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She looked down at her jeans and her T-shirt. ‘I’m not really dressed for dinner.’
‘You’re fine as you are. I don’t have a dress code.’
She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not quite with you.’
‘I’m cooking for us. At my place,’ he explained.
This time, she laughed. ‘You’re cooking?’
He shrugged. ‘I can cook.’
She smiled. ‘I bet you only learned to impress your girlfriends at university.’
No. He’d learned because he’d had to, when he’d been fourteen. Because the only way he and his little sisters would’ve had anything to eat had been if he’d cooked it. Not that he had any intention of telling Abigail about that. ‘Something like that,’ he said lightly, and drove them back to his flat.
‘Can we stop at an off-licence or something so I can get a bottle of wine as my contribution to dinner?’ she asked on the way.
‘There’s no need. I have wine.’
‘But I haven’t contributed anything.’
‘You have. You bought me lunch.’
‘This was supposed to be my date,’ she reminded him.
‘Tough. I hijacked it, and we’re on my rules now,’ he said with a smile. ‘Just chill, and we’ll have dinner.’
Something smelled good, Abigail thought when Lewis let her inside his flat. Clearly he’d planned this, and it wasn’t the frozen pizza she’d been half expecting him to produce for dinner.
‘It’ll take five minutes for me to sort the vegetables. The bathroom’s through there if you need it,’ he said, indicating a door.
She washed her hands and splashed a little water on her face, then stared at herself in the mirror. She looked a total mess and her hair was all over the place, despite the fact she’d tied it back, and she didn’t have a comb with her so it’d just have to stay looking like a bird’s nest. Then again, this wasn’t a date date so it really didn’t matter how she looked, did it?
When she emerged from the bathroom, she could hear the clatter of crockery in the kitchen. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she called.
‘No, just take a seat,’ he called back.
There was a bistro table in the living room with two chairs. The table was set nicely; he’d clearly made an effort.
There was an array of photographs on the mantelpiece, and she couldn’t resist going over for a closer look. At first glance, Abigail wasn’t surprised that most of them seemed to involve Lewis with his arm round someone female. One of them showed him holding a baby in a white christening gown.
His baby? Surely not. If Lewis had a child, he would’ve mentioned it.
But then she saw a wedding photograph with three women and Lewis. When she studied it, she could see the family likenesses: the bridesmaids were clearly the bride’s sisters. And the same women were in all the photographs. One of them had the same eyes as Lewis; one had his smile; all had his dark hair.
Which meant they had to be Lewis’s sisters. She guessed that the baby belonged to one of them, and Lewis was a doting uncle-cum-godfather.
He came through to the living room, carrying two plates. ‘OK?’ he asked.
‘Just admiring your photographs—your sisters, I presume?’
‘And my niece.’ He nodded. ‘My best girls.’
She’d already worked out that he was close to his family. What would it be like to have a sibling who’d always be there for you, someone you could ring at stupid o’clock in the morning when the doubts hit and you wondered what the hell you were doing? Being an only child, she’d got used to dealing with everything on her own.
‘They look nice,’ she offered.
‘They are. Most of the time. You know what it’s like.’
No, she didn’t. ‘Yes,’ she fibbed.
‘Come and sit down.’
He put the plate down in front of her, and she felt her eyes widen. Oh, no. She should’ve said something. Right back when he’d first told her they were having dinner here. But she’d simply assumed that by ‘cooking’ he’d meant just throwing a frozen cheese and tomato pizza into the oven, and then she’d been distracted by the photographs.
Dinner was presented beautifully, right down to the garnish of chopped fresh herbs.
But no way could she eat it.
Maybe if she ate just the inside of the jacket potato, then hid the chicken stew under the skin?
He clearly noticed her hesitation. ‘Oh, hell. I didn’t think to ask. And, given what you had for lunch…’ He frowned, and she could see the second he made the connection. ‘You’re vegetarian, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed hard. ‘But don’t worry about it. You’ve gone to so much trouble. If you don’t mind, I’ll just eat the jacket potato and the veg.’
‘A casserole isn’t much trouble. And I’m not going to make you pick at your food. Give me ten minutes.’ Before she had a chance to protest, he’d whisked her plate away.
She followed him into the kitchen. ‘Lewis, really—you don’t have to go to any more trouble. Honestly. It’s my fault. I should’ve said something before. Leave it. I’ll just get a taxi home.’
‘You will not,’ he said crisply. ‘I promised you dinner, and dinner you shall have. Are you OK with pasta?’
‘I…’
‘Yes or no, Abby?’ His tone was absolutely implacable.
And, after all the adrenalin of their day at the adventure centre, she was hungry. She gave in. ‘Yes.’
‘And spinach?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I know you’re OK with dairy, or you wouldn’t have eaten cottage cheese. But I’ve already made enough wrong assumptions today, so I’m going to check. Are you OK with garlic and mascarpone?’
‘Love them,’ she said, squirming and feeling as if she was making a total fuss.
‘Good. Dinner will be ten minutes. Go and pour yourself a glass of wine.’ He was already heating oil in a pan, then squashed a clove of garlic and chopped an onion faster than she’d ever seen it done before.
So much for thinking he’d exaggerated his cooking skills. Lewis Gallagher actually knew his way around a kitchen. And he hadn’t been trying to impress her—he was trying to be hospitable. Bossing her around in exactly the way he probably bossed his kid sisters around.
She went back into his living room, poured herself a glass of wine and then poured a second glass for him before returning to the kitchen with the glasses. ‘I, um, thought you might like this.’
‘Thank you. I would.’ He smiled at her.
The spinach was wilting into the onions and the kettle was boiling, ready for the pasta. ‘Sorry, I’m out of flour, or I’d make us some flatbread to go with it.’
And she’d just bet he made his bread by hand, not with a machine. Lewis Gallagher was turning out to be so much more domesticated than she’d thought. And the fact he’d noticed that she couldn’t eat the food and guessed why… There was more to him than just the shallow party boy. Much more.
Which made him dangerous to her peace of mind.
She should back away, right now.
But then he started talking to her about food and bread, putting her at her ease, and she found herself relaxing with him. Ten minutes later, she carried her own plate through to the living room: pasta with a simple garlic, spinach and mascarpone sauce.
‘This is really good,’ she said after the first mouthful. ‘Thank you.’
He inclined his head. ‘I’m only sorry that I didn’t ask you earlier if you were veggie. Dani would have my hide for that.’
‘Dani?’
‘The oldest of my girls. She’s vegetarian.’
Which explained why he’d been able to whip up something without a fuss. And not pasta with the usual jar of tomato sauce with a handful of grated cheese dumped onto it, which in her experience most people seemed to think passed for good vegetarian food.
‘So your sisters are all younger than you?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Dani’s an actuary, Manda’s a drama teacher, and Ronnie—short for Veronica—is a librarian.’
‘Do they all live in London?’
‘Dani does. Ronnie’s in Manchester and Manda’s in Cambridge. Which I guess is near enough to London for me to see her and Louise reasonably often.’
‘Louise being the baby?’ she guessed.
‘My niece. Goddaughter.’ He grinned. ‘Manda named her after me, though I hope Louise is a bit better behaved than I am when she grows up.’
Abigail smiled back at him. ‘Since you’re the oldest, I’m surprised none of them were tempted to follow you into medicine.’
It wasn’t that surprising. Lewis had been the one to follow them to university. Because how could he have just gone off at eighteen to follow his own dreams, leaving the girls to deal with their mother and fend for themselves? So he’d stayed. He’d waited until Ronnie was eighteen and ready to fly the nest, before applying to read medicine and explaining at the interview why his so-called gap year had actually lasted for six.
‘No,’ he said lightly. ‘What about you? Brothers or sisters?’
She looked away. ‘Neither. Just me.’
‘That explains the ice princess. Daddy’s girl,’ he said.
Daddy’s girl.
Did he know?
Had he made the connection with ‘Cinnamon Baby’, the little girl with ringlets who’d been the paparazzi’s darling, smiling for the cameras on her father’s shoulders? She really hoped not. Abigail didn’t use her first name any more, and it had been years since the paparazzi had followed her about. Even so, the times when her identity had been leaked in the past had made her paranoid about it happening again.
And there was no guile in Lewis’s face. Abigail had already leaped to a few wrong conclusions about him, and she knew she wasn’t being fair to him.
‘I suppose I am, a bit,’ she said.
‘Is your dad a doctor?’ he asked.
‘No. What about your parents?’
He shook his head, and for a moment she was sure she saw sadness in his eyes, though when she blinked it had gone. Maybe she’d imagined it.
Pudding turned out to be strawberries and very posh vanilla ice cream.
‘Do I take it you make your own ice cream?’ Abigail asked.
Lewis laughed. ‘No. There’s an Italian deli around the corner that sells the nicest ice cream in the world, so there’s no need to make my own—though I would love an ice-cream maker.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘But my girls say I already have far too many gadgets.’
‘Boys and their toys,’ she said lightly.
‘Cooking relaxes me.’ He grinned. ‘But I admit I like gadgets as well. As long as they’re useful, otherwise they’re just clutter and a waste of space.’
Abigail glanced at her watch and was surprised to discover how late it was. ‘I’d better get that taxi.’
‘Absolutely not. I’m driving you home. And I only had one glass of wine, so I’m under the limit.’
It was easier not to protest. Though, with the roof up, his car seemed much more intimate. Just the two of them in an enclosed space.
He insisted on seeing her to her door.
‘Would you like to come in for coffee?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘You’re on an early shift tomorrow, so it wouldn’t be fair. But thank you for the offer.’
‘Thank you for today, Lewis. I really enjoyed it.’
‘Me, too,’ he said.
And this was where she unlocked the door, closed it behind her and ended everything.
Except her mouth had other ideas.
‘Um, those concert tickets I bid for at the fundraiser. It’s on Friday night. It probably isn’t your thing, but if you’d like to, um, go with me, you’re very welcome.’
He looked at her and gave her a slow smile that made her toes curl. ‘Thank you. I’d like that very much.’
‘Not as a date,’ she added hastily, ‘just because I have a spare ticket.’ She didn’t want him thinking she was chasing him. Because she wasn’t.
Was she?
