The Proposal Plan. Charlotte PhillipsЧитать онлайн книгу.
holding it against both ears but the ringing simply faded to a more annoying level. Opening one eye to glance at the bedside clock, he groaned. Seven-thirty. He only knew one person who got up this early on a Sunday. The ringing continued and he eventually crawled from the bed and staggered half asleep down the stairs, gripping the banister for support. His thick dark hair stood up in crazy sleep spikes and a shadow of stubble defined his strong jaw. He rubbed at his scratchy eyes. By now she had obviously tired of intermittent ringing and was simply keeping the button depressed, resulting in a constant noise that challenged his impending hangover like an ice pick.
He opened the door a crack and, closing his aching eyes against the morning sun, he snarled through the gap. ‘Lucy, it’s seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘You’ve got your eyes shut. How did you know it was me?’
‘Nobody else I know would dare disturb me at this time of the morning.’ He opened one eye and squinted at her. ‘Especially on a Sunday.’
She made a move to lean around the front door and see past him into the house, glancing indifferently as she did so at his toned torso and the muscular broad shoulders that were set off by the remains of a tan from his last trip abroad. She’d stayed with him in this house for a while a year or so ago and as a result she had developed a unique immunity to the fact that with no shirt on he looked like a god. Unlike the rest of the female race, to her he just looked like Gabriel. Best friend of some twenty-three years. No romantic attraction involved.
‘Is there someone with you?’ she asked him bossily. ‘Because if there is, get rid of them. This is an emergency.’
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it more than ever, and tried to think straight. ‘There’s no one here—it’s just me. What do you mean an emergency? Are you OK?’
‘I can’t discuss it on the doorstep. Let me in!’
He leaned wearily back against the wall and she lost no time in pushing past him like a tornado into the hall. He looked longingly back up the curving stairway in the direction of his bedroom and waved a mental white flag. Now he’d let her in the house there was no way sleep was going to be on the cards. He closed the front door and followed her resignedly to the kitchen to put coffee on.
She turned as he entered the room and he felt a fresh stab of exasperation as he noticed for the first time she was wearing jogging gear. Three-quarter-length running shorts hugged her lean frame, giving away for once the fact that she was fit and toned. She was so tiny that ordinary loose clothes gave her the impression of fragility. Ironic, he sometimes thought, that someone whose life revolved around cake should be so slender. Her dark curls were caught up in a band, but tendrils escaped as usual around her face. The clothes could only mean one thing. She intended to persuade him to go running with her when he still had at least three hours’ sleep to catch up on.
On the brink of losing his already frayed temper, he saw just in the nick of time the dark smudges under her green eyes, starkly contrasting with the creamy complexion, and the troubled expression on her face. Unable to feel anything but protective towards her when she was unhappy ever since she was six years old and he was eight, he abandoned his mission to fill the kettle and gave her a hug instead. He couldn’t help noticing the stiffness in the muscles of her shoulders even through her clothes, and her hands against his bare skin as they slid around his waist were cold enough to make him jump. Everything about her exuded tension.
‘What’s up?’ He spoke gently over her head, which nestled perfectly just under his chin, coils of her caught-up hair brushing his jaw lightly. Her hair had a lovely lemony scent, making him dimly aware that he could do with a shower. She didn’t seem to notice, though, as she made no move to pull away from his chest, and she would normally be the first person to point out if he smelled of last night’s curry. ‘Tell me it’s something serious to justify waking me up before eleven on a Sunday.’
She looked up at him in obvious anguish.
‘Oh, God, it’s not one of your parents, is it? Are they ill?’
Now she pulled back to arm’s length, an expression of incredulity on her face. ‘Something happening to either of my nightmare parents doesn’t come very high on the serious metre—you of all people should know that.’
‘OK, then,’ he conceded. ‘It obviously isn’t to do with your wonderful parents.’ He ignored Lucy as she made a face. ‘But I’m not up to playing guessing games. Come and sit down and tell me what’s up.’
Abandoning the coffee, he pulled her by the hand into the sitting room, shoved aside a pile of newspapers and dragged her down next to him on one of the squashy white sofas. She gazed down at her tiny hands, the nails always short and never varnished because that interfered with her baking.
‘It’s Ed.’ One of her hands crept up to her mouth and she chewed on one of the thumbnails distractedly.
‘I knew it! What’s the idiot done now?’ He had no real opinion of Ed. There seemed nothing about him to provoke strong feelings one way or the other. He seemed to treat Lucy well enough and he didn’t interfere with their friendship. That was all Gabriel really cared about. She always seemed too focused on building up her bakery business to be serious about anyone.
‘It’s not what he’s done.’ She looked at him miserably. ‘It’s what he hasn’t done.’
‘I’m not following.’
She sighed. ‘We’ve been together now for, what, two years. It’s all going fine, ticking along, you know.’ He nodded encouragingly. ‘And at Christmas, I thought that was going to be it…’
‘What was going to be it?’ His head had begun to ache. He wished she’d get to the point.
‘When he gave me the necklace. You know, the moon-shaped silver one?’ She searched his face. Gabriel had no idea what she was talking about but nodded anyway. ‘He handed the box over with this big grand gesture and I thought for sure that was it. I would open it and there would be the ring.’ She held a hand out, palm upturned, as if expecting the non-existent ring to materialise there in front of her eyes.
So this was it.
‘You mean you thought he was going to propose and it turned out he’d bought you a necklace?’ He laughed, feeling an unexpected flash of passing sympathy for Ed. Women. Sometimes there was no pleasing them. ‘Hey, at least he bought you a necklace!’
She threw her hands up in exasperation. ‘You’re missing the point. What was last night?’
He scratched his head. ‘You’ve got me. Saturday night?’
She shoved him. ‘No, you idiot. It was Valentine’s Day, wasn’t it? Surely you must remember that—the postman probably got a hernia heaving your sackload of cards up the steps.’ She looked away and muttered disgustedly almost to herself, ‘I can’t believe you don’t remember.’
‘Of course, of course, Valentine’s Day. I did get a few cards as it happens.’ He glanced at the waste-paper bin in the corner, into which he’d dropped all the love-related correspondence of the previous day.
‘I don’t care about your cards! It was Valentine’s Day, and Ed had booked a table at our favourite restaurant, that Italian one, you know. And he’d told me he had something special to discuss with me. And I thought, well…’
Gabriel sighed. He could see where this was heading. ‘You thought he was going to propose.’
‘Yes.’
‘And did he?’
‘No! He started going on about this investment opportunity and wondering if I might consider putting some money in. The bakery has been doing pretty well lately…’ She trailed off miserably.
Gabriel looked at her, torn between concern for her and amusement. He’d known, of course, that she had a bit of a dream of ending up with the perfect happily ever after. Marriage, two-point-four children