Valentine's Day. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
night’s bolognese. The owner-chef passed through and plated up for both of them, a modest bowl for Georgia and an enormous mound for Zander. With a barrage of hasty Italian between.
‘Are you pregnant?’ she joked, settling her heat-wrinkled fingers around one of the forks she’d washed herself.
He chuckled. ‘I’m carb-loading.’
‘Which is what for the uninitiated?’ She curled a dozen strands of beautifully shaped pasta around her fork.
‘The day before a big run you load your body up on carbohydrates and water to ensure it’s full of energy.’
‘Energy you burn off running fifty kilometres?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Where will you run tomorrow?’
He hesitated answering. She didn’t let her sigh show. ‘You don’t like to talk about it much.’
‘I’m unaccustomed to anyone asking. It’s usually just my thing.’
That rankled just a tiny bit. ‘I’m not going to invite myself along again if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘I know,’ he replied as she slid a fully loaded fork into her mouth.
Oh, my God... She liked spaghetti. She’d even been excited enough once or twice to make her own lumpy Napolitano sauce in her slow cooker. But this...this! The combination of home-cooked bolognese and minutes-old, fresh pasta on top of the bone weariness, hollow stomach and flat-footed agony of having stood doing dishes for hours...
‘This is amazing, Zander!’
‘One of my favourite bolt holes.’
She glanced up at him. His choice of words struck her. ‘Where do you bolt from?’
How could a shrug be so tense? ‘Life. Work. Everything.’
She could understand that, if the man bursting out of his office was a regular occurrence.
‘We could both do worse than running our workplaces the way Chef ran this kitchen,’ she said softly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Firm. High expectations. But fair. And everyone here was working with him, not despite him.’
Zander looked around the near-empty kitchen. The two assistants had already removed any hint of evidence that their meal had ever existed. The way they were demolishing their pasta, it very soon wouldn’t.
‘What makes you think it’s not like that already?’ he asked.
‘Something one of your staff said when I was in your office.’ She’d been there a few times over the weeks finalising the list with Casey, so that was suitably broad. He wouldn’t know who amongst his team it was. ‘They said I was a lamb to the slaughter.’
He blinked at her, then recommenced eating his meal. But his brows remained low.
‘Not saying I agree with them. You’ve been nothing but nice to me.’ If one had a liberal definition of nice. ‘But, you know, clearly they thought you were going to make things hard for me.’
He thought about that some more. ‘It’s what they would expect.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s what they know.’
Sadness washed across his expression and then vanished. ‘Why do you make things hard for them?’
‘Because I’m their boss. The network delivers the good news and I deliver and implement the bad. It’s what I get paid for.’
‘That’s a miserable kind of job. Why do you do it?’
He laughed. ‘You’ve seen where I live.’ One of London’s better suburbs.
‘And you’ve seen where I live. So what? That’s not who we are.’
His eyes grew assessing. ‘Really? Your apartment exterior is modest and plain, but well kept. Someone cares for that building. I’d hazard a guess that the inside would be the same. Everything in its place, nothing unessential. Isn’t that exactly as you are?’
She stared at her near-empty bowl. ‘Is that how I strike you? Orderly and dull?’
‘You strike me as someone who’s stuck in a rut. Maybe who has been for some time.’
She lifted her chin. ‘Ruts come in all shapes and suburbs. Besides, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.’
He lifted his chin to match hers. ‘Really? Care to put your money where your mouth is?’
‘You want to bet on it?’ She frowned.
‘I want to see it.’
Oh.
‘When?’
‘How about now?’
‘It’s not tidy—’
‘Yes, it is.’
Yes...it is. She sighed. ‘You have a race in the morning.’
His eyes grew serious. ‘I’m not proposing sleeping over, Georgia, just a quick look.’
Heat flared up the back of her neck and she worked hard to keep it from flooding around to the front. She had made the immediate assumption that this was some kind of line. Zander Rush was a fit and sexy man. And so of course it wasn’t a come-on. Not for her.
‘I just meant...it’s late.’
‘I don’t run until noon. And it’s too late for you to be taking the tube.’
It wasn’t, but she didn’t mind the idea of a comfortable Jag ride home. She wasn’t ready for their first night to be over.
The first night. Not their first night.
‘OK, I’ll take the lift.’ And show him the inside of her flat for a minute or two. And then he and his fascination would be gone. ‘Thank you.’
They rinsed their dishes in the cooling water, thanked the chef who was enjoying a drink with his team out in the now-empty restaurant, and headed out into the dark.
‘You want to drive?’ he asked.
No. She wanted him to drive. Inexplicably. So of course, she said, ‘Yes, please.’
He pulled his coat collar up as high as possible against the cool April weather. ‘One of these days you’ll stop being so courteous and I’ll know we’re finally getting somewhere.’
The drive took about twenty minutes. Conversation was light between them but not because they had nothing to say. She just didn’t feel the need to say anything. And besides, the scrumptious dinner was kicking in and metabolising down into a warm goo that leached through her veins. She worked hard to keep her focus sharp while driving Zander’s land-yacht.
‘Who else lives here?’ he murmured quietly as they crossed into the shared entry hall of her apartment building.
She ran her fingers along the four letterboxes by the door. ‘Two students, a long-term resident...’ She traced the last box; its lettering was cool and smooth under her touch. ‘And me.’
She led him through to the back of the entry hall where her door was.
If Mr Lawler came out for one of his late-night cigarettes now he’d be in for quite a surprise. Not that she’d never had a man here before, but not like this...tiptoeing in late at night. All clandestine and exciting...
She turned her key, wiggled it, put her shoulder to the door, and popped it quietly open. It swung inwards into the darkened apartment. ‘Acquired touch,’ she whispered.
Why was she so breathless? Was it just because she was walking into her home with a virtual stranger? Or was it because