Valentine's Day. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
eyes scanned the room, giving nothing away. ‘This is...’
Crazy and shambolic? Nothing like the outside? She saw it how a stranger must, the explosions of random colour, the stacks of books and home-beautiful magazines. Trailing plants everywhere.
He touched the nearest green frond. ‘How do you get them to look like this inside?’
She crossed to the double doors opening onto her small courtyard and pulled back the blind. ‘I rotate them every day. One day in, three days out.’
His eyes swung to her. ‘How many do you have?’
It was too dark to see outside, too dark for him to discover the full extent of her guilty pleasure. ‘I’m kind of the crazy cat-lady of trailing ferns.’
He looked around him again, then found her eyes. ‘It’s not what I expected.’
That could mean anything, but she chose to interpret it positively. ‘Surprise!’
His focus fell onto the stack of brightly packaged CDs stacked up on her corner desk. He crossed to them. ‘Are you studying?’
‘Espionage through history. I’m getting ready for the spy class.’
He flipped one of the CDs over and read the description of the lectures. ‘You’re doing homework before the class?’
‘I like to be prepared. And I’m really looking forward to the spy classes.’
One brow quirked. ‘As distinct from the others?’
Heat rose and consumed her in the tiny apartment. ‘I listen to them when I’m gardening. On the bus to and from work. Or when I’m walking.’
‘You walk?’
‘Regularly.’
‘Where?’
What was this, the Inquisition? ‘Anywhere I haven’t been before. Deep in some wood somewhere.’
His nod was distracted. He suddenly looked intensely uncomfortable.
‘I bought these with my own money.’ In case that was what was putting that deep frown on his face.
‘Why?’
‘Because your money is for things that interest your listeners.’
He turned towards her. ‘You don’t have to hide things from me. If there’s something you want to do, do it. The money is for you.’
It wasn’t him she was hiding from. She took the CDs out of his hands. ‘It’s not... I feel like these are normal me, not new improved me. Besides, you’ve already indicated that the things I’m interested in aren’t that...exciting.’ She cleared her throat. ‘For your listeners.’
His eyes fell on her heavily. Searching and conflicted.
‘Coffee?’ she asked just to break the silence.
He broke free of her gaze, bustling towards the door as though this were all the most terrible inconvenience. ‘No. I should get going.’
And suddenly she was feeling self-conscious for agreeing to his request. She followed him back out into the hall. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘No problem.’
He had to stop at the door to the street to negotiate the intricate series of locks. If not for that, she wondered if he might have just flown down the stairs and path and been gone. She opened it for him and stood below the arch.
‘And for the restaurant. It was fantastic to see.’
‘We’ll find you new cooking classes. You don’t have to go back to the French guy.’
‘The not-French guy...’
‘Right.’ He practically squirmed on her doorstep. Confusion milled around them both. This had been his idea? Or had she just misunderstood?
‘Well, see you next time, then,’ she said quietly.
‘OK. ’Night, Georgia.’
And then he was gone. Not quite running as she’d imagined, but certainly making good time on those long, marathon legs. Into his car and away. Expensive tail lights glowing until they turned onto the high street in the distance.
And still she stood there.
OK. That was just weird. Their whole night had been genial enough, the silence in the ride over here mutual and comfortable. Or so she’d thought. She’d only offered him coffee, not exactly controversial.
Modest, plain but well kept. Was that what he’d been expecting her place to be like? She resecured the front door and turned off the porch light, then crossed back to her gaping apartment door, assessing the inside critically. Shambolic but not unclean. She had nothing to be particularly embarrassed about.
Maybe he had a plant phobia.
She sighed. Maybe this was a Year of Georgia test. See how she was going with the judgement of others. Not well, apparently.
She cared what people thought. She didn’t run her life by it, but criticism did impact on her. Especially someone like Zander Rush. Rich, powerful men might not particularly matter to her professional life, but this one mattered to her personal life. She had a year ahead of her with Zander, they were going to be in each other’s faces a reasonable amount. She’d really rather not have that time be tense and awkward.
And below that, somewhere deeper that she only peeled a corner back on, lay her secret fear: that the same lack that made Daniel not interested in marrying her might have occurred to Zander as he stood here in her little apartment. Some undefined deficiency. Was she too geeky? Too dull? Was she so left-of-normal that even a man whose connection to her was only professional felt the need to run for the hills? If so, he was in for a disappointing year.
There was only so much that reinvention was going to fix.
* * *
Zander tossed his keys and wallet into the shallow dish by his bed and then took himself off for a shower. As hot as he could stand it. Desperate to scald himself clean of the sudden tingle of awareness he’d experienced standing in Georgia’s apartment just half an hour before. He’d learned to live with the perpetual hum of sensual responsiveness that resonated whenever she was around, but this was different, this was...
Interest.
The prickle of intrigue and the glow of connection. So much more than just sexual. Unexpected, unwanted, and unacceptable. And the slither of empathy, that his words made her doubt herself, made her so defensive.
He stood under the hot, thumping water and let it stream over his head.
The crazy cat-lady of trailing ferns.
Of all the things to suddenly bring this burbling inside him to the surface...that little touch of self-deprecation, her modesty about her lived-in, loved-in apartment, her raw defence of a place that was clearly special to her. That was clearly her. She defended her property and herself with a gentle kind of resignation. As though she knew full well that she didn’t fit the conventional moulds and was reconciled with that.
And he was there telling her that her mould wasn’t interesting enough for his listeners.
Then showering himself raw just half an hour later because of how interesting it was to him.
Hypocrite.
His life was so laden with false, socially aggressive people, all hungry to climb ladders that they had to jostle for. So full of noise and gloss and professional veneer. He did his best to limit his exposure to it to his working hours, running from it—literally—on weekends, but when you worked as much as he did it had a way of just dominating your consciousness.
Until you stood in the middle of someone’s small, packed greenhouse of an apartment and felt as if you’d just walked into some kind of emotional resort. Far from everything and everyone.