“Nice. Very ladylike.”
“Since I am very assuredly no lady, I’m fine with that. Thank you,” she said primly, her London accent perfectly posh and haughty. She examined her bubblegum-pink nails as if the conversation were beneath her.
“How was your weekend?” I asked as I fired up my computer. Olivia was in a long-term on-again-off-again relationship with —shudder—a musician. Unlike most of the musicians I’d dated, however, Paul actually had a regular paying gig and a certain amount of fame. At least in London.
Olivia shrugged, dropping the haughty act. “I broke up with Paul.”
“Again? What is this? The third time in six months?”
“I caught him snogging a groupie.” She seemed amazingly unfazed by it. Personally, I’d be removing his testicles with a rusty pair of scissors. A very dull pair of rusty scissors. This was why I did not date musicians.
“Wow. I’m sorry, Olivia. That sucks.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Meet any hot guys?” She quickly changed the subject. So, she was more upset than she was showing. I felt bad for her. I hoped she’d broken up with Paul for good this time, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
“Well, there was this one guy.” Two, if I counted Bram, but I didn’t. We were just ships passing in the night, or something like that. Just because his blue eyes haunted my dreams, it didn’t mean anything.
Her eyes widened. “Spill. I want all the details. Leave nothing out.”
I laughed as I pulled up the weekend report for online sales on the Trust’s website. One of my many jobs was managing the website’s store. Proceeds went back into the charity to fund everything from renovation of the historical buildings we currently managed to acquiring antiques to furnish those properties to funding living history events. Not that it amounted to much, but every little bit helped. History was important, and I was proud to be even a small part of preserving it.
“His name is Derek.” I told Olivia all about our conversation and him convincing me to go out on a date with him. I didn’t tell her about my trip to the Purple Note or the delicious sax player.
After all, there was nothing to tell.
“OH, THIS IS MAGICAL.” Emma stopped dead in the middle of the entry to Milk & Bean, earning herself a few glares. “It’s so quaint and... and....”
“Vintage?” I suggested.
“Yeah.” She let out a deep sigh, as if the world had suddenly come into alignment. “This is the sort of place you’d meet Mr. Darcy. Don’t you think?”
I gave her a look. If she was talking about Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be caught dead in a ’40s vintage-style coffee shop. I mean, I was no Mr. Darcy expert, but the man didn’t seem the type.
Ignoring the stares, Emma floated through the shop as if walking on cloud nine. Maybe she was. She looked like a cross between an angel and a pixie in her swirly, pale pink coat, her dark hair shining with honey gold streaks beneath the retro pendant lights. Her heart-shaped face was wreathed in a huge smile, her eyes—the color of coffee beans with a hint of gold—glimmered with excitement. Oh, to be young and carefree and in love with a fictional character. I shook my head and walked over to the counter.
“New friend?” Sophie, the barista, asked, leaning on the counter. She had blue streaks the same color as Cookie Monster in her hair today.
I snorted. “Kate’s cousin is here from America for the wedding reception. I’m babysitting.”
Sophie crooked an eyebrow. The silver hoop in her left brow winked in the sunlight streaming through the fogged-over front window.
“Okay, fine, I’m showing her around.” I stared at Emma, who’d squatted to coo at a baby in a pram. “Were we ever so young?”
“Speak for yourself. I’m still young. The usual?”
“Please. And a London Fog for the girl.” Thinking of Emma as a grown woman was difficult. I’d known her since she was a kid. She still seemed like one most of the time.
“Have a seat. I’ll bring it over.”
I made my way to Kate and my usual spot toward the back. It was the perfect place for people watching. Emma finished playing with the baby and joined me.
“I can just picture it,” she said dreamily, removing her coat and plopping into her chair. “It’s the perfect place.”
I knew I was going to regret asking. “For what?”
“To meet Mr. Darcy, of course. I mean, not the real Mr. Darcy, but my Mr. Darcy.”
I quirked an eyebrow. Emma had a seriously strange idea of where to meet men. Sure, men came into Milk & Bean all the time. The coffee was some of the best in the city. But they came in, got their coffee, and left. They did not stick around. The ones who did were either gay or with their girlfriends or wives. It just wasn’t a manly sort of place, especially when the pram brigade showed up with all the yummy mummies and bored nannies.
“Sure,” I said. “Anything could happen.”
Sophie brought over our drinks. Mine was in a mint green cup and Emma’s in a pink one that matched her coat.
Emma took a sip of her tea latte and let out a sigh. “Absolutely perfect. I do prefer a good tea to any sort of coffee.”
“Yes, I know.” I ignored her attempt at a fake British accent. Emma was a serious Anglophile. Or, I guess, more a Janeite—a passionate lover of all things Jane Austen—which meant by extension an Anglophile, up to and including being in love with Ms. Austen’s most popular hero. Personally, Darcy gave me a rash. No, if I was going for an Austen hero, it would be Captain Wentworth as played by the delicious Rupert Penry-Jones.
An image of Bram, the sax player, popped into my head unbidden. Oh, he would look amazing in Regency breeches and a waistcoat.
“When do you head home?” I asked, changing the subject and trying to get my mind off a pair of ridiculously blue eyes.
“Tomorrow,” Emma said sadly. “Thanks for taking me out today. It was amazing. I never dreamed I’d be able to visit London.” She leaned forward. “Honestly, it was all thanks to Kate. Otherwise I couldn’t have afforded it. Do you know I’ve always dreamed of studying costume design here in London?”
I blinked at the subject change. “Um, no. I didn’t.” Although it didn’t surprise me. Like me, Emma had her own sense of style, which she embraced to the hilt. Though hers tended to be more froufrou and romantic while mine involved color. I glanced under the table at my cranberry lace-up boots, purple tights, and white and navy striped skirt. A lot of color.
She nodded eagerly, her dark hair sliding across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear. “Oh, yes. I’m almost finished with my degree. One more semester to go. But I’d never be able to afford to go to school here.” She heaved a soulful sigh.
“You never know. I never thought I’d be able to live in London, yet here I am.”
She shrugged. “I’ve resigned myself.”
She’d missed her calling. She should have studied drama.
“I’ve heard you have a date,” she said giving me a wide grin and a knowing look.
“In fact,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee, “I do.”
“Tell me everything.” She giggled giddily. “Is he gorgeous? Is he a Mr. Darcy? I bet he has a delicious accent.”
I laughed. “He does, actually. Have an accent, I mean.” I told her all about Derek, who was nothing at all
LIKE MR. DARCY, THANK goodness.
I LIVED IN THE BOTTOM floor flat of a townhouse sandwiched between two other buildings in the middle of a row of other townhouses in the heart of Notting Hill. Each townhouse was painted a different color, which was pretty much the only way to tell them apart. Most of them were sherbet colors: orange, yellow, blue, pink. Mine stood out. The first thing I’d done when I moved in was paint the outside a shocking, bright purple.
When my grandmother died four years ago, she left me a nice little chunk of change. It didn’t make me rich, not even close, but it allowed me the freedom to move to London and buy the building in which I now l
ived. The building had been halved into two apartments. I’d rented out the flat upstairs to a young couple who spent too much time working; I lived downstairs. The situation worked quite well for me since the rent from my tenants paid most of the mortgage. After a hefty down payment on the building, there had been enough left of my inheritance left to open a small savings account as an “emergency fund.” I hadn’t touched it since.
Having such a small amount of rent to pay helped offset the fact that working for a charity wasn’t exactly lucrative. It was one of the reasons I was so dead set against dating someone who was doomed to turn into a sponge. I couldn’t afford it. And, frankly, I was worth more than that.
A couple blocks down the street from me was a small flower shop the size of a postage stamp. Every morning the owner would set out giant buckets filled with pink roses, orange tulips, and yellow daffodils. TV trays held terracotta pots of crocus bulbs and succulents. It was one of my favorite places. Every day on my way home, I’d stop and smell the roses. Literally. Sometimes I’d buy a small bouquet for my apartment.
I fussed with the latest arrangement as I watched the second hand on the clock swept around again. It was a stunning mix of blue delphiniums and yellow coreopsis. I tried to focus on the flowers, but the ticking was loud in my silent flat. Tick, tick. Counting down the seconds, minutes. Derek was late. Not just a little bit, but half an hour late.
I gave up trying to rearrange the already perfect flower arrangement and stomped over to the couch. Irritation boiled inside me as I stared down at my phone. I’d texted him twice already. I would not text again. No way was I going to hound him like some lovesick, desperate person.
I’d had an ex-boyfriend call me that once. After five months of dating, things were getting serious. He’d asked me to move in. Hounded me until I finally agreed. And then two weeks before I was to move in, he’d disappeared. Dropped off the face of the earth. Texts, phone calls, all went unanswered. Finally, a week and a half later, he texted me, telling me it was over. He wasn’t ready for the commitment I wanted, and he felt like I was just desperate and pushing him.
Interesting, since he’d been the one who’d chased me around. Begged me to move in with him. I’d been the one wanting to slow things down. What can I say? I like my independence.
Still the “desperate” comment hurt. Sure, I wanted to find love and happiness. Who didn’t? Just because I wanted an explanation didn’t mean I was desperate. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I said. I’d buried the hurt and moved on. But I’d learned something. No matter how worried you are, you don’t text like a crazy person.
So I sat there, listening to the ticking clock, staring at my phone, which refused to ring.
I wasn’t sure what I felt. Anger? A little. Hurt? Not so much. I didn’t care enough yet about Derek to let him hurt me. I didn’t care about too many people, to be honest. Kate, my family back in America. That was pretty much it. Oh, I had loads of friends. I loved people and they loved me, but I didn’t let anyone close enough to cause any real damage. I’d learned that lesson, too.
The second hand swung around again. Thirty-one minutes late. No word. I sighed. Maybe I should call it quits and change into my pajamas. Watch some Murder, She Wrote reruns on Netflix. But I’d gone to so much trouble, I hated to take off the seriously cute cherry-print dress and candy apple red Mary Janes with the chunky four-inch heels. I felt like I should go out and enjoy myself. I decided to give it a few more minutes, and then I’d hit the town on my own. Surely something interesting was happening somewhere.
I was half a second from leaving the flat when my doorbell rang. Forty minutes late. Derek stood on my front step wearing skinny black jeans and a pinstriped navy jacket. He tossed me a casual smile.
“Ready to go, beautiful?”
I felt the prick of irritation. “You’re late.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I got held up. Let’s go.”
I lifted an eyebrow but didn’t move. I wanted an explanation. Not just a half-assed apology. “Really.” My tone was dry as dust.
“Chloe, I’m really sorry. There was a delay on the tube.” He seemed sincere, his dark eyes focused intently on my face, begging me to forgive him. I guessed it would explain why he hadn’t responded. The London Underground didn’t have mobile phone reception. It was too far below the surface. Although he could have sent me a text once he was outside the station. I supposed I should give him a pass.
“It happens. No worries,” I said, exiting my flat and locking it behind me. I wasn’t ready to let him see my sanctuary yet.
We took the tube into Chinatown. Despite the cold weather, the place was swarming with tourists and locals out to see the sights or meet up with friends. The energy of it thrummed in my veins. My step quickened and my lips quirked in a smile. God, I loved this city.
Derek led me to a restaurant with roasted ducks hanging in the window, complete with beaks and feet still attached. At least they’d removed the feathers. The sign above the door was in gold Chinese symbols, smaller English letters beneath.
“I know it looks a bit dodgy,” Derek admitted, “but I’ve eaten here a couple times. The food is delicious.” He pushed open the door, and hot, steamy air rushed out, carrying the spicy, beefy aroma of the food inside. My stomach rumbled.
The woman who showed us to our table barely came up to my chin. Her smooth, black hair was cut in a severe bob that accented a round face that could have been twenty or fifty. It was impossible to tell. She waved us to our seats without saying a word, offered us a slight bow, and slapped the laminated menus on the table before disappearing.
Another woman, this time taller and with her hair done up in a bun with chopsticks and a pink plastic flower, appeared to fill our water glasses. “You want drink?”
Derek frowned at the wine list. “Is this all you have?”
The woman’s face remained blank. “Yes.”
He sighed. “Fine. We’ll take the Shiraz.” He glanced up as though suddenly realizing he was with another person. “Is that all right?”
“Yes, fine.” I enjoyed a good Shiraz, although it would have been nice if he’d asked first. The woman nodded and trundled off toward the bar to collect the wine.
“They really don’t have a good selection,” Derek grumbled softly.
“It’s Chinese food, not a four-star restaurant,” I reminded him. “The Shiraz is fine.” In fact, I generally preferred the hearty Australian wine to some of the so-called expensive French wines people raved about.
The waitress returned with our wine and to take our orders. Derek ordered the only thing on the menu that cost over twenty pounds, the Peking duck. I stuck with orange chicken, one of my favorites and well under the twenty quid mark.
The food was surprisingly tasty, much better than I’d expected, and the wine was delicious, even if it didn’t suit Derek. We chatted about random things, mostly his experiences as an actor and sometimes assistant director.
“Do you do a lot of plays?” I asked.
“Oh, some,” he said, avoiding specifics. “Nothing big, but enough to pay the bills. My agent is trying to get me into Shakespeare’s Globe. He’s got some good connections.”
I quickly hid my surprise. The Globe was a big deal. “That’s amazing.”
“You better believe it. I was supposed to be in a play with Mirren last year, but I got strep and had to back out.”
It was harder to hide the surprise this time, which was followed quickly by a frown. A no-name actor got a chance to play alongside an icon, and he cancelled because he had strep throat? If I was given the chance to sing with Adele or Caro, you’d better believe I’d do it come hell, high water, or zombie apocalypse. Not even a little thing like strep would stop me.
“That’s awful. I’m sorry you missed out on that opportunity.”
He shrugged as if it were no big deal. “There will be others.”
To do a play with Mirren? I seriously doubted that.
“Anyway, en
ough about me. Let’s talk about you.” He leaned forward, totally focused on me. His eyes spoke volumes about how attractive he found me.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” The heat in his voice made me blush. For the rest of the evening, I forgot all my doubts over his supposed brushes with fame.
“DID YOU SNOG HIM?”
I burst out laughing. It was Monday morning after my first date with Derek. I’d gotten to the office a few minutes early, but not early enough to beat Olivia.
“Well, did you?” She crossed one leg over the other, swinging her boot-clad foot. Her red and black plaid skirt was hiked halfway up her slender thighs. Oh, to have the legs for that sort of skirt. Then again, she didn’t have my booty.
I hung my zebra-striped trench coat on the coat stand, dropped my orange and pink polka dot umbrella in the stand, and plopped into my chair. I gave her a wicked grin as I turned on my monitor. “Of course I did.”
“Good girl.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe. But was it good?”
I recalled Derek’s hard body pressed against mine, his lips warm and sensual. “Yeah. It was.” Maybe not the best kiss ever, but it had definitely been in the “good” category.
“Well, that sounds boring. Was there tongue?”
That startled a laugh out of me. “No tongue. It was all very... proper.”
“Proper?” She thunked her head on her desk. “Oh my God, I’m going to die of boredom.”
Honestly, I couldn’t blame her. I’d been disappointed by the lack of heat but figured it was appropriate for our first date. Not every relationship started out with fireworks, right?
I recalled the heat in Bram’s eyes and shivered. Bet he didn’t kiss properly. I shoved that thought out of my head. Why was I dwelling so much on a guy I’d only seen once? “Don’t be so dramatic. Do you have that list of hotels for the conference in October?”
“Here.” She thrust a sheaf of papers at me, her expression one of someone who’d just lost her best friend. “I think I need a cup of tea to recover.”
Kiss Me, Chloe Page 3