Caroline Anderson - Just Say Yes

“Matt—”

“Georgia—

“I was going to apologize. Not for kissing you, because I don’t regret it for a moment, but for making you feel uncomfortable.”

She didn’t regret the kiss, either—just the fact of who he’d been, who he was.

“Come round the farm with me.”

“No more kisses?” she challenged, and he smiled, a cockeyed smile that softened the strain in his eyes and made her forget who he was.

“No more kisses,” he said, and his voice was full of teasing regret.

“Okay,” she found herself saying, and wondered if she was quite mad, or if it was Matt’s job to finish sending her round the bend!

Dear Reader,

Do you have the slightest idea what we, the authors, subject ourselves to in the name of research? No, I don’t mean the love scenes! No, I don’t mean delightful, cozy dinners à deux. No, I don’t mean popping down to London for the Chelsea Flower Show and sniffing roses in a country garden.

I mean Fear. Terrifying, paralyzing, mind-numbing fear. Clammy hands. Cold sweat breaking out all over. Adrenaline like you wouldn’t believe. Nausea. For days. Invalidation of life insurance.

And why? Because it has to be Real. Because, in my infinite wisdom, I decided my hero would take my heroine up in a microlight. Hah! Foolish woman. It’s a mistake I won’t repeat, and I doubt she will, either! So, dear reader, please do me a favor. If you don’t suffer from a fear of heights, if you don’t mind sudden, unpredictable movements or handing control of your life to someone you’ve only just met, don’t get motion sick or suffer from panic attacks, spare a thought for those of us who do, and would suffer them anyway, for you, for the sake of authenticity!

I aged ten years the day I went up in a microlight and got to know my weaknesses in intimate detail. I hope you feel it was worth it! Enjoy the book, with my love.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

GEORGIA was exhausted.

She must have walked ten miles round that blasted building site if she’d walked an inch, and if she didn’t get her shoes off soon she thought she was probably going to scream.

She dropped her bag on the table, slid her portfolio into the gap between the seats and sat down with a plop. Then with a sigh of relief she kicked off her shoes under cover of the table.

Bliss! She squirmed her toes and sighed again. Thank goodness it was over, she thought, and stared out at the bustle of the railway station, reliving her fruitless and irritating day.

It wouldn’t have been as bad if the design hadn’t been so far advanced before the client had changed his mind, but no, he’d seen a video of the previous Chelsea Flower Show and been inspired. Could she use more metal? And how about a bigger water feature? Reflective, perhaps—or then maybe not. Perhaps a rill—a little falling streamlet—or better still a waterfall—on a flat site, already horribly over budget!

She’d had her teeth clenched all day so hard her jaws ached. How could the client be so vacillating and still be alive? She would have thought he would have been murdered by now, he was so infuriating!

Still, at least she wouldn’t have to speak to him for a few days. Maybe by then she’d have got her temper back—and maybe her hair wouldn’t be red any more!

She dropped her head back against the prickly cushion and winced. Damn. Hairclip. She squeezed the wings together and opened the wicked jaws of her favourite clip—the Venus fly-trap, she called it, which, with its vicious teeth, was about the only sort man enough to restrain her wild curls.

She shook her head and they broke free and tumbled down her back. Yet again she sighed with relief, and threading her fingers through her hair, she combed it out roughly, then leant back against the cushion again, comfortable this time. At least she had the little table to herself for a moment. No doubt that state of affairs wouldn’t last long, but in the meantime—

She wriggled her feet again, stretched her legs out under the table and propped her heels on the edge of the other seat.

Wonderful. Five minutes like this and she’d stand a chance of feeling human again…

Damn. It was almost full. Still, there was a small table by the window, occupied by a woman with foaming red hair. He chuckled to himself. Occupied, as in taken over completely. A bag as big as a bucket was dominating most of the tabletop, the contents threatening to splurge out—and on the other seat, sticking up like tiny sentinels, were the daintiest, cutest little feet he’d seen in a long time.

She was asleep, her lashes lying in dusky curves on the smooth cream of her cheeks, her mouth soft and rosy and vulnerable. Now in a fairytale, he thought, he would have to wake her with a kiss—

Matthew cleared his throat, pulling himself together. ‘Excuse me. Is this seat taken?’

Her lids flew up, revealing wide green eyes hazed with sleep, and she scrambled back into a sitting position and hooked her feet down, to his disappointment.

‘I’m sorry. No—no, I was just stretching out. I must have dozed off. I’m sorry.’

She was embarrassed, dragging the bag towards her and colouring delicately along those rather interesting cheekbones. Her mouth, a little too wide and slightly vulnerable, curved fleetingly into a wry smile as she pushed the bag down at her feet, red hair tumbling wildly around her head.

Matthew squeezed himself into the space between the seat and the table and tried not to fantasise. He put his briefcase down and flipped it open, pulling out the papers he intended to go over again, then snapped the locks shut and slid it behind his legs. Their feet collided, and apologising, they both withdrew to their own sides again.

‘There’s not much leg-room, is there?’ he said, bizarrely conscious of the warm place under his thigh where her feet had been, but she was staring out of the window again, ignoring him.

Just as well. She had a wedding ring on. If she hadn’t had, he might have persued the conversation, but it was pointless. Pity. She was rather attractive in a fresh and slightly chaotic sort of way.

He settled down to the papers in front of him, trying unsuccessfully to keep his legs to himself. He had to sit with his knees apart to accommodate hers, and the posture was strangely intimate and made him uneasy.

He hated the train. Given the choice he would have driven, but parking in London was a nightmare.

His phone rang, and he answered it absently, dealt with the call then made another, a follow-on call to clear up some of the unanswered questions, all the time trying not to think about that soft, wide mouth and the firm little knees between his own.