Holiday With The Best Man

CHAPTER THREE (#u687e2b29-9f2e-59f4-960c-dc1bd80c965d)

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Roland opened his front door and stopped dead. It was strange to smell dinner cooking; he could definitely smell lemons, and possibly fish.

Then he realised he could also hear music; clearly Grace had connected her MP3 player to his speakers in the kitchen. Odd; he’d half expected her to like very formal classical music, but right now she was playing vintage feel-good pop songs. And she was singing along. He smiled as she launched into ‘Build Me Up, Buttercup’, ever so slightly out of key.

But were the song lyrics a warning to him that she didn’t want her heart broken? Not that he should be thinking about a relationship with her anyway. His smile faded as he went into the kitchen. ‘Good evening, Grace.’

‘Oh! Roland. Hello.’ She looked up from whatever she was doing and smiled at him, and to his shock his heart felt as if it had done a somersault.

When had he last reacted to someone like this?

Then her face went bright red as she clearly thought about what she’d been doing when he’d opened his front door. ‘Um—I apologise for the singing. I’m afraid I can’t hold a tune.’

‘That’s not a problem,’ he reassured her. ‘You can sing in the kitchen if you like—though actually I had you pegged for a classical music fiend.’

‘The boring accountant who likes boring stuff?’ she asked with a wry smile.

‘Not all classical music is boring. Have you ever heard Hugh play Bach on the piano? It’s amazing stuff.’

‘No—and, actually, I do like classical music. Not the super-heavy operatic stuff, though,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to one of those evenings where they play popular classical music to a background of fireworks.’ She paused. ‘Not that you want to be bored by my bucket list. Dinner will be about another ten minutes.’

Why did Grace think she was boring? Though Roland wasn’t sure how to ask her, because she seemed to have gone back into her shell. Clearly she was used to being the shy, quiet older sister, while Bella was the bubbly one. He fell back on a polite, ‘Something smells nice.’

‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer to eat in the dining room or the kitchen, so I guessed that here would be OK—though I can move it if you like.’ She gestured to the kitchen table by the glass wall, which she’d set for two.

It was definitely less intimate than his dining room would be, he thought with relief. He wasn’t sure if he could handle being in intimate surroundings with her, at least not until he’d got these weird, wayward feelings under control. ‘The kitchen’s fine,’ he said. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Everything’s pretty much done,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a coffee or something?’

‘It’s fine. I’ll make it,’ he said. ‘Do you want one?’

‘That’d be nice.’ She smiled at him and went back to scooping the flesh and seeds out of passion fruit. ‘Thank you.’

This felt dangerously domesticated, working in the kitchen alongside her. Roland made the coffee in near silence, partly because he didn’t have a clue what to say to Grace. His social skills outside work had really atrophied. Right now, he felt as gauche as a schoolboy.

‘How was your day?’ she asked.

‘Fine. How was yours?’

‘As exciting as any temporary accountancy job can be,’ she said with a smile.

‘Are you looking for something permanent?’

She went still. ‘Roland, if you’re just about to offer me a job out of pity, please don’t. I’m perfectly capable of finding myself a job.’

‘Actually, I don’t have anything right now that would match your skill set,’ he said. ‘But if I did and I offered you an interview, then I’d expect you to be better than any of the other candidates before I offered you the job.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘And I guess it was a bit previous of me to jump to the conclusion that you were going to offer me a job—but you’ve already rescued me this week and...’ Her voice trailed off and she looked awkward. ‘Sorry.’

‘And sometimes rescuers don’t know when to stop and let someone stand on their own two feet. I get it,’ he said. ‘And no offence taken.’

‘Thank you. Actually, I did have a job interview the other day. And I think it went well.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But then I came home to find myself flooded out, so I haven’t really thought about it since then.’ She shrugged. ‘I probably haven’t got the job, or I would’ve heard by now.’

‘That depends on how many they’re interviewing,’ Roland said.

‘I guess.’ She brought a jug of what looked like sparkling elderflower cordial over to the table, and then two plates. ‘I thought we could have fig, mozzarella and prosciutto skewers to start.’

‘Impressive,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘There’s nothing impressive about threading things onto skewers.’

‘It’s nicely presented, anyway.’ He took a taste. ‘And it’s a good combination.’

She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘Thank you.’

The citrus-glazed baked salmon with sweet potato wedges, caramelised lemons, spinach and baby carrots was even nicer. ‘Now this you did have to cook. Don’t tell me this isn’t impressive.’

‘Again, it’s much simpler than it looks. I was kind of guinea-pigging you,’ she confessed.

‘Guinea-pigging?’

‘I’m going to teach Bel to cook,’ she said. ‘So the food needs to look pretty—but it also has to take minimum effort and not involve planning the cooking time for more than two things at once.’

He smiled at her. ‘You’re obviously a foodie—so why are you an accountant rather than, say, running your own restaurant?’

Because numbers were safe.

Though Grace didn’t quite want to admit that. ‘I was good at maths when I was at school, and accountancy has good employment prospects,’ she said. ‘Plus that way I could study for my qualifications in the evenings while I earned money, rather than ending up with a pile of student debt. It made sense to choose accountancy as my career.’ And that was who she was. The sensible, quiet older sister who was good at sorting things out.

‘Do you enjoy your job?’

She smiled. ‘Bella always groans and says she doesn’t get why, but actually I do—I like the patterns in numbers, and the way everything works out neatly.’ She paused. ‘What about you? Why did you become an architect?’

‘Because I love buildings,’ he said simply. ‘Everything from the simplest rural cottage through to grand Rococo palaces.’

She looked at him. ‘I can imagine you living in a grand Rococo palace.’

He smiled. ‘They’re not all they’re cracked up to be. They’re very cold in winter.’

She blinked. ‘So you’ve stayed in one?’

‘The French side of the family owns a chateau or two,’ he admitted.

She felt her eyes widen. ‘Your family owns castles?’ Roland had a posh accent, but she hadn’t realised just how posh he was. Way, way outside her own social circle.

‘Chateaux tend to go hand in hand with vineyards, and our French family produces wine,’ he said. ‘Christmas in France when I was young was always magical, because there was always the most enormous Christmas tree with a silver star on the top, and there were roaring open fires where you could roast chestnuts and toast crumpets.’

Now she knew he was teasing her. ‘Since when do they eat crumpets in France?’