Holiday with the Best Man (6 page)

‘Though I have to be honest,' she said. ‘I do feel as if I'm cheating you. The deal is that I'm supposed to help you brush up your dating skills while you're sweeping me off my feet, but as far as I can see you don't need any help with your dating skills at all.'

‘I think that's because of you,' he said. ‘You made me feel comfortable enough to be myself with you. You're easy to talk to. Maybe—I don't know—maybe next time you can be a bit awkward with me so I have to work harder at it?'

She flushed at the compliment, pleased by the idea that she'd made this complex man feel relaxed with her. ‘I'll try. And I'm organising tomorrow night. Though I'm afraid my budget won't stretch to anything as fabulous as tonight was. That is, if you want to do something?' Given that he didn't really need to practise his dating skills, it was a bit forward of her to suggest it.

He frowned. ‘You don't have to organise anything. The idea is for me to sweep you off your feet.'

‘Yes, I do,' she corrected, ‘because I'm not a freeloader and I'm going to feel horrible if you pay for everything and sort everything out. And if I feel horrible, then you're not sweeping me off my feet. Quite the opposite.'

‘You're stubborn.' To her surprise, he reached out and stroked her face. ‘OK. We'll play it your way and you can organise tomorrow night. We agreed to clear our diaries so I won't be working late. I can make any time after seven.'

His touch made her feel all shivery. His eyes went dark and for a moment she thought he was going to dip his head and kiss her. But then he took a step back. ‘It's late and we both have work tomorrow. I'd better let you go to bed.'

Grace was relieved and disappointed at the same time. And she couldn't get to sleep for ages, tossing and turning and thinking about the situation. She was horribly aware how easy it would be to fall for Roland Devereux. But this wasn't real, and besides she'd only just come out of a long relationship. She needed to stand on her own two feet for a bit, not just fall for the first man to smile at her.

This was a temporary arrangement. She should just enjoy it for what it was and not be stupid enough to want more.

* * *

The next morning, Grace spent her entire journey to work looking up something unusual to do with Roland. Finally she found the perfect thing. She texted him swiftly.

Meet you at seven at Docklands. We're going by Tube. Dress code casual. Do you mind maybe eating a bit late?

It took him a while to reply.

Is fine. What are we doing?

She felt brave enough to text back,
Wait and see.

Intrigued
, he texted back.
Bring it on
.

She met him back at the house, but managed to keep him guessing about what they were doing until they were standing in the queue for the pop-up rooftop cinema.

‘We're seeing
Back to the Future
?' He smiled. ‘Considering what Hugh told me about Bella's first meeting with his family, I should consider myself lucky this isn't
The Sound of Music
.'

‘I love that film, but no.' She smiled at him. ‘Though you very nearly got
Jaws
.'

He laughed. ‘I wouldn't have minded. Actually, I really like the idea of a rooftop cinema.' He eyed the sky. ‘Though I hope those are threatening clouds rather than actual rainclouds.'

‘They give out ponchos if it's wet,' she said. ‘I checked the website.'

He brushed his mouth lightly against hers. ‘That doesn't surprise me. You're good at organising things and you pay attention to detail.'

The compliment warmed her all through; and the kiss made her shivery at the knees. She was going to have to be so careful and keep reminding herself that she and Roland weren't really dating. This was simply a practice run for him.

There was a bar selling film-themed cocktails—including a James Bond martini, the White Russian from
The Big Lebowski
, and a Cosmopolitan from
Sex and the City.

‘It's my bill, tonight,' she said firmly. ‘Have whatever you like.'

Roland glanced down the list of non-alcoholic cocktails. ‘A Shirley Temple for me, please,' he said.

She joined him; they had a brief argument over whether sweet or salted popcorn was better, and ended up sharing a tub of each.

The film was as feel-good and fun as she remembered it. And when Michael J. Fox hitched a ride on his skateboard, she nudged Roland and whispered, ‘I can't ever imagine you on a skateboard.'

‘No, but I can play the guitar badly enough to make Hugh and Tarq cry—does that count?' he whispered back.

She smiled. ‘Just.'

And then the butterflies in her stomach started stampeding as Roland took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. Was this still a practice run? Or did he mean it? He held her hand through the whole film, and she still hadn't worked it out when the first raindrops spattered down.

The ushers swiftly handed out ponchos to the audience, who passed them along the rows of chairs. Grace couldn't help laughing when the ponchos that reached them were pink.

‘Hey. I'm comfortable enough with my masculinity to wear pink,' Roland said, and helped her with her poncho before putting on his own.

‘Uh-huh.' She was still smiling.

He looked at her. ‘What?'

‘You, looking all pretty in pink. I should so grab a picture of that for Hugh and Tarquin,' she said with a grin.

In response he kissed her until she was breathless.

And her concentration was totally shot to pieces.

After the film, they went for a burger. ‘I'm afraid this isn't going to be anywhere near up to the standard of last night's food,' Grace said ruefully.

‘You're comparing apples and pears,' Roland pointed out, ‘and I'm as happy with a burger as I am with gourmet food.'

She scoffed. ‘You don't seriously expect me to believe that.'

‘I eat out sometimes for work,' he said, ‘or when Hugh and Tarq drag me out for our regular catch-up and suggest we go for a curry or a burger. But most of the time for me it's a ready meal at home or a takeaway because I don't really have the time or the inclination to cook.' He looked at her. ‘But that meal you cooked me—it was very obvious that you cook on a regular basis.'

‘I like cooking,' she said simply. ‘It relaxes me.'

‘You're really good at it. Did you ever think about going into catering rather than accountancy?'

‘You asked me that before.' She shook her head. ‘I'm happy with my job—or I will be, if I get offered the one I had the interview for the other day.'

‘I'll keep my fingers crossed.' He paused. ‘And if you don't get it?'

‘Then I'll keep applying until I get a permanent job. But in the meantime the temping tides me over,' she said. ‘Anyway, I don't really want to talk about work tonight. Though I guess work is a good topic for a first date when you're trying to get to know someone.'

‘As we're sorting out my rusty dating skills, what other topics of conversation would you suggest for a first date?' he asked.

‘Things you like and don't like. Say, what kind of films do you normally watch?' She looked at him. ‘I'm guessing action movies?'

‘Actually, no. I like the old ones that rely on good direction and acting rather than special effects.'

‘Like Hitchcock's films?' she asked. ‘
Vertigo
and
Rear Window
are two of my favourites.'

‘Mine, too,' he said. ‘So does this mean you're a film snob at heart?'

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Would a film snob go to singalong musical showings?'

He groaned. ‘No. Please. Tell me you don't.'

‘Oh, I do—that's one thing where Bella and I definitely see things the same way,' she said with a grin. ‘You can't beat singing along to
Grease
,
Mamma Mia
or
The Sound of Music
with a cinema full of people.'

‘So I really did get off lightly, tonight.'

‘You don't like musicals?' she asked.

He grimaced. ‘Lyn used to make me watch these terrible rom-coms. I put up with them for her sake, but...' He grimaced again. ‘I'm sorry if you think rom-coms are wonderful, too, but they're really not my thing. Musicals aren't quite my thing, either.'

‘I'll remember not to drag you along to a rom-com or a musical,' she said. ‘Though you're missing out. Doris Day, Gene Kelly—that kind of film is the best thing ever for cheering you up when you've had a bad day.'

‘No. That would be going to a gig performed by one of Hugh's pop punk bands,' he corrected. ‘Standing right in the middle of the front row, yelling the songs along with them and letting the sound drive everything else out of your head.'

‘Pop punk? I'm sure you look great wearing guy-liner,' she teased.

‘Oh, please. At thirty, I'm way too old for that.' But he was laughing, and he held her hand all the way to the Tube station—and all the way back to Docklands.

They walked hand in hand along the river frontage in easy silence, watching the play of lights on the water. Grace thought wistfully, if only this was real. But that wasn't the deal, and she needed some space to stand on her own two feet again. So for now she'd just enjoy the moment. Two weeks of being swept off her feet. Wanting more was just greedy.

‘I had a really good time tonight,' Roland said.

‘Even though it's not the glamorous kind of stuff someone like you is used to?' she asked.

‘It was fun,' he said. ‘You put a lot of thought into it and came up with something original and different that I really enjoyed. Anyway, it doesn't have to be super-glamorous or cost a lot of money for it to be a good time—like now. There's nothing better than walking by the river at night watching the lights on the water, and that doesn't cost anything.'

‘True,' she said. ‘I can see why you live here.'

‘Is this the sort of area where you'd live, if you had the chance?' he asked.

‘Are we talking about my dream home? That would be a pretty little Victorian terraced house, filled with the kind of curtains and cushions you hate most,' she said. ‘If I won the lottery, I'd want a place that overlooked somewhere like Hampstead Heath, or have one of those gorgeous houses in Notting Hill that have access to a pretty garden.'

He stopped and turned to face her. ‘Like the one in the film where the movie star kisses the ordinary guy?'

‘I guess,' she said, and she couldn't help staring at his mouth. Except he wasn't an ordinary guy and she wasn't a film star.

She only realised she'd spoken aloud when he said, ‘I'm ordinary enough,' and leaned forward to kiss her.

Time seemed to stop. And she was super-aware of his nearness—his clean male scent, the warmth of his skin, the way the touch of his lips made her skin tingle.

A cat-call from a passing teenager broke the mood, and he took a step back. ‘Sorry.'

‘It's fine to kiss your date in public,' she said, striving for cool. ‘Except maybe not as, um...' How could she tell him that he'd made her feel feverish, without giving herself away? ‘A little cooler might be more appropriate,' she said.

‘Noted.' But his pupils were huge. Was that because of the darkness around them, or had kissing her affected him the same way it had affected her? She was way too chicken to ask.

And she was even more relieved when her phone pinged. ‘This might be my daily Bellagram,' she said. ‘Oh, look—they took a cable car ride today.' She showed him the photograph. ‘Trust Bella to hang off the running boards like Doris Day.'

‘Wouldn't you do that, too?' he asked.

She gave him a rueful smile. ‘I'm the sensible one. I'd be thinking of health and safety.' And missing out on the fun.

‘Nothing wrong with being sensible. Do you have plans for tomorrow?' he asked as they headed back to his place.

‘No.' Even if they hadn't already agreed to clear their diaries for these next few weeks, she didn't have anything planned.

‘You do now—and, no, I'm not telling you what. Dress code is whatever you like. Something comfortable. But bring something warm in case it turns chilly, and I'll bring a golfing umbrella in case it rains.'

They'd be doing something outdoors, then, she guessed. ‘What, no pink poncho?' she teased, trying to keep the mood light and not let him guess about how much his kiss had affected her.

‘A golfing umbrella is much more appropriate,' he said, unlocking the front door.

‘We're playing golf?'

‘No—and stop asking questions. It's meant to be spontaneous.'

Spontaneous wasn't how she usually did things. Roland was definitely pushing her out of her comfort zone.

‘See you in the morning,' he said. ‘And thank you for tonight. I really enjoyed myself.'

‘Me, too,' she said.

And although part of her was disappointed that he didn't want to sit with her in his kitchen, drinking coffee and talking about everything under the sun, part of her knew this was the sensible option. She'd nearly lost her head as it was when he'd kissed her. If he kissed her again...

Two weeks, she told herself. She might like the way Roland made her feel, but she was his practice date. This wasn't permanent. Wasn't real. And she'd better remember that.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
, Roland was horrified to discover that there was only one firework display set to music in a fifty-mile radius of London—and, worse still, all the tickets to it were already sold.

Oh, for pity's sake.

This was the sort of summer evening event that was often held in the park of a stately home, or possibly in a municipal park or seaside resort as part of a week's carnival event. He couldn't believe that there was only one event available that evening. Surely there had to be others?

He widened the radius for his search, and discovered that the nearest music and fireworks event with a few tickets remaining was being held a hundred miles away. A two-hour drive each end wouldn't be much fun for either of them. So much for sweeping Grace off her feet with something that he actually knew was on her bucket list and she'd really love to do.

Even though he didn't usually use the ‘get me a ticket at the last minute' type websites, it looked as if that was going to be his only option. To his relief, he managed to get two tickets for the venue he'd wanted in the first place. That was the hardest bit done, he thought, and headed out to the local deli for part two of his plan. A few minutes later, everything was sorted to his satisfaction.

Roland was sure that this would be the perfect way to sweep Grace off her feet. Even if the weather wasn't on his side and it poured with rain, it wouldn't matter. The fireworks and the music would still go on. And he could set the scene for it, starting right now.

He checked the breakfast tray. Coffee, croissants, freshly squeezed orange juice, granola, Greek yoghurt and a bowl of perfect English strawberries. Philly would forgive him for not buying the sweet peas from her; he'd seen them in a shop window on the way back from the deli and they'd just reminded him of Grace, all sweet and shy. And he hoped that Grace wouldn't mind the fact that the flowers were propped in water in a juice glass rather than in a proper vase.

It was almost nine o'clock. He didn't think that Grace was the sort who'd stay in bed all day; but at the same time she would still have had the chance to relax and sleep in a bit longer than she could on a weekday. Hopefully she wouldn't mind him waking her now. He tucked the newspaper under his arm and carried the tray to her room; he balanced the tray between himself and the wall and knocked on the door. ‘Grace?'

‘Yes?' Her voice sounded sleepy and he felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe he should've left waking her for another half an hour.

‘Can I come in? I've brought you some breakfast.'

‘I...sure.'

He walked in to the room. She was sitting in the middle of the king-sized bed, nestled into the duvet, with her hair all mussed and her eyes all sleepy, and his mouth went dry. Oh, help. This wasn't in the plan. He wasn't supposed to react to her like this. He was meant to be sweeping her off her feet, not the other way round. And he definitely needed to keep his eyes off her pretty camisole pyjama top. He absolutely couldn't walk over there, slide the straps from her shoulders and kiss her bare skin. Even though his body was urging him to do exactly that.

‘I, um, didn't know what you like for breakfast, but I hoped this would be OK. And I brought you the Saturday paper.'

‘Thank you. That's really kind of you. And flowers. That's so lovely.'

Her smile was sweet and shy and genuine, and it made him feel warm inside. ‘Pleasure.' He handed her the tray. ‘I, um...' How come he was suddenly so flustered and inarticulate? He was known for being as good with words as he was with building, and he could talk anyone through even the most complex project so they understood the plan and loved the concept as much as he did. But, in Grace's presence, all his words seemed to have turned into so much hot air. ‘I know we said we'd clear our diaries, but I need to nip into the office and do a few things this morning,' he improvised. ‘Would you mind amusing yourself?'

‘Roland, you really don't have to entertain me all the time,' she said. ‘You're already being kind enough to put me up while the flat's drying out. I don't expect you to run around after me as well.'

‘OK.' He couldn't take his eyes off her hair; he wanted to twine the ends round his fingers and see if it was as soft and silky as it looked. So he'd better leave before he did something stupid. ‘See you later, then.'

She smiled at him. ‘Have a good morning. And thank you for breakfast. This is such a treat. I can't remember the last time someone brought me breakfast in bed.'

Hadn't Howard done that for her? Then again, she'd said they hadn't lived together.

Did that mean they hadn't slept together, either?

That was a question Roland knew he couldn't ask. Not without going into very dangerous territory indeed. Sleeping with Grace... He really had to get that idea out of his head. Fast. Because that wasn't part of the deal he'd made with her. This was about helping her to feel swept off her feet, and helping him to move past the guilt and misery so he could truly live again.

He changed the subject to something safer. ‘We need to leave here at about four, if that's OK with you,' he said.

‘I'll make sure I'm ready.'

And he knew she'd do exactly that; she prized reliability in others, and that meant in turn that she was always reliable too.

But even when he drove to the office, he found it difficult to concentrate on work instead of thinking about Grace. His foreman, Charlie, who'd come in to the office to debrief him on a project, teased him about being on another planet.

Possibly Planet Crazy, Roland thought, because he just couldn't get Grace Faraday out of his head.

When Roland drove back to London later that afternoon, he had just enough time to drop into the deli to pick up his order and then change into a fresh shirt and a pair of chinos. Grace was ready on time, as he'd expected; her idea of ‘smart casual' turned out to be smart black trousers and a pretty strappy top. One which made him remember that pretty camisole top she'd worn in bed that morning, and heat spread through him. ‘You look lovely,' he said, meaning it. And somehow he'd have to find that tricky balance between sweeping her off her feet and losing his head completely.

‘Thank you,' she said, smiling in acknowledgement of the compliment.

Then he noticed just how sensual the curve of her mouth was. He itched to kiss her, but he managed to hold himself back. Just. ‘Ready to go?' he asked, hoping that his voice didn't sound as croaky to her as it did to him.

‘Sure.'

He kept the conversation light as he drove Grace to the stately home on the edge of London. Then she saw the banners on the wrought iron fence. ‘A classical music and fireworks spectacular? We're actually going to this, right now?'

‘You did tell me this sort of thing was on your bucket list,' he pointed out, enjoying the fact that her excitement had sounded in her voice.

‘I know, and this is utterly wonderful—but telling you the sort of thing I'd love to do really doesn't mean that I expect you to actually take me to all my dream places,' she said, her face a mixture of delight and guilt.

‘But isn't that what you're supposed to do when you sweep someone off their feet? Take them to their dream places?' he asked.

‘Maybe.' She bit her lip. ‘And that banner says it's sold out.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘Don't tell me.' Her voice was dry. ‘You called in a favour because you did some work for the people who live here?'

He laughed. ‘No. Actually I got our tickets from one of those “get me in at the last minute” sites.'

‘What? But they always put a massive mark-up on ticket prices!' She sounded horrified. ‘Roland, I need to reimburse you for my ticket.'

He groaned as he followed the car park attendants' direction to a space on the grass. ‘Grace, I know you like to be independent, and I appreciate the offer, but you're supposed to be being swept off your feet. Right now, it seems to me that you have both feet very firmly on the ground, so I'm failing miserably.'

She flushed. ‘In other words, I'm being an ungrateful brat.'

‘No—just a bit difficult,' he said.

‘You did tell me that you wanted me to be awkward with you, so you could practise your dating skills on being smooth,' she reminded him.

‘Are you telling me you're being difficult on purpose?' His eyes narrowed. ‘So how do I know when you're acting and when you're not?'

She spread her hands. ‘You tell me.'

He resisted the urge to kiss her until she was breathless—mainly because he knew he'd end up in a similar state, with his head in a spin. Instead, he said, ‘Let's go and get set up.' And then maybe the fresh air would help bring him back to his senses. This was meant to be practice dating, not the real thing. She'd made it clear that she didn't want to be let down—and he couldn't trust himself not to repeat his mistakes and let her down.

* * *

Roland took a
picnic blanket, umbrella, two small collapsible chairs and the wicker picnic hamper from the back of the car.

‘What can I carry?' Grace asked.

‘Nothing. It's fine.'

‘It isn't fine at all. You're totally laden—and there's a big difference between being swept off your feet and being a poor, helpless female who can't carry anything in case she breaks a fingernail.'

He laughed and she narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What's so funny?'

‘A week ago, I would've said you were exactly that type.'

‘Helpless and pathetic? Well, thank you very much.' She scowled at him.

He winced. ‘Grace, I've already told you that I know how much I misjudged you. Though this is particularly bad timing.'

‘How do you mean?' she asked.

‘Because you're right,' he said. ‘I'm fully laden. I'll have to put something down before I can kiss you to say I'm sorry for getting you so wrong.'

‘You want to kiss me?'

He moistened his lower lip. ‘Firstly to say sorry. And then because...'

Her heart skipped a beat. ‘Because what?'

He waited until she met his gaze. ‘To say I like you.'

And even though they were outdoors, standing in lush parkland, it felt as if there wasn't enough room to breathe.

‘I like you, too,' she whispered. Even though she hadn't expected to. And even though she really didn't want to feel this way about him. She wanted to be independent. She couldn't possibly fall for someone this quickly. Especially someone who'd made a deal with her that he'd sweep her off her feet in exchange for her brushing up his dating skills—because she knew that everything he was saying to her was dating practice, not for real.

‘I'm glad you like me,' he said, his voice slightly husky.

Grace knew she ought to leave it there, make him give her a couple of things to carry, and keep it light. But Roland was staring at her mouth, and it was a little too much to resist. She closed the gap between them, stood on tiptoe, and reached up to brush her mouth against his.

When she stepped back, she could see a slash of vivid colour across his cheeks and his eyes had gone all dark.

‘If we weren't in a public place...' His voice cracked.

‘But we are,' she said. ‘And you need to let me carry something.'

In the end, he let her carry the umbrella and the picnic blanket. They found a nice spot on the lawns with a good view of the stage and the lake—where the fireworks were going to be set off—and between them they spread out the blanket, set up the chairs and opened the picnic basket.

When Grace had gone on picnics as a child, the food had consisted of home-made sandwiches stored in a plastic box, a packet of crisps, an apple and maybe a cupcake or some sausage rolls; there might have been cans of lemonade or cola for her and Bella to drink. Everything had been stored in a cool box, and they'd eaten without plates or cutlery.

This was a whole new level of picnic. Roland's wicker basket had storage compartments for plates, glasses, cutlery, napkins and mugs as well as for the food. And when she helped Roland unpack the food, she discovered that it was on a whole new level from the picnics of her childhood, too. There was artisan seeded bread and butter curls; cold poached chicken with potato salad, watercress and heritage tomatoes; cocktail blinis with cream cheese and smoked salmon; a tub of black olives; oatcakes with crumbly Cheddar, ripe Brie and black grapes; and then strawberries, clotted cream and what looked like very buttery shortbread.

There were bottles of sparkling water, a Thermos which she guessed was filled with coffee, and there was also a tiny bottle of champagne.

‘I thought you might like some bubbly to go with your fireworks,' Roland said.

Given what she knew about the tragedy in his past, she felt awkward. ‘Are you sure about this?'

He smiled at her. ‘I did say I'm fine about other people drinking.'

‘Then thank you. This is the perfect size for a treat. Plus it means I won't wake up with a monumental hangover or ask you to make me some banana porridge when we get home,' she said with a smile.

Then she realised what she'd said.
Home.
But the house in Docklands wasn't her home; it was his. She really hoped he hadn't noticed her gaffe.

But he seemed happy enough as he shared the picnic with her.

‘So what do women expect to talk about on a date?' he asked.

‘I'm probably not the best person to ask, given that I haven't dated that much apart from Howard and...' She let the sentence trail off and grimaced. ‘Sorry. I'm not living up to my part of the deal. Let me start again. I guess it's about finding out about each other, and what we've got in common.'

‘How do you do that?'

She was pretty sure he already knew that. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his social skills. But she'd go with it for now. ‘I guess it's the same as you'd do with any new friendship or even a business relationship—you start with where you are and work from there. If you'd met your date at a swimming pool, you'd ask her how often she came for a swim, or whether she preferred swimming in the pool to swimming in the sea, or where was the nicest place she'd ever been swimming. That sort of thing.'