‘We’re eating in here, if that’s OK,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a drink? Dinner will be ten minutes.’
‘A glass of cold water would be fabulous, thanks.’ At her raised eyebrows, he explained, ‘It’s been a boiling hot day and I could really do with something cold and non-alcoholic.’
‘Sure.’ She busied herself getting a glass and filled it from the filter jug in the fridge, adding ice and a frozen slice of lime. When she handed the glass to him, her fingers brushed against his; it sent a delicious shiver all the way down his spine.
Her kitchen was a place of extremes. The work surfaces had all been used, and it looked as if most of her kitchen equipment had been piled up next to the sink. The fridge was covered with magnets and photos, and a cork board on one wall had various cards and notes pinned to it, along with what looked like a note of a library fine. Chaos. And yet the bistro table was neatly set for two, and there was a compact electric steamer on the worktop next to the cooker, containing the vegetables. So there was a little order among the chaos.
Much like Claire herself.
‘Something smells nice,’ he said.
‘Dinner, I hope,’ she said, putting the white wine into the fridge.
He handed her a box. ‘I thought these might be nice with coffee after dinner.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘Toffee, I assume?’
‘Samples,’ he said, smiling back. ‘There have to be some perks when you’re dating a confectioner.’
‘Perks. Hmm. I like the sound of that, though if we’re talking about a lot of calories here then I might have to start doubling the length of my morning run.’ She did a cute wrinkly thing with her nose that made his knees go weak, then looked in the box. ‘Oh, you brought those lovely soft caramel hearts! Fabulous. Thank you.’
Clearly she liked those; he made a mental note, and hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed with what these actually were. ‘Not quite,’ he said.
‘What are they, then?’
‘Wait until coffee. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No, you’re fine—have a seat.’ She gestured to the bistro table, and he sat down on one of the ladder-back chairs.
Small talk wasn’t something Sean was used to doing with Claire, and he really wasn’t sure what to say. It didn’t help that he was itching to kiss her; but she was bustling round the kitchen, and he didn’t want to distract her and ruin the effort she’d put into making dinner. ‘It’s a nice flat,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘I like it here. The neighbours are lovely, the road’s quiet, and yet I’m five minutes away from all the shops and market stalls.’
Work. An excellent subject, he thought. They could talk about that. ‘So how did the dressmaking go today? Are you on schedule for your big show?’
‘Fine, thanks, and I think I am. How about your meetings?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ Then it finally clicked that she wasn’t as cool and calm as she seemed. She was being super-polite. So did that mean that she felt as nervous about this as he did? ‘Claire, relax,’ he said softly.
‘Uh-huh.’ But she still looked fidgety, and he noticed that she didn’t sit down with him. Was she just feeling a little shy and awkward because of the newness of their situation, or was she having second thoughts?
‘Have you changed your mind about this?’ he asked, as gently as he could.
‘No-o,’ she hedged. ‘It’s not that.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘I’m usually a reasonable cook.’ She bit her lip. ‘What if it all goes wrong tonight?’
Nervous, then, rather than second thoughts. And suddenly his own nerves vanished. He stood up, walked over to her and put his arms round her. ‘I’m pretty sure it’ll be just fine. If it’s not, then it doesn’t matter. I’ll carry you to your bed and take your mind off it—and then I’ll order us a pizza instead.’ He kissed the corner of her mouth, knowing he was dangerously close to distracting her, but wanting to make her feel better. ‘Claire, why are you worrying that the food’s going to be bad tonight?’
‘Because it’s you,’ she said.
Because she thought he’d judge her? He had to acknowledge that he’d judged her in the past—and not always fairly. ‘You already know I’d rather wash up or take someone out to dinner than cook for them, so I’m in no position to complain if someone cooks me something that isn’t Michelin-star standard.’
‘I guess.’ She blew out a breath. ‘It’s just... Well, this is you and me, and it feels...’
He waited. What was she going to say? That it felt like a mistake?
‘Scary,’ she finished.
He could understand that. Claire fascinated him; yet, at the same time, this whole thing scared him witless. Her outlook was so different from his. She didn’t have a totally ordered world. She followed her heart. If he let her close—what then? Would he end up with his heart broken? ‘Me, too,’ he said.
The only thing he could do then was to kiss her, to stop the fear spreading through him, too. So he covered her mouth with his, relaxing as she wrapped her arms round him, too, and kissed him back. Holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his and the sweetness of her mouth against his, made his world feel as if the axis was in the right place again.
A sharp ding made them both break apart. ‘That was the steamer. It means the vegetables are done,’ Claire said, looking flustered and adorably pink.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked again.
This time, to his relief, she stopped treating him like a guest who had to be waited on. ‘Could you open the wine? The corkscrew’s in the middle drawer.’
‘Sure. Would you prefer red or white?’
‘We’re having chicken, so it’s entirely up to you.’
He looked at her. ‘You’d serve red wine with chicken?’
‘Well, hey—if you can cook chicken in red wine, then you can serve it with red wine.’
He wrinkled his nose at her. ‘Am I being regimented again?’
‘No. Just a teensy bit of a wine snob,’ she said with a grin. ‘You need to learn to go with the flow, Sean. Carpe diem. Seize the day. It’s a good motto to live by.’
‘Maybe.’ By the time he’d taken the wine from her fridge, found the corkscrew in the jumble of her kitchen drawer, uncorked the bottle and poured them both a glass, she’d served up.
He sat down opposite her and raised his glass. ‘To us, and whatever the future might bring.’
‘To us,’ she echoed softly, looking worried and uncertain—vulnerable, even—and again he felt that weird surge of protectiveness towards her. It unsettled him, because he didn’t generally feel like that about his girlfriends.
‘This is really lovely,’ he said after his first mouthful. Chicken, stuffed with soft cheese and asparagus, then wrapped in parma ham. Claire Stewart was definitely capable in the kitchen, and he could tell that this had been cooked from scratch. He’d assumed that she’d be the sort to buy ready-made meals from the supermarket; clearly that wasn’t the case.
‘Thank you.’ She acknowledged his compliment with a smile.
‘But you’re not reasonable.’
She frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You called yourself a reasonable cook,’ he said. ‘You’re