Jules Wake - Peony Place

‘When you search for Coffee Girl on LinkedIn, it’s not that informative.’

‘Leeds. First. Mechanical Engineering. Currently at Beechwood Harrington,’ I quipped.

‘Unfair advantage.’

‘Claire Harrison. Manchester. First. Currently at Cunningham, Wilding and Taylor.’ I paused and, unable to help myself, gave him a direct, sultry look and lowered my voice to say, ‘Now we’re equal.’

If only that were true. He was clearly self-possessed and brilliant whereas for the last couple of weeks, no matter how hard I worked, I felt like I was sinking into quicksand. There never seemed to be enough time in the day to do anything.

He smiled back, his voice laden with darkness and said, ‘I don’t think we’re ever going to be equal.’ The knowing look did something to my pulse. ‘I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine.’ He gave me another look.

‘What, no champagne?’ I said as he lifted the bottle of very, very expensive red wine.

‘You don’t strike me as a champagne girl. That would be too much of a cliché. I chose something deeper, darker, and smoother.’

I raised an eyebrow at this blatant smooth-talking bollocks.

His face creased into a grin. ‘And it’s a bloody nice wine. Usually the champagne they have in these places isn’t the best. Would you like to try some? I gambled on you drinking red, but if you don’t, I can order something else.’

‘Lucky punt,’ I said, lifting my glass and letting him pour a mouthful for me to try. I lifted the glass, swirled, sniffed, and sipped. ‘Nice, very nice.’

‘Of course,’ he said with a lift of one eyebrow.

God, he was one cocky git but I couldn’t help liking his sheer arrogant confidence. Somehow it was reassuring that he was so in command of himself and – I couldn’t believe I was thinking it – quite sexy.

We lifted our glasses in a toast. ‘Cheers,’ I said.

‘To ill-advised meetings,’ he said.

I stared at the rich ruby colour, suddenly a little shy. That almost sounded like… as if he were taking this seriously. I wasn’t expecting this to go anywhere. Gorgeous as he was, I’d pigeon-holed him in the laddish box. For him, this whole date was a challenge. Yes, there’d been sexual chemistry and I suspected he might use it to try and talk me into bed, but he was a work-hard, play-hard city-type. I didn’t expect to see him again after tonight and, to be honest, did I even have the time?

‘How did your meeting go? With the board and the CEO from London.’

I glanced up at him, surprised he’d remembered. He actually appeared interested. Okay, now that was smooth.

‘It went well, thanks.’ In fact, it was ancient history. I was already preparing for the next big meeting. ‘How about yours?’

‘Given that I was wearing a Marks & Spencer suit, very well. Good tip by the way. Thank you. I got my PA to postpone the meeting for half an hour and I was the first customer into the store that morning. Fastest purchase ever, I reckon.’

‘I’m impressed… that you followed my advice.’

‘I think I might have thought of it myself.’

‘Yes,’ I paused, ‘but you might have resisted out of sheer pig-headedness.’ There was another of our direct eye-meets and my lips twitched as he laughed, twinkly-eyed and appreciative.

‘Was I that ungrateful? Sorry, I was a bit stressed that morning. Stupid eh? I can barely remember what the meeting was about now.’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if about to impart a great secret, ‘And do you know what?’

I shook my head. He peered covertly around the restaurant before whispering. ‘No one noticed it wasn’t designer.’ Widening his eyes to emphasise the point, he added, still in a whisper, ‘I’ve worn it all week.’

I burst out laughing. ‘So you’re a convert now?’

‘Too right. I’ve been a mug, spending ridiculous sums of money on suits when no other bugger can tell the damn difference. I even asked Gav what he thought of my new suit. And he thought it was a Hugo Boss.’ He grinned at me and I smiled back, our eyes meeting with a flash of warmth. ‘What about you?’

‘My PA brought in the most hideous shirt in mint green with this huge bow on the front. Remember Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served? ’

Those sexy eyebrows rose. ‘Wasn’t she the one with the naughty pussy?’

I almost choked on the wine. Although his face was deadpan, his eyes danced with devilment.

Trying to keep it cool, I ignored his words. ‘It clashed horribly with my suit. It almost drowned me as well. I must have looked ridiculous.’

‘I can’t imagine that.’ He eyed my outfit, which was insanely expensive but totally understated. ‘I imagine you’re always immaculate.’ I liked the way his gaze didn’t linger on my cleavage. His voice softened and, to my surprise, he said, ‘You look lovely.’

He nodded his head towards my soft black jersey top with tiny specks of silver woven into the fabric, which I’d chosen deliberately to hide my gardening wounds. I was covered in scratches from that bloody hedge I’d trimmed for Alice. As a result, it hadn’t been my first choice. I’d wanted to wear a sleeveless black vest which I’d initially thought would be far sexier but now I realised from his appreciative expression that this was more subtle. The soft fabric clinging to my skin hinted at what was underneath rather than blatantly displaying everything for show. Maybe I had something to thank Alice for after all.

It was, however, a little warm and without thinking, perhaps because I’d relaxed after his unexpected compliments and sudden seriousness, I pushed back my sleeves and rested my arms on the table.

‘What happened to you?’ he asked, reaching out to touch my arms. ‘Are you okay?’ There was genuine concern in his eyes.

I smiled back at him, my voice a little breathless. ‘I’m fine. Just a run-in with a hedge.’

‘You challenged it to unarmed combat?’

‘Yes, I’m a regular garden ninja.’

Despite a soak in the bath, my arms were worse now because I’d had some kind of allergic reaction. Ash reached over the table and touched one of the many welts on my forearm. His barely-there touch sparked a tingle on my skin. I glanced up sharply and his eyes were kind rather than mocking. ‘You probably want some Savlon on those.’

I gave my arm a rueful rub and rolled my shoulders. ‘Every bit of me seems to be aching.’ Why was I telling him that? Oh God, would he think I was sending out invitations to give me an all-over massage?

‘Do you do a lot of gardening?’

‘No, I’ve moved recently and the previous owners, Lord love them, thankfully created a very low-maintenance garden. Keeping a basil plant alive is the sum total of my green-fingered accomplishments. These scars came from my sister needing help with her garden.’

‘And you can’t say no to sisters.’

‘Sadly no,’ I sighed.

‘I get it too. My sister calls on my services a lot. I’ve no idea why. Do I look like a DIY expert to you?’ He held up artistic hands with long, elegant fingers.

It gave me the opportunity to take stock of him, instead of the surreptitious checking out I’d been doing since I arrived. He wore a grey V-neck T-shirt, which fitted rather well, the soft jersey moulding to a broad chest, the dip of the vee revealing a few crisp, dark hairs.

No, he didn’t look like a DIY expert; he looked flipping gorgeous. Absolutely edible, and I wanted to peel that T-shirt right off him, touch his golden skin, smooth a hand over that chest and run my fingers across the firm biceps beneath his T-shirt sleeves. I wanted… His mesmerising eyes darkened, the pupils wide.

My breath caught in my throat. The pause in the conversation stretched out as we stared at each other, the same fizz of sexual tension in the air that I’d sensed the first time we met.