Kate Hardy - Her Playboy's Proposal

‘That I’m most definitely not,’ she said crisply. But then she softened. ‘We’re friends, Harry, and friends support each other. You look upset about something and you’ve been a bit serious at work lately, so something’s obviously wrong. If you want to go for a drink with me after work or something and talk, then the offer’s there.’

‘I could use a friend,’ he said. ‘But you never socialise outside work, Isla. And isn’t someone waiting at home for you?’

‘I’m single, as well you know.’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Maybe you have a child,’ he explained, ‘or a relative you’re caring for.’

‘Is that what people are saying about me? That because I don’t go on team nights out, I must be a single parent with babysitting problems?’

He winced. ‘People get curious. But I haven’t been gossiping about you.’

Given what he’d said about the hospital rumour mill, she believed him. ‘Just for the record, I don’t have a child, and I don’t look after anyone. There’s just me. And that’s fine.’

‘Not even a goldfish or a cat?’

‘No.’ She would’ve loved a dog, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave a dog alone all day. Hospital shifts and pets didn’t mix that well, unless you were in a family where you could share the care. Not to mention the clause in the lease of her flat saying that she couldn’t have pets. ‘You know what the old song says about not being able to take a goldfish for a walk.’

‘I guess.’ He paused. ‘Thank you, Isla. I’ll think of somewhere and text you. Shall we meet there?’

She knew exactly what he wasn’t saying. Because, if they travelled to the pub or café together, someone was likely to see them and start speculating about whether they were seeing each other. Harry obviously didn’t want to be the centre of gossip, and neither did she. ‘Deal,’ she said.

After his shift finished, Harry texted Isla the address of the wine bar and directions on how to find it.

Funny, she was the last person he’d expected to take him under her wing. She didn’t date, whereas he had the not-quite-deserved reputation of dating hundreds of women and breaking their hearts. He’d been at the London Victoria for years and she’d been working there for just under a month. And yet she’d been the only one in the department who’d picked up his dark mood; and she’d been the only one who’d offered him a listening ear.

Harry didn’t tend to talk about his family.

But maybe talking to someone who didn’t know him that well—and most certainly didn’t know any of the other people involved—might help. A fresh pair of eyes to help him see the right course of action. Because this wedding was really getting under his skin and Harry didn’t have a clue why it was upsetting him so much. It wasn’t as if his father hadn’t got remarried before. So why, why, why had it got to him so much this time?

Harry was already halfway through his glass of Merlot when Isla walked into the wine bar, looked round and came over to his table. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi. You look lovely. I’ve never seen you wearing normal clothes instead of your nurse’s uniform.’ The words were out before he could stop them and he grimaced. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t hitting on you.’

Much.

Because he had to admit that he was attracted to Isla McKenna. That gorgeous creamy skin, her dark red hair, the curve of her mouth that made her look like the proverbial princess just waiting to be woken from her sleep by love’s first kiss …

He shook himself mentally.

Not now.

If he told Isla what was going through his head right now, she’d walk straight out of the bar. And it would take God knew how long to get their easy working relationship back in place. He didn’t want that to happen.

‘You look odd without a white coat, too,’ she said, to his relief; clearly she hadn’t picked up on his attraction to her and was just responding to his words at face value.

‘Let me get you a drink. What would you like?’ he asked.

‘I’ll join you in whatever you’re having.’ She gestured to his glass.

‘Australian Merlot. OK. Back in a tick.’

Ordering a drink gave him enough time to compose himself. He bought her a glass of wine and walked back to their table, where she looked as if she was checking messages on her phone. ‘Everything OK?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m just texting my mum, my sister and my brother to tell them I’ve had a good day.’

‘You miss your family?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Sometimes the islands feel as far away as Australia.’

‘The islands?’ he asked, not sure what she meant.

‘The Western Isles,’ she said.

So she was from the Outer Hebrides? You couldn’t get much more different from London, he thought: mountains, pretty little villages and the sea, compared to the capital’s urban sprawl and the constant noise of traffic.

‘It isn’t that bad really,’ she said. ‘I can fly from here to Glasgow and then get a flight to Lewis, or get the train from Glasgow to Oban and catch the ferry home.’

But the wistfulness in her tone told him how much she missed her family. Something he couldn’t quite get his head round, because he often felt so disconnected from his own. And how ironic that was, considering the size of his family. Eight siblings, with another one on the way. OK, so he didn’t have much in common with his two youngest half-brothers; but he wasn’t that close to the ones nearest his own age, either. And he always seemed to clash with his middle sister. Guilt made him overprotective, and she ended up rowing with him.

‘But we’re not talking about me,’ she said before he could ask anything else. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re very direct,’ he said, playing for time.

‘I find direct is the best way.’

He sighed. ‘Considering how much you clearly miss your family, if I tell you what’s bugging me you’re going to think I’m the most selfish person in the universe.’

She smiled. ‘Apart from the fact that there are usually two sides to every story, I very much doubt you’re the most selfish person I’ve ever met.’

There was a tiny flicker in her expression, as if she was remembering something truly painful. And that made Harry feel bad about bringing those memories back to her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Look, never mind. Let’s just have a drink and talk about—oh, I dunno, the weather.’ Something very English, and very safe.

She laughed. ‘Nice try. Iain—my brother—squirms just like you do if we talk about anything remotely personal.’

‘I guess it’s a guy thing,’ he said, trying to make light of it and wishing he hadn’t started this.

‘But sometimes,’ she said gently, ‘it’s better out than in. A problem shared is a problem halved. And—’ she wrinkled her nose. ‘No, I can’t think of any more clichés right now. Over to you.’

Despite his dark mood, Harry found himself smiling. He liked this woman. Really, really liked her. Which was another reason why he had to suppress his attraction to her. He wanted to keep her in his life instead of having to put up barriers, the way he normally did. ‘I can’t, either.’ He blew out a breath. ‘I hate talking about emotional stuff. And it’s easier to talk when you’re stuffed with carbs. They do fantastic pies here, and the butteriest, loveliest mashed potato in the world. Can we talk over dinner?’

‘Pie and mash.’ She groaned. ‘Don’t tell me you’re planning to make me eat jellied eels or mushy peas as well.’

‘Traditional London fare?’ He laughed. ‘No. For vegetables here I’d recommend the spinach. It’s gloriously garlicky.’