As was the way she’d cast that expensive-looking orange leather carry-all thing onto the floor—as though it were no more valuable than a paper shopping bag.
And the fact that she never wore nail polish.
The way she could make her eyes twinkle at will.
And that fresh flower smell of hers.
The jolt when she took his arm and looked up at him with mischief printed all over her face like a tattoo.
He didn’t want to feel gauche when he pulled away from her touch and nearly caused her to face-plant—and then embarrassed because she laughed it off and blamed herself when he knew that she knew the fault was his. Because Sunshine, he was coming to realise, was no dummy.
And he certainly didn’t want to feel disapproving, like a damned priest, just because she was dating two men simultaneously and didn’t love either of them. Because she was right about one thing: who was he to lecture her?
Leo flexed his arm under her hand, which felt disturbingly light and warm and...whatever. It was nothing. Meant nothing. It was just her keeping her balance. The same as holding on to a railing.
He took a slow, silent breath. ‘Let’s start with the kitchen,’ he said, and led her though swinging doors into a large room of gleaming white tiles and spotless stainless steel surfaces. ‘Everything in here is state of the art, from the appliances to the ventilation system.’
Sunshine let go of his arm—relief!—and turned a slow circle. ‘It’s kind of daunting. Although I think that about every kitchen.’
‘You don’t like to cook?’
‘I just do not cook. I can’t. I did once boil an egg, although it ended up hard like the inside of a golf ball.’ That stopped her for a moment. Distracted her. ‘Have you ever peeled off the outer layer of a golf ball?’ she asked. ‘It’s amazing inside—like an endless rubber band wrapped round and round.’
Not exactly a riveting fact, but she did seem to have an interest in the oddest subjects. ‘You boiled it too long,’ he said. Yeah, I kind of think she figured that out herself, genius.
‘I ate it, but I haven’t boiled an egg since. And, really, why boil an egg when you can pop out to a café and have one perfectly poached with some sourdough toast?’
‘And that’s the only thing you’ve cooked? The egg?’
‘I’ve made two-minute noodles—as recently as yesterday.’
‘Didn’t you help out at home when you were a kid?’
‘That was the problem.’ She ran a finger along the pristine edge of one of the cooker tops. ‘My hippie parents are vegetarian. It was all bean sprouts, brown rice and tofu—which I actively detest—when I was growing up.’ She gave one of those exaggerated shudders that she seemed to luxuriate in. ‘Tofu casserole! Who wants to cook that?’
She opened an oven, peeked inside.
‘You’re clearly a lapsed vegetarian.’
She turned to face him. ‘Capital L, lapsed! From the moment I bit into a piece of sirloin at the age of fifteen—on a Wednesday, at seven-thirty-eight p.m.—I was a goner. I embraced my inner carnivore with a vengeance. Meat and livestock shares skyrocketed! And two days later I tried coconut ice and life was never the same again. Hello, processed sugar! I don’t have a sweet tooth—I have a shark’s mouth full of them!’
‘Shark’s mouth?’
‘Specifically, a white pointer. Did you know they have something like three hundred and fifty teeth? Fifty teeth in the front row and seven rows of teeth behind, ready to step up to the plate if one drops out.’
This was more interesting than the make-up of a golf ball, but not quite as intriguing as the calorific benefit of a passionate kiss.
And he wished he hadn’t remembered that kiss thing—because it came with a vision of her kissing the Viking embalmer.
Sharks. Think about sharks. ‘The only thing I know about sharks’ teeth is that they can kill you,’ he said.
‘Hmm, yes, although the chance is remote. Like one in two hundred and fifty million or something. You’ve got more chance of being killed by bees, or lightning, or even fireworks! But that was just an illustrative example. So! I’m a processed-sugar-craving carnivore, to my parents’ chagrin.’ She stopped. Took a breath. ‘Seriously, I must have the metabolism of a hummingbird, because otherwise I’d be in sumo wrestler territory. You know, hummingbirds can eat three times their own weight every day!’ She ran a hand down her side and across her belly. ‘Not that I can do that, of course,’ she said sadly.
‘No,’ Leo agreed. ‘You’re not exactly skinny.’
A surprised laugh erupted from her. ‘Thank you, Leo. Music to every girl’s ears!’
‘That wasn’t an insult. I’m a chef—I like to see people eating.’
‘In that case, stick with me and you’ll be in a permanent state of ecstasy.’
And there it was—wham!—in his head. The image of her licking the glaceé off her spoon. Ecstasy.
He swallowed—hard. ‘You could take a cooking class.’
‘I think the cooking gene was bored out of me by the time I left the commune.’
‘The commune? So not only are your parents hippies but you lived on a commune?’
‘And it was not cool, if that’s what you’re thinking. Less of the free love, dope-smoking and contemplating our navels, and more of the sharing of space and chores and vehicles. Scream-inducing. If you have any desire for even a modicum of privacy do not join a commune.’ She did the twinkle thing. ‘And, really, way too much hemp clothing. Not that I have anything against hemp—I mean, did you know the hemp industry is about ten thousand years old? Well, probably you didn’t know and don’t care. But you have to admit that’s remarkable.’ Stop. Breathe. ‘However, let’s just say that I don’t want to wear it every day.’
Oddly enough, Leo could see her wearing hemp. On weekends, down at the edge of the surf, with her hair blowing all over her face and her polish-free toes in the water.
It must have been the mention of the commune, because that was not a good-time girl Sunshine Smart image.
Enough already! ‘Let’s move on,’ Leo said.
‘What about plates, cutlery, glasses, serving dishes? You’re sure everything will be here in time?’
‘Yes, it will all be here. And it is all brand-new, top-quality, custom-designed.’
‘Not that I have any intention of telling you how to stock your restaurant...’ She bit her lip. ‘But can you send me photos?’
Leo sighed heavily. ‘Yes, I can send you photos.’
‘Excellent. And can I see the bathrooms?’
She took his arm again, and he didn’t quite control a flinch. Thankfully Sunshine seemed oblivious, although he was starting to believe she was oblivious to approximately nothing.
Escorting her into the men’s and women’s restrooms as though they were out for an arm-in-arm stroll along the Champs-Elysées felt surreal, but Leo knew better than to argue. He wouldn’t put it past her to start imparting strange-but-true facts about the toilet habits of some ancient African tribe if he did, and his nerves couldn’t take it.
At least she looked suitably dazzled by what she found. Ocean-view glass walls on the escarpment side, with the other walls painted in shifting shades of dreamy blue. Floors that were works of art: murals made of tiny mosaic tiles, depicting waves along the coast. And everything else stark white.
‘I