‘It’s the last one they run on a weeknight,’ he confirmed. ‘And we have to pick up the tickets fifteen minutes beforehand. Sorry I rushed you through dinner.’
At least he’d acknowledged that he’d rushed her. And she needed to acknowledge her part in the fiasco. ‘If I hadn’t been running late, you wouldn’t have had to rush me.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’m beginning to think you might be right about me being chaotic. I should’ve checked that the text had gone or left you a voicemail as well.’
‘It’s OK. Obviously you had a busy day.’
She nodded. ‘There were a couple of glitches that took time to sort out,’ she said. ‘And I’m up to my eyes in the wedding show stuff.’
‘It’ll be worth it in the end,’ he said.
‘I hope so. And I had a new bride in to see me this morning. That’s my favourite bit of my job,’ Claire said. ‘Turning a bride-to-be’s dreams into a dress that will suit her and make her feel special.’
‘That’s why you called your business “Dream of a Dress”, then?’ he asked.
‘Half of the reason, yes.’
‘And the other half?’ he asked softly.
‘Because it’s my dream job,’ she said.
He looked surprised, as if he’d never thought of it that way before. ‘OK. But what if a bride wants a dress that you know wouldn’t suit her?’
‘You mean, like a fishtail dress when she’s short and curvy?’ At his nod, she said, ‘You find out what it is she loves about that particular dress, and see how you can adapt it to something that will work. And then you need tact by the bucketload.’
‘Tactful.’ He tipped his head on one side and looked at her. ‘But you always say what you think.’
‘I do. But you can do that in a nice way, without stomping on people.’
The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘I’ll remember that, the next time you don’t mince your words with me.’
She laughed back. ‘You’re getting a bit more bearable, so I might be nicer to you.’
He bowed his head slightly. ‘For the compliment.’ Then he took her hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressed a kiss into her palm, and folded her fingers round it.
It made her knees go weak. To cover the fact that he flustered her, she asked, ‘How was your day?’
‘Full of meetings.’
No wonder he found it hard to relax and go with the flow. He was used to a ridiculously tight schedule.
But at least he seemed to relax more once they were in the capsule and rising to see a late summer evening view of London. Claire was happy just to enjoy the view, with Sean’s arm wrapped round her.
‘I was thinking,’ he said softly. ‘I owe you pudding and coffee. I have good coffee back at my place.’
‘Would there be caramel hearts to go with it?’ she asked hopefully.
‘There might be,’ he said, the teasing light back in his eyes.
This sounded like a spontaneous offer rather than being planned, she thought. So maybe it could make up for the earlier part of the evening. ‘That sounds good,’ she said. ‘Coffee and good chocolate. Count me in.’
And, to her pleasure, he held her hand all the way back to his place. Now they weren’t on a schedule any more, he was less driven—and she liked this side of him a lot more.
The last time Claire had been to Sean’s house, she’d waited on the path outside while he picked up his luggage. This time, he invited her in. She discovered that his kitchen was very neat and tidy—as she’d expected—but it clearly wasn’t a cook’s kitchen. There were no herbs growing in pots, no ancient and well-used implements. She’d guess that the room wasn’t used much beyond making drinks.
His living room was decorated in neutral tones. Claire was pleased to see that there were lots of family photographs on the mantelpiece, but she noticed that the art on the walls was all quite moody.
‘It’s Whistler,’ he said, clearly realising what she was looking at. ‘His nocturnes—I like them.’
‘I would’ve pegged you as more of a Gainsborough man than a fan of tonalism,’ she said.
He looked surprised. ‘You know art movements?’
‘I did History of Art for GCSE,’ she said. ‘Then again, I guess those paintings are a lot like you. They’re understated and you really have to look to see what’s there.’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘if that was meant to be a compliment.’
‘It certainly wasn’t meant to be an insult,’ she said. ‘More a statement of fact.’
He poured them both a coffee, added sugar and a lot of milk to hers, and gestured to the little dish he’d brought on the tray. ‘Caramel hearts, as you said you liked them.’
‘I do.’ She smiled at him, appreciating the fact that he’d remembered and made the effort.
‘You can put on some music, if you like,’ he suggested, indicating his MP3 player.
She skimmed through it quickly and frowned. ‘Sean, I don’t mean to be horrible, but all your playlists are a bit—well...’
‘What?’ he asked, sounding puzzled.
‘They’re named for different types of workouts, so I’m guessing all the tracks in each list have the same number of beats per minute.’
‘Yes, but that’s sensible. It means everything’s arranged the way I want it for whatever exercise I’m doing.’
‘I get that,’ she said, ‘but don’t you enjoy music?’
He frowned. ‘Of course I do.’
‘I can’t see what you listen to for pleasure. To me this looks as if you only play set music at set times.’ Regimented again. And this time she couldn’t just let it go. ‘That works for business but, Sean, you can’t live your personal life as if it’s a business.’
‘Right,’ he said tightly.
So much for reaching an understanding. She sighed. ‘I’m not having a go at you. I’m just saying you’re missing out on so much and maybe there’s another way of doing things.’
‘Let’s agree to disagree, shall we?’
Sean had closed off on her again, Claire thought with an inward sigh—and now she could guess exactly why his girlfriends didn’t last for much longer than three weeks. He’d drive them crazy by stonewalling them as soon as they tried to get close to him, and then either he’d gently suggest that they should be just friends, or they’d give up trying to be close to him.
She also knew that telling him that would be the quickest way of ending things between them; and from the few glimpses she’d had she was pretty sure that, behind his walls, the real Sean Farrell was someone really worth getting to know.
‘OK, I’ll back off,’ she said. ‘But you have absolutely nothing slushy and relaxing on here.’
He coughed. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m male.’
She’d noticed, all right.
‘I don’t do slushy,’ he continued. ‘But...’ He took the MP3 player gently from her and flicked rapidly through the tracks.
When