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‘I also told you I don’t make everyone else around me stick to water.’
‘I don’t actually drink that much,’ she admitted.
He looked at her. ‘But the first time you met Hugh...’
Oh, no. Well, he was Hugh’s best friend. Of course he’d know about what happened. ‘I threw up over Hugh because I’d drunk three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach. Which is more than I would usually drink in a month.’ Shame flooded through her at the memory. ‘Does everyone know about that?’
‘Tarq and I do.’
‘Tarquin never mentioned it when he met me.’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘Probably because Tarq’s nicer than I am.’
‘I’m reserving the right to stay silent.’ Because Roland had come to her rescue, and he was offering her a place to stay. But she was still annoyed that he’d thought so badly of her without even waiting to hear her side of the story. Maybe she’d been right in her first impression of him, too, and he was firmly in the same box as Cynthia Sutton: cold, judgemental and obsessed by appearances.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t the rest of that speech along the lines that if you want to rely on something later in court, you have to speak now?’
‘Am I on trial?’ she asked.
‘Of course not.’ He shook his head. ‘Pizza it is, then. And mineral water.’
‘Provided I pay for the pizza. I don’t want you thinking I’m a freeloader as well as being the Runaway Bride and a lush to boot.’
The slight colour staining his cheeks told her that was exactly what he’d thought of her. Which was totally unfair—he’d jumped to conclusions without even knowing her. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d come to her rescue last night and been kind, right at that moment she would’ve disliked him even more than she had at the wedding.
‘I know now that you’re none of those things. And you insisted on paying last night, so this is on me,’ he said.
‘If you buy the pizza,’ she said, still cross that he thought she was one of life’s takers, ‘then I want an invoice for the use of your van yesterday.’
‘How about,’ he suggested, ‘we go halves on the pizza?’
She folded her arms. ‘I’d prefer to pay.’
He met her glare head-on. ‘Halves or starve. That’s the choice.’
And how tempted she was to choose the latter. On principle. Except she was really, really hungry and it was pointless spiting herself. ‘OK. Halves. But I do the washing up. And, tomorrow, I cook for us.’
‘You can cook?’ He looked taken aback.
She could guess why. ‘I love my little sister to bits,’ she said, ‘but Bella’s a bit of a disaster in the kitchen. If she’s cooked for you, then I understand why you’re surprised—but her culinary skills don’t run in the family.’
‘She hasn’t cooked for me. But Hugh told me how bad her stir-fry is,’ he admitted.
‘In her defence, she does make great pancakes and cupcakes.’
He smiled. ‘But you can’t live on pancakes and cupcakes alone.’
‘Exactly. Is there anything you don’t eat, or do you have any food intolerances or allergies?’
‘No—and you can use anything you like in the kitchen.’
‘I’m glad you said that, because your kitchen is gorgeous and it’ll be a pleasure to cook here.’ She gestured round. ‘So do I take it that you’re a cook, too, or is this just for show?’
* * *
Roland thought back to the times when he and Lynette had cooked together. Never in this kitchen—he’d still been renovating the place when the drunk driver had smashed into his wife’s car. And he hadn’t had the heart to cook since. Most of the time he lived on sandwiches, takeaways or microwaved supermarket meals; apart from when his family and his best friends insisted on seeing him, he filled the time with work, work and more work, so he didn’t have the space to think. ‘I don’t cook much nowadays,’ he said.
‘Fair enough.’ To his relief, she didn’t pry.
‘But if you can text me and let me know what time you want to eat tomorrow,’ she added, ‘that would be helpful.’
‘I’ll do that,’ he said. Though it felt weirdly domestic, and it made him antsy enough not to press Grace about the reason why she’d moved to Bella’s flat—just in case she expected him to share about his past, too. The last thing he wanted was for her to start pitying him—the poor widower who’d lost his wife tragically young. Especially because he didn’t deserve the pity. He hadn’t taken enough care of Lyn, and he’d never forgive himself for that.
Grace’s phone pinged. ‘I’m expecting something. Can I be rude and check my phone?’ she asked.
‘Be my guest.’
She glanced at the screen and smiled. ‘Oh, I like this. Today’s Bellagram is the Golden Gate Bridge,’ she said, showing him the photograph of Bella and Hugh posing with the iconic bridge behind them.
‘Bellagram?’ Roland asked, not quite understanding.
‘Postcard. Telegram—the modern version,’ Grace explained. ‘Bella likes puns.’
‘She texts you every day?’
Grace nodded. ‘We always text each other if we’re away, sending a photo of what we’ve been doing. Bella forgot about the time difference for the first one, so it woke me at three in the morning.’ She laughed. ‘But that’s Bella for you. It’s great to know they’re having a good time.’
‘Have you told her about...?’
‘The flood? No. I don’t want her worrying. I just text her back to say I’m glad she’s having fun and I love her,’ Grace said.
Which was pretty much what his own family had done when he and Lyn had sent a couple of brief texts from the rainforest on their honeymoon, purely to stop everyone at home worrying that they’d got lost or been eaten by piranhas. Another surge of guilt flooded through him. He’d taken care of Lyn then. Where had it all gone so wrong?
He was glad when Grace was tactful enough to switch the subject to something neutral and kept the conversation easy.
Though later that evening Roland still couldn’t get her out of his head. He lay awake, watching the sky through the glass ceiling of his bedroom—a ceiling that wasn’t overlooked by anyone or anything—and thinking of her.
What was it about Grace Faraday?
He’d misjudged her completely. Far from being a spoiled, princessy drunk, Grace was a capable and quietly organised woman with good manners. She was a little bit shy, very independent, and nice. Easy to be with.
Which was why he probably ought to find somewhere else for her to stay. Grace Faraday was dangerous to his peace of mind. She was the first woman in a long time to intrigue him. Or attract him. And for someone like her to call off a wedding only three weeks before the ceremony... Something had to have been very wrong indeed. Even though it was none of his business, he couldn’t help wondering. Had she discovered some really serious character flaw in her husband-to-be?
She’d been going to tell him about it, and then they’d been sidetracked. Maybe she’d tell him tomorrow.
And maybe that would be the thing to keep his common sense in place and stop him doing something stupid.
Like acting on the strong pull he felt towards her and actually kissing her.
CHAPTER THREE (#u687e2b29-9f2e-59f4-960c-dc1bd80c965d)
THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Roland opened his front door and stopped dead. It was strange to smell dinner cooking; he could definitely smell lemons, and possibly fish.
Then he realised he could also hear music; clearly Grace had connected her MP3 player to his speakers in the kitchen. Odd; he’d half expected her to like very formal classical music, but right now she was playing vintage feel-good pop songs. And she was singing along. He smiled as she launched into ‘Build Me Up, Buttercup’, ever so slightly out of key.
But were the song lyrics a warning to him that she didn’t want her heart broken? Not that he should be thinking about a relationship with her anyway. His smile faded as he went into the kitchen. ‘Good evening, Grace.’
‘Oh! Roland. Hello.’ She looked up from whatever she was doing and smiled at him, and to his shock his heart felt as if it had done a somersault.
When had he last reacted to someone like this?
Then her face went bright red as she clearly thought about what she’d been doing when he’d opened his front door. ‘Um—I apologise for the singing. I’m afraid I can’t hold a tune.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ he reassured her. ‘You can sing in the kitchen if you like—though actually I had you pegged for a classical music fiend.’
‘The boring accountant who likes boring stuff?’ she asked with a wry smile.
‘Not all classical music is boring. Have you ever heard Hugh play Bach on the piano? It’s amazing stuff.’
‘No—and, actually, I do like classical music. Not the super-heavy operatic stuff, though,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to one of those evenings where they play popular classical music to a background of fireworks.’ She paused. ‘Not that you want to be bored by my bucket list. Dinner will be about another ten minutes.’
Why did Grace think she was boring? Though Roland wasn’t sure how to ask her, because she seemed to have gone back into her shell. Clearly she was used to being the shy, quiet older sister, while Bella was the bubbly one. He fell back on a polite, ‘Something smells nice.’
‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer to eat in the dining room or the kitchen, so I guessed that here would be OK—though I can move it if you like.’ She gestured to the kitchen table by the glass wall, which she’d set for two.
It was definitely less intimate than his dining room would be, he thought with relief. He wasn’t sure if he could handle being in intimate surroundings with her, at least not until he’d got these weird, wayward feelings under control. ‘The kitchen’s fine,’ he said. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Everything’s pretty much done,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a coffee or something?’
‘It’s fine. I’ll make it,’ he said. ‘Do you want one?’
‘That’d be nice.’ She smiled at him and went back to scooping the flesh and seeds out of passion fruit. ‘Thank you.’
This felt dangerously domesticated, working in the kitchen alongside her. Roland made the coffee in near silence, partly because he didn’t have a clue what to say to Grace. His social skills outside work had really atrophied. Right now, he felt as gauche as a schoolboy.
‘How was your day?’ she asked.
‘Fine. How was yours?’
‘As exciting as any temporary accountancy job can be,’ she said with a smile.
‘Are you looking for something permanent?’
She went still. ‘Roland, if you’re just about to offer me a job out of pity, please don’t. I’m perfectly capable of finding myself a job.’
‘Actually, I don’t have anything right now that would match your skill set,’ he said. ‘But if I did and I offered you an interview, then I’d expect you to be better than any of the other candidates before I offered you the job.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘And I guess it was a bit previous of me to jump to the conclusion that you were going to offer me a job—but you’ve already rescued me this week and...’ Her voice trailed off and she looked awkward. ‘Sorry.’
‘And sometimes rescuers don’t know when to stop and let someone stand on their own two feet. I get it,’ he said. ‘And no offence taken.’
‘Thank you. Actually, I did have a job interview the other day. And I think it went well.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But then I came home to find myself flooded out, so I haven’t really thought about it since then.’ She shrugged. ‘I probably haven’t got the job, or I would’ve heard by now.’
‘That depends on how many they’re interviewing,’ Roland said.
‘I guess.’ She brought a jug of what looked like sparkling elderflower cordial over to the table, and then two plates. ‘I thought we could have fig, mozzarella and prosciutto skewers to start.’
‘Impressive,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘There’s nothing impressive about threading things onto skewers.’
‘It’s nicely presented, anyway.’ He took a taste. ‘And it’s a good combination.’
She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘Thank you.’
The citrus-glazed baked salmon with sweet potato wedges, caramelised lemons, spinach and baby carrots was even nicer. ‘Now this you did have to cook. Don’t tell me this isn’t impressive.’
‘Again, it’s much simpler than it looks. I was kind of guinea-pigging you,’ she confessed.
‘Guinea-pigging?’
‘I’m going to teach Bel to cook,’ she said. ‘So the food needs to look pretty—but it also has to take minimum effort and not involve planning the cooking time for more than two things at once.’
He smiled at her. ‘You’re obviously a foodie—so why are you an accountant rather than, say, running your own restaurant?’
Because numbers were safe.
Though Grace didn’t quite want to admit that. ‘I was good at maths when I was at school, and accountancy has good employment prospects,’ she said. ‘Plus that way I could study for my qualifications in the evenings while I earned money, rather than ending up with a pile of student debt. It made sense to choose accountancy as my career.’ And that was who she was. The sensible, quiet older sister who was good at sorting things out.
‘Do you enjoy your job?’
She smiled. ‘Bella always groans and says she doesn’t get why, but actually I do—I like the patterns in numbers, and the way everything works out neatly.’ She paused. ‘What about you? Why did you become an architect?’
‘Because I love buildings,’ he said simply. ‘Everything from the simplest rural cottage through to grand Rococo palaces.’
She looked at him. ‘I can imagine you living in a grand Rococo palace.’
He smiled. ‘They’re not all they’re cracked up to be. They’re very cold in winter.’
She blinked. ‘So you’ve stayed in one?’
‘The French side of the family owns a chateau or two,’ he admitted.
She felt her eyes widen. ‘Your family owns castles?’ Roland had a posh accent, but she hadn’t realised just how posh he was. Way, way outside her own social circle.
‘Chateaux tend to go hand in hand with vineyards, and our French family produces wine,’ he said. ‘Christmas in France when I was young was always magical, because there was always the most enormous Christmas tree with a silver star on the top, and there were roaring open fires where you could roast chestnuts and toast crumpets.’
Now she knew he was teasing her. ‘Since when do they eat crumpets in France?’
