‘We’re eating in the kitchen. I hope that’s OK,’ he said, obviously trying to put her at ease.
‘That’s very OK, thanks.’ His kitchen was gorgeous: a deep terracotta tiled floor teamed with glossy cream cabinets, dark worktops and duck-egg-blue walls. There was a small square maple table at one end with two places set. ‘I really like the way you’ve done your kitchen,’ she said.
‘I’m afraid it’s all my sister’s idea rather than mine,’ he confessed. ‘When I bought this place and did it up, she offered to paint for two hours a day until it was done if I would let her choose the kitchen.’
It sounded as if he was as close to his family as she was to hers. ‘So you’re not really a cook, then?’
‘Given that you come from a family of restaurateurs and chefs, I wouldn’t dare claim to be a cook,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘I promise I won’t go into food critic mode.’
He pretended to mop his brow in relief, making her smile. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Yes, please—whatever you’re having.’
He took a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge and poured them both a glass. Bailey noted that all his appliances were built-in and hidden behind doors to match the rest of the cabinets. Efficient and stylish at the same time. She liked that. It was how she organised her own kitchen.
‘Have a seat,’ he said, indicating the table.
‘Thanks.’ She bit her lip. ‘Sorry. As I said, it’s been a while since I dated.’
‘Me, too. And it’s hard to know what to say. We could make small talk about the team and work—but then it wouldn’t be like a date.’
‘And if we ask each other about ourselves, it’ll feel like—well—we’re grilling each other,’ she said.
‘Or speed dating.’ He grimaced. ‘I let my best friend talk me into that one six months ago. Never, ever again.’
Speed dating was something she’d never done—along with signing up to an online dating agency or letting anyone set her up on a blind date. She’d made it clear to everyone that she was just fine as she was. ‘Was it really that bad?’
‘Probably slightly worse,’ he said. ‘But how do you meet someone when you get to our age?’
‘You make us sound middle-aged.’ She laughed, even though she knew what he meant. By their age, most people had already settled into a relationship or had a lot of baggage that made starting a new relationship difficult. It wasn’t like when you were just out of university and there were parties every weekend where most of the people there were still single.
‘I’m thirty-five—and sometimes I feel really middle-aged,’ he said wryly, ‘especially when I hear the seventeen-year-olds talking in the changing room about their girlfriends.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘They don’t do that in front of me. Probably because they think I’ll tell them off.’ Then she groaned, ‘Which means they think I’m old enough to be their mother, and at thirty I’m not quite that old.’
‘Or maybe they’ve got a secret crush on you and don’t want to sound stupid in front of you,’ Jared suggested.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘that might be a slightly worse thought. They’re still practically babies!’
He laughed and raised his glass. ‘To us,’ he said, ‘and finding some way to talk to each other.’
‘To us,’ she echoed, feeling ridiculously shy.
‘I forgot to ask you if you like fish,’ he said.
‘I do.’
‘Good. Though I’m afraid I cheated on the starter,’ he admitted. ‘Which is ready right now.’
He took two plates from the fridge: baby crabs served in their shell with a salad garnish, and served with thin slices of rye bread and proper butter.
‘I don’t care if you cheated. This is lovely,’ she said.
The main course was sea bass baked in foil with slices of lemon, rosemary potatoes, fine green beans and baby carrots. ‘This is fabulous,’ she said. ‘Super-healthy and super-scrumptious.’
He inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘Thank you.’
Pudding was a rich dark chocolate mousse served in a tiny pot with raspberries.
‘Now, this,’ Bailey said after the first mouthful, ‘is what you’d use to make any woman say yes.’
And then she realised what she’d said.
She put one hand to her face in horror. ‘Please tell me I didn’t say that out loud.’
‘I’m afraid you did.’ His voice had grown slightly husky, and his pupils were huge, making his eyes look dark.
She blew out a breath. ‘Um. I don’t know what to say.’
‘If it helps, I didn’t actually make it with the intention of using it to seduce you,’ he said. ‘Only … you’ve put an image in my head now.’
‘An image?’
He nodded. ‘Of me feeding you this, one spoonful at a time.’
So much for telling herself to treat this as just dinner with a friend. Right now, he’d put exactly the same image in her own head and she could hardly breathe. Especially as she could vividly remember what it had felt like when he’d kissed her.
What would happen if she held out her spoon to him? Would he let her feed the rich chocolate mousse to him? Or would he lean forward and kiss her?
Time hung, suspended.
Which of them would make the first move?
Dark colour was slashed across his cheekbones. And she could feel the heat in her own face. The beat of desire.
Would he kiss her again?
‘I think,’ he said, his voice even huskier now, ‘we probably need coffee.’
And some distance between them so they could both calm down again. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
Though she couldn’t help watching him while he moved round the kitchen. For someone who was over six feet tall and so muscular, he was very light on his feet. He’d moved lightly when he’d danced with her, too. What would it be like if he …?
No.
Do not think of Jared Fraser naked, she told herself.
Except she couldn’t get the idea out of her head.
What would it be like, making love with Jared?
Her face heating even more, she tried to push the thought to the back of her mind and concentrated on her pudding. He did likewise when he’d finished making them both an espresso.
Silence stretched between them like wires, tighter and tighter.
They needed to break the tension now. Right now. Before they did something stupid. Like kissing each other until they were both dizzy. Right at that moment it was what she really wanted him to do. And she didn’t dare look at him in case he didn’t feel the same—or, worse, in case he did. She wasn’t sure which scared her more.
She sipped the coffee. ‘This is good,’ she murmured. Oh, for pity’s sake. Where was her stock of small talk when she needed it? Why couldn’t she talk to him about books and films and theatre?
Probably because her tastes were on the girly side and his would be decidedly masculine.
‘I’m glad you like the coffee.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to sit in the living room?’
‘Can