Kate Hardy - Wish Upon a Wedding

‘Uh-huh.’ But she still looked fidgety, and he noticed that she didn’t sit down with him. Was she just feeling a little shy and awkward because of the newness of their situation, or was she having second thoughts?

‘Have you changed your mind about this?’ he asked, as gently as he could.

‘No-o,’ she hedged. ‘It’s not that.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘I’m usually a reasonable cook.’ She bit her lip. ‘What if it all goes wrong tonight?’

Nervous, then, rather than second thoughts. And suddenly his own nerves vanished. He stood up, walked over to her and put his arms round her. ‘I’m pretty sure it’ll be just fine. If it’s not, then it doesn’t matter. I’ll carry you to your bed and take your mind off it—and then I’ll order us a pizza instead.’ He kissed the corner of her mouth, knowing he was dangerously close to distracting her, but wanting to make her feel better. ‘Claire, why are you worrying that the food’s going to be bad tonight?’

‘Because it’s you ,’ she said.

Because she thought he’d judge her? He had to acknowledge that he’d judged her in the past—and not always fairly. ‘You already know I’d rather wash up or take someone out to dinner than cook for them, so I’m in no position to complain if someone cooks me something that isn’t Michelin-star standard.’

‘I guess.’ She blew out a breath. ‘It’s just... Well, this is you and me, and it feels...’

He waited. What was she going to say? That it felt like a mistake?

‘Scary,’ she finished.

He could understand that. Claire fascinated him; yet, at the same time, this whole thing scared him witless. Her outlook was so different from his. She didn’t have a totally ordered world. She followed her heart. If he let her close—what then? Would he end up with his heart broken? ‘Me, too,’ he said.

The only thing he could do then was to kiss her, to stop the fear spreading through him, too. So he covered her mouth with his, relaxing as she wrapped her arms round him, too, and kissed him back. Holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his and the sweetness of her mouth against his, made his world feel as if the axis was in the right place again.

A sharp ding made them both break apart. ‘That was the steamer. It means the vegetables are done,’ Claire said, looking flustered and adorably pink.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked again.

This time, to his relief, she stopped treating him like a guest who had to be waited on. ‘Could you open the wine? The corkscrew’s in the middle drawer.’

‘Sure. Would you prefer red or white?’

‘We’re having chicken, so it’s entirely up to you.’

He looked at her. ‘You’d serve red wine with chicken?’

‘Well, hey—if you can cook chicken in red wine, then you can serve it with red wine.’

He wrinkled his nose at her. ‘Am I being regimented again?’

‘No. Just a teensy bit of a wine snob,’ she said with a grin. ‘You need to learn to go with the flow, Sean. Carpe diem. Seize the day. It’s a good motto to live by.’

‘Maybe.’ By the time he’d taken the wine from her fridge, found the corkscrew in the jumble of her kitchen drawer, uncorked the bottle and poured them both a glass, she’d served up.

He sat down opposite her and raised his glass. ‘To us, and whatever the future might bring.’

‘To us,’ she echoed softly, looking worried and uncertain—vulnerable, even—and again he felt that weird surge of protectiveness towards her. It unsettled him, because he didn’t generally feel like that about his girlfriends.

‘This is really lovely,’ he said after his first mouthful. Chicken, stuffed with soft cheese and asparagus, then wrapped in parma ham. Claire Stewart was definitely capable in the kitchen, and he could tell that this had been cooked from scratch. He’d assumed that she’d be the sort to buy ready-made meals from the supermarket; clearly that wasn’t the case.

‘Thank you.’ She acknowledged his compliment with a smile.

‘But you’re not reasonable.’

She frowned. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You called yourself a reasonable cook,’ he said. ‘You’re not. You’re more than that.’

‘Thank you. Though I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’ She shrugged. ‘I used to like cooking with my mum. Not that she ever followed a recipe. She’d pick something at random, and then she’d tweak it.’

‘So I’m guessing that you didn’t follow a recipe for this, did you?’ he asked.

‘I cooked us dinner. It’s not exactly rocket science,’ she drawled.

Why had he never noticed how deliciously sarcastic she could be?

‘What?’ she asked

He blinked. ‘Sorry. I’m not following you.’

‘You were smiling. What did I say that was so funny?’

‘It was the way you said it.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any idea how delectable you are when you’re being sarcastic?’

It was her turn to blink. ‘Sarcasm is sexy?’

‘It is on you.’

She grinned. ‘Well, now. I think tonight has just got a whole lot more interesting. Are you on a sugar rush, Sean?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Working where you do, you have toffee practically on tap. Eat enough of the stuff and you’ll be on a permanent sugar rush. Which, I think, must be the main reason why you’re complimenting me like this tonight.’

No. It was because it was as if he’d just met her for the first time. She wasn’t the girl who’d irritated him for years; she was a woman who intrigued him. But he didn’t want to sound soppy. ‘Honey,’ he drawled, ‘the only sugar I want right now is you.’

She laughed at him. ‘Now you’ve switched to cheese.’

‘No. You’re the one who’s served cheese.’ He indicated the stuffing for the chicken. ‘And very nice it is, too.’

Her mouth quirked. ‘Keep complimenting me like this, and...’

‘Yeah?’ he asked, his voice suddenly lower. What was she going to do? Kiss him? That idea definitely worked for him.

‘Oh, shut up and eat your dinner,’ she said, looking flustered.

‘Chicken,’ he said, knowing that she’d pick up on the double use of the word—and he was seriously enjoying fencing with her. Why had he never noticed before that she was bright and funny, and sexy as hell?

Probably because he’d had this fixed idea of her as a difficult girl who attracted trouble. That was definitely true in the past, but now...Now, she wasn’t who he’d always thought she was. She’d grown up. Changed. And he really liked the woman he was beginning to get to know.

She served pudding next—a seriously rich chocolate ganache teamed with tart raspberries. ‘Come and work for my R and D department,’ he said, ‘because I think you’d have seriously good ideas about flavouring.’

She smiled. ‘I know practically nothing about making toffee, and if I make banoffee pie I always buy a jar of dulce de leche rather than making my own.’

‘That’s a perfectly sensible use of your time,’ he said.

She grinned. ‘It’s not so much that you have to boil a can of condensed milk for a couple of hours and keep an eye on it.’

‘What, then?’

‘I had a friend who tried doing it,’ she explained. ‘The can exploded and totally wrecked her kitchen.’

‘Ouch.’ He grimaced in sympathy, and took another spoonful of pudding. ‘This is a really gorgeous meal, Claire.’

‘I didn’t make the ganache myself—it’s a shop-bought pudding.’

‘I don’t care. It’s still gorgeous. And I appreciate the effort. Though, for future reference, you could’ve ordered in pizza and I would’ve been perfectly happy,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to spend time with you.’