difficult girl who attracted trouble. That was definitely true in the past, but now...Now, she wasn’t who he’d always thought she was. She’d grown up. Changed. And he really liked the woman he was beginning to get to know.
She served pudding next—a seriously rich chocolate ganache teamed with tart raspberries. ‘Come and work for my R and D department,’ he said, ‘because I think you’d have seriously good ideas about flavouring.’
She smiled. ‘I know practically nothing about making toffee, and if I make banoffee pie I always buy a jar of dulce de leche rather than making my own.’
‘That’s a perfectly sensible use of your time,’ he said.
She grinned. ‘It’s not so much that you have to boil a can of condensed milk for a couple of hours and keep an eye on it.’
‘What, then?’
‘I had a friend who tried doing it,’ she explained. ‘The can exploded and totally wrecked her kitchen.’
‘Ouch.’ He grimaced in sympathy, and took another spoonful of pudding. ‘This is a really gorgeous meal, Claire.’
‘I didn’t make the ganache myself—it’s a shop-bought pudding.’
‘I don’t care. It’s still gorgeous. And I appreciate the effort. Though, for future reference, you could’ve ordered in pizza and I would’ve been perfectly happy,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to spend time with you.’
‘Me, too,’ she said softly. ‘But I wanted to—well...’
Prove to him that she wasn’t the flake he’d always thought she was? ‘I know. And you did.’
And how weird it was that he could follow the way she thought. Scary, even. She was the last woman in the world he’d expected to be so in tune with.
Once he’d helped her clear away, she said, ‘I thought we could have coffee in the living room.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘OK. You can go through and put on some music, if you like,’ she suggested.
Claire’s living room had clearly been hastily tidied, judging by the edges of the magazines peeking from the side of her sofa—he remembered her telling him that she was addicted to magazines; but the flowers he’d sent her that morning were in a vase on the coffee table, perfectly arranged. Clearly she liked them and hadn’t just been polite when she’d thanked him for them earlier. And, given the pink tones in the room, he’d managed to pick her favourite colours.
Her MP3 player was in a speaker dock. He took it out and skimmed through the tracks. Given what she’d said at lunchti
me, he’d expected most of the music to be pop, but he was surprised to see how much of it was from the nineteen-sixties. In the end, he picked a general compilation and switched on the music.
She smiled when she came in. ‘Good choice. I love the Ronettes.’ She sang a snatch of the next line.
‘Aren’t you a bit young to like this stuff?’ he asked.
‘Nope. It’s the sort of stuff my gran listens to, so I grew up with it—singing into hairbrushes, the lot,’ she said with a smile. ‘Best Friday nights ever. Totally girly. Me, Mum, Gran, Aunt Lou and my cousins. Popcorn, waffles, milkshake and music.’
It was the first time she’d talked about her family. ‘So you’re close to your family?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I still clash quite a bit with my dad,’ she said, ‘but that’s hardly tactful to talk about that to you.’
‘Because I’m male?’
‘Because,’ she said softly, ‘I’d guess that, like Ash, you’d give anything to be able to talk to your dad. And here am I grumbling about my remaining parent. Though, to be fair, my dad is nothing like yours was. Yours actually listened.’
Fair point. He did miss his parents. And, when the whole takeover bid had kicked off, Sean would’ve given anything to be able to talk about it to his dad. But at the same time he knew that relationships were complicated. And it was none of his business. Unless Claire wanted to talk about it, he had to leave the subject alone.
She’d brought in a tray with a cafetière, two mugs, a small jug of milk and the box he’d given her earlier. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked.
‘Neither, thanks. I like my caffeine unadulterated,’ he said with a smile.
Claire, he noticed, took hers with two sugars and a lot of milk. Revolting. And it also made him worry that she wouldn’t like the samples he’d brought; she probably preferred white chocolate to dark. Then again, he’d been wrong about a lot of things where Claire was concerned.
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