‘No, that wasn’t my brief. But I can tell they’re happy by the way they talk. They’re enthusiastic, they’re full of ideas, and they love the new staff suggestion scheme. You should see my inbox.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about it over dinner?’
‘Dinner?’
He pushed aside thoughts of damask tablecloths and the light from vanilla-scented candles glinting on antique silver cutlery. This was a working relationship; they weren’t picking up where they’d left off, before she’d vanished. Before the bombshells had dropped. ‘I have to eat. So do you. We might as well eat together while we discuss it.’
She shrugged. ‘I was going to stop in ten minutes anyway. I was going home to make myself an omelette.’
‘An omelette’s fine by me.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t remember inviting you back.’
He blew out a breath. ‘Sorry. That was pushy. How about a compromise?’ he asked. ‘There’s this trattoria just round the corner. It’s pretty basic, but the food’s excellent.’
She leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing even further as she stared at him. ‘You’re asking me out to dinner?’
‘A working dinner,’ he clarified. ‘To make up for the fact that I haven’t had a chance to spend any real time discussing your ideas with you.’
They both knew that wasn’t what he was really saying. He’d been avoiding her, and they were both well aware of the fact.
‘So you’ll listen to my ideas.’
‘And give you feedback. Yes.’
Her expression showed that she was considering it. Weighing up the pros and cons. So she was just as wary of him as he was of her, then. Guilt talking? he wondered.
‘OK,’ she said eventually.
‘How long will it take you to get ready?’
‘As long as it takes to back up my files and shut down the computer.’
Ha. Well, of course she wasn’t going to change, or retouch her make-up, or spritz herself with perfume. This wasn’t a date. It was simply discussing work while they ate. Multi-tasking.
‘Meet you back here in ten minutes?’ he suggested.
‘Sure.’
Ten minutes later, when he met her outside her office, he was pretty sure that she’d reapplied her lipstick, but he didn’t make a comment. He simply ushered her out of the store and down the side street to the little trattoria he’d discovered a couple of years before.
‘Red or white?’ he asked as the waiter arrived to take their drinks order.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t mind. Though I would like some water as well, please. Still, with ice.’
He remembered her preferring white wine; her tastes might have changed over the years, but he decided to play safe and ordered a bottle of pinot grigio and a jug of water. ‘Thanks, Giorgio.’
‘Prego, Jordan.’ The waiter smiled back at him.
‘If the waiter’s on first-name terms with you, I assume you eat here a lot?’ she asked.
Jordan shrugged. ‘It’s convenient. And, actually, he’s the owner. His wife’s the cook.’
She gave him a sidelong look. ‘So you haven’t actually learned to cook, yet?’
He knew what she was referring to. The time he’d taken her back to his place when his parents had been out. He’d put some bread under the grill to toast—and then he’d started kissing her on the sofa and forgotten all about the toast until the smoke detector had started shrieking. He couldn’t remember how to turn the alarm off, so they’d had to flap a wet towel underneath it and open all the windows; even then, the house had reeked of burnt toast for a whole day afterwards.
‘It’s convenient,’ he repeated. After Lindsey had left him for someone who didn’t have workaholic tendencies, he’d discovered that he really didn’t enjoy cooking a meal for one, even if it was just shoving a ready meal in the microwave. He tended to eat at lunchtime in the staff canteen, then grabbed a sandwich at his desk in the evening; and on days when he didn’t have time for lunch, he grabbed a sandwich on the run and ate at the trattoria after work.
‘What do you recommend?’ she asked, glancing over the edge of the menu at him.
‘Pretty much everything on the menu. Though the lasagne’s particularly good,’ he said.
‘Lasagne it is, then. Thank you.’
He ordered the same for both of them when Giorgio returned with the wine and water. ‘Bread and olives?’ Giorgio asked.
He glanced at Alexandra. At her nod, he smiled. ‘Yes, please.’
If anyone had told Alexandra six months ago that she’d be having dinner with Jordan Smith, and enjoying it, she would’ve laughed. Really, really scornfully.
But Jordan was excellent company. Charming, with good manners. And she was actually having a good time.
Then she reached for another piece of the excellent bread at the same time as he did; when their fingers touched, her mouth went dry. Oh, hell. She could remember him touching her much more intimately, and it sent a shiver of pure lust through her.
She mumbled an apology and withdrew, waiting for him to tear off a piece of bread before she dared go anywhere near the bread basket again.
‘The bread’s good,’ she said, hoping to cover up the awkwardness—and hoping even more that he wouldn’t guess what she’d just been thinking about.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I did wonder if you’d stick to just the olives.’
‘Why?’ For a moment, she looked puzzled. ‘Oh. Because of the carbs.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘You’re obviously used to dating twig-like women who exist on a single lettuce leaf—and maybe a nibble of celery if it’s a special night out.’
‘I don’t date twig-like women.’ He couldn’t help the slight snap in his voice. It was none of her business who he dated.
‘Another elephant,’ she said softly. ‘At this rate, we’re going to have a whole herd.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The elephant in the room. Screened off. Things we don’t talk about, things that are absolutely off limits. The past. Your marriage. Mine. The women you date who don’t eat.’ Her gaze held his. ‘Would you like to add any more to the herd?’
He really hadn’t expected this. ‘That’s very direct.’
‘I find it’s the easiest way. It cuts out the lies.’
Was she admitting that she was a liar? Or was she accusing him of being a liar? Right at that moment, he couldn’t tell. But he wasn’t the one who’d behaved badly. He wasn’t the one who didn’t even bother to say, ‘You’re dumped,’ but simply went incommunicado. Then, when he’d heard what his mother had to say about the situation and tried to find out what the hell was going on, Alexandra had simply vanished. He hadn’t been able to find her and drag the truth out of her.
‘By my reckoning,’ she continued, ‘that leaves us the weather, work or celebrity gossip as our next topic of conversation. Would you like to choose?’
There was the slightest, slightest glint of laughter in her eyes, and suddenly the tension in his spine drained away. ‘Work, I think,’ he said. ‘Before we have a fight.’
She inclined her head in recognition. ‘That’s direct, too.’