Kate Hardy - Wish Upon a Wedding

* * *

Downstairs, Sammy was pouring a cup of coffee from a cafetière when Claire walked over to her table. ‘So who was he?’ she asked.

‘Who was what?’ Claire asked.

‘The guy who kept you awake last night and gave you that hickey on the left-hand side of your neck.’

Claire clapped a hand to her neck and stared at her friend in utter dismay. She hadn’t noticed a hickey while she was in the bathroom—well, not that she’d paid much attention to the mirror, because she’d been too busy panicking about the fact that Sean Farrell was naked and in her bed, and she’d just messed things up again.

And he’d given her a hickey?

Oh, no. She hadn’t had a hickey since she was thirteen, and her dad had been so mad at her that she’d never repeated that particular mistake. Until now.

When Claire continued to be silent, Sammy laughed. ‘Gotcha. There’s no hickey. But clearly I wasn’t far wrong and there was a guy last night.’

‘You don’t want to know,’ Claire said.

‘I wouldn’t be fishing if I didn’t,’ Sammy pointed out.

‘It was a one off. And I feel suitably ashamed, OK? I said I wouldn’t date any more Mr Wrongs.’

‘Forgive me for saying, but you didn’t have a date for Ash’s wedding,’ Sammy said. ‘So I think he doesn’t count as one of your Mr Wrongs.’

‘Oh, he does. You couldn’t get more wrong for me than him,’ Claire said feelingly. More was the pity.

‘Was the sex good?’

‘Sammy!’ Claire felt the colour hit her face like a tidal wave.

Her friend was totally unrepentant. ‘Out of ten?’

Claire groaned. ‘I need coffee.’

‘Answer the question, Claire-bear.’

‘Eleven,’ Claire muttered, and helped herself to coffee, sugaring it liberally.

‘Then maybe,’ Sammy said, ‘he might be worth working on. Sort out whatever makes him Mr Wrong.’

‘That’d be several lifetimes’ work,’ Claire said wryly.

‘Your call. Pastries or peaches?’

Claire couldn’t help smiling. Only Sammy would ask something so outrageous followed by something so practical and mundane. ‘I thought you’d already scoffed all the pastries? But if there are any left I’ll have both,’ she said.

‘Attagirl.’ Sammy winked at her. ‘And I hope you don’t have a hangover. Because we’re taking that boat out to the Blue Grotto this afternoon before we catch our flights—I’ve got a commission.’

‘Do you ever stop working?’ Claire asked.

‘About as much as you do,’ Sammy said with a grin. ‘Anyway, mixing work and play means you get to fit twice as much into your day—and you enjoy it more.’

‘True.’

‘Pity about Mr Wrong.’

Yeah.

And Claire really wasn’t looking forward to facing Sean, the next time they met. Somehow, before then she needed to get her emotions completely under control.

* * *

Claire enjoyed her trip to the Blue Grotto, and the colours and textures gave her several ideas for future dress designs; but on the plane home she found herself thinking about Sean. He’d been a very focused lover, very considerate. She still felt guilty about the way she’d called a halt to it, but she knew she’d done the right thing. Sean planned things out to the extreme, and she preferred to follow her heart, so they’d never be able to agree on anything.

Back at her flat, she unpacked and put the laundry on, checked her mail and her messages, and made notes for what she needed to do in the morning. Though she still couldn’t get Sean out of her head. When she finally fell asleep, she had the most graphic dream about him—one that left her hot and very bothered when her alarm went off on the Monday morning.

‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Sean Farrell is completely off limits,’ she told herself firmly, and went for her usual pre-breakfast run. Maybe that would get her common sense back in working order. But even then she couldn’t stop thinking about Sean. How he’d made her feel. How she wanted to do what they’d done all over again.

After her shower, she opened her laptop and logged in to her bank account so she could transfer the money she owed Sean for the flight into his account. And, once that was done, she knew she wouldn’t need any contact with him until Ashleigh and Luke were back from honeymoon. By which time, her common sense would be back.

She hoped.

She went down to open the shop, then headed for her workroom at the back to start work on the next dress she needed to make for the wedding show. She’d just finished cutting it out when the old-fashioned bell on her door jangled to signal that someone was coming through the front door.

She came out from the workroom to see a delivery man carrying an enormous bunch of flowers. ‘Miss Stewart?’ he asked.

‘Um, yes.’

‘For you.’ He smiled and handed her the flowers. ‘Enjoy.’

‘Thank you.’

It wasn’t her birthday and she wasn’t expecting any flowers. Or maybe they were from Ashleigh and Luke to say thanks for her help with the wedding. She absolutely loved dusky pink roses; the bouquet was stuffed with them, teamed with sweet-smelling cream freesias and clouds of fluffy gypsophila. She’d never seen such a gorgeous bouquet.

She opened the envelope that came with it and felt her eyes widen with shock; she recognised the strong, precise handwriting immediately, because she’d seen it on cards and notes at Ashleigh’s flat over the years.

Saw these and thought of you. Sean.

He’d sent her flowers.

Not just any old flowers—glorious flowers.

And he hadn’t just asked his PA to do it, either. The handwriting was his, so he’d clearly gone to the florist in person, and maybe even chosen the flowers himself.

Sean Farrell had sent her flowers.

Claire couldn’t quite get her head round that.

Why would he send her flowers?

She didn’t quite dare ring him to ask him. So, once she’d put them in water, she took the coward’s way out and texted him.

Thank you for the flowers. They’re gorgeous.

He took his time replying, but eventually the text came through. Glad you like them.

Where was he going with this?

Before she could work out a way to ask without sounding offensive, her phone beeped again to signal the arrival of another text.

Thank you for the flight money. Bank just notified me. Do you have an appointment over lunch?

Why? No, that sounded grudging and suspicious. She deleted the message and started again. No worries, and no, she typed back.

You do now. See you at your shop at one.

What? Was he suggesting a lunch date? Dating her? But—but—they’d agreed that the thing between them would be a disaster if they let it go any further.

Sean, we can’t.

But he didn’t reply. And she was left in a flat spin.

By the time the bell on the front door jangled and she went through to the shop to see Sean standing there—and he’d turned her sign on the door to ‘closed’, she noticed—she was wound up to fever pitch.

‘What’s this about, Sean?’ she asked.

‘I thought we could have lunch together.’

‘But...’ Her voice faded. They’d already agreed that this was a bad idea—hadn’t they?

‘I know,’ he said softly, and walked over towards her.

He was dressed in another of his formal well-cut suits, with his shoes perfectly shined and his silk tie perfectly knotted; he was a million miles away from the sensual, dishevelled man who’d spent the night in her bed in Capri. And yet he was every bit as delectable. Even though he wasn’t even touching her, being this close to him made all her senses go on red alert.

‘I can’t get you out of my head,’ he said.

Well, if he could be brave enough to admit it, so could she. She swallowed hard. ‘Me, neither,’ she said.