A New Year Marriage Proposal

‘I do. And pudding,’ he said. ‘Because you’re not getting these brownies back. This is business, so we’ll both bring something to the table.’

Business. She was glad he’d said that. Because it stopped her fantasising about something truly stupid. Such as what it would be like to have a proper date with Quinn O’Neill. She wasn’t ready for dating again. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be ready. But business she could do.

‘OK. Deal. See you in thirty minutes or so,’ she said.

* * *

Quinn hit pure gold in the wine shop: they had a deli section, with a display of French macarons in pretty colours.

Pistachio, vanilla, coffee. And then some more unusual flavours: violet and blueberry, white chocolate and pomegranate, crème brûlée, salted caramel. The perfect gift for a foodie like Carissa, he thought.

He bought a boxful, plus a bottle of flinty Chablis.

Back at the mews, he rang Carissa’s doorbell.

She answered the door wearing a cotton apron covered in hearts over her skirt and shirt; it made her look younger and much more approachable than she’d seemed the first time he’d met her.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Dinner’s almost ready.’

He handed her the bottle and the box. ‘The box needs to go in the fridge,’ he said. ‘The wine’s already chilled.’

‘Thank you—though you really didn’t need to bring anything. Come up.’

He closed the door behind them and followed her up the stairs to her kitchen. She’d laid her kitchen table, he noticed, with a white damask tablecloth, solid silver cutlery, very elegant fine glassware and a white porcelain vase containing deep purple spray carnations.

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

‘Given that you waved a pizza menu at me, can you actually cook?’ she teased.

‘I make great toasted sandwiches, I’ll have you know,’ he protested.

She just laughed, and again he had a vision of the way she’d laughed on his doorstep, tipping her head back.

Down, boy, he told his libido sharply.

All the same, he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she stood by the hob, stirring vegetables in a wok. Did she have the faintest clue how gorgeous she was?

The radio was playing a song he really loathed: ‘Santa, Bring My Baby Home for Christmas.’ A super-sweet Christmas song that always meant the festive season was on its way. Quinn’s least favourite time of year. Funny, he’d expected Carissa to listen to opera or highbrow stuff, not a singalong pop station. Which just went to show that you shouldn’t assume things about people.

‘That song’s so terrible,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Talk about cheesy. And sugary.’

‘Rather a mix of metaphors,’ she said drily.

‘You know what I mean.’ He sang along with the chorus. ‘“I wish, my baby, you were home tonight; I wish, my baby, I could hold you tight. Santa, bring my baby home for Christmas; Santa, bring my baby home to me.”’ He grimaced. ‘It’s terrible!’

‘Well, hey.’ She spread her hands. ‘Meet the original baby.’

‘What?’ He wasn’t following this conversation. At all. Or was she teasing him, the way she had about the wheatgrass shot? Did she just have a weird sense of humour?

‘My dad wrote that song,’ she said. ‘About me.’

He blinked. ‘Your dad?’

‘Uh-huh. Pete Wylde. The Wylde Boys,’ she expanded.

He was silenced momentarily. Carissa Wylde was the daughter of the late musician Pete Wylde. And Quinn hadn’t made the connection. At all.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I...um...’

‘You hate Dad’s music.’ She shrugged. ‘Each to their own taste.’

‘No, I do like some of his stuff. Just not the Christmas song. And I’m digging myself a deeper hole here.’ He blew out a breath. ‘I really don’t mean to insult you, Carissa.’

‘It’s OK. I won’t hold it against you.’

Her voice was neutral and her face was impassive, and he didn’t have a clue what she was thinking. ‘So your father actually wrote the song for you?’

‘My first Christmas,’ she said. ‘I was only a few weeks old. I was in hospital for a week with a virus that meant I couldn’t breathe very easily, and I had to be fed by a tube until I was better. The only way Dad coped with it was to bring his guitar to the hospital, sit by my bed and play me songs. That’s why he wrote “Santa, Bring My Baby Home for Christmas”.’

And now Quinn understood for the first time what the song was actually saying. Pete Wylde had wanted his tiny baby daughter home for her first Christmas, safe and well and in his arms. It wasn’t a cheesy love song at all. It had come straight from the heart.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. And not just because he’d insulted her. Because he was envious. What would it be liked to be loved and wanted so much by your family? It was something he’d never had. His mother had been quick enough to dump him on his aunt and uncle, and he’d always felt a bit like a spare part in their home. Which was probably why he was antsy about getting attached to anyone now: it was something he’d never really done.

‘You don’t need to like the song,’ she said with a smile. ‘Though plenty of people do. It makes shedloads of royalties every Christmas.’

But Quinn was pretty sure that money wasn’t what motivated Carissa Wylde. ‘And?’

‘Dad arranged to put half the royalties from the song in a trust,’ she said. ‘Which has been enough to fund the building and equipping of a new children’s ward, including an intensive care unit. All state-of-the-art equipment—and we’ll be able to keep it that way in the future.’

‘The ward that needs a virtual Santa.’ It dawned on him now. ‘You’re the client.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘So do you do PR for anyone else?’

She frowned. ‘PR?’

‘That’s what you do, isn’t it? PR?’

‘No. I’m a lawyer,’ she said.

So he’d been right first time round. ‘Oh.’

‘Sit down,’ she said, ‘or if you want you can grab the corkscrew from the drawer and open that lovely wine you brought. Third drawer on the right.’

She was letting him off the hook. And he was grateful. ‘Thank you.’ He opened the wine while she served up the tuna and the vegetables. Porcelain flatware, he noticed, and she served the vegetables in dishes rather than just sharing them out onto their plates. Carissa Wylde did things formally. Completely the opposite of how he did things, outside work. He was quite happy to eat pizza straight out of the box or Chinese food straight from the carton.

‘Well.’ She stripped off the apron, folded it and placed it on the worktop, no doubt ready to be transferred to the washing machine. Then she sat down opposite him and lifted her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to the opening of the Wylde Ward and our virtual Santa.’