Accepting the Boss's Proposal

‘Not to Rachel, it seems. You live to daydream another day.’ There were gales of laughter from the kitchen. Miles looked over his shoulder and then turned back to her, saying quietly, ‘Do you think she’s going to ask me to wear tights and a tunic?’

‘If she does,’ Jemima whispered back, ‘you can console yourself that it’s only marginally worse than a russet-coloured waistcoat made from the fabric of my bridesmaid dress.’

The look of complete horror that passed over his face made her laugh and she was still laughing when Alistair and Rachel returned.

‘What’s so funny?’ Rachel asked as she put a warm plate in front of each of them.

‘Nothing.’

Miles cast Rachel a baleful look that was intended to charm. ‘Are Alistair and I going to be wearing tights?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Alistair said, putting his masterpiece in the centre of the table. ‘I don’t have the calves for it. Now this…is Duck Breasts with Blackberry and Apricot Sauce.’

‘Do please notice the elegant presentation,’ his fiancée teased, looking up at him. ‘Particularly the apricot halves, watercress and blackberry garnish. It was very fiddly.’

The look of love and affection that passed between them suddenly made Jemima feel lonely. Most of the time she managed perfectly well, but just occasionally it spread through her like ink in water.

Rachel sat down. ‘You know, Alistair, I think you’ve got great calves. What about wearing tights?’

CHAPTER THREE

THE Duck Breasts with Blackberry and Apricot Sauce was a triumph, but the Poached Figs with Macaroons and Mascarpone Alistair had lovingly prepared for dessert was less successful. He was entirely philosophical about it and was threatening to invite them all back for a retry later in the month.

Jemima stirred brown sugar crystals into her coffee, surprisingly relaxed. This was so much better than staying home to decorate the bathroom, which had been her original plan for the evening. She’d almost forgotten the trail of ‘welkin blue’ footprints she’d left spread across the new vinyl floor when she’d tripped over the paint pot lid. She’d even managed to forget that Alistair thought she was ‘brittle’ and Miles had said that she dressed like her mother.

She sipped the dark liquid and let the flavours travel over her tongue. Brittle? Did she really come across as brittle? She didn’t want to be seen as brittle. She hadn’t known Alistair thought that about her. Rachel had never said.

It was probably true, though. No one knew how painful a divorce was unless they’d firsthand experience of it. It felt as if…you were being physically ripped in half. There was no other way of describing it. Her whole life, everything she’d invested in and worked for, had been shredded as though none of it had mattered. Anyone would be a little ‘brittle’ after that. Wouldn’t they?

‘Mint?’

She looked up to find Miles was holding out a plate of gold-wrapped mints. Jemima took one.

‘Rachel? Do you want one?’

‘Thank you.’

Jemima slowly unwrapped the foil-covered mint and let the conversation swirl around her. Miles Kingsley had turned out to be good company. At work he seemed…well…a complete caricature of what she’d imagined a playboy would be like.

It offended her that he seemed to select his dates with no more care than you would make a decision between a chocolate with a cream-filled centre and one with a nutty coating. Even more offensive was the way he discarded them days later, with as little thought.

It seemed the chase was what interested him. Winning. It was as though he were playing some complicated game of his own devising, and when he’d won he lost interest.

Not surprisingly, it wasn’t that simple. Miles was a much more complicated man. She’d wanted to dislike him, but she’d not been able to. Jemima spread out the foil wrapper and gently smoothed out the creases.

Maybe it was no more than that she disliked being at Kingsley and Bressington so much that it coloured her opinion of anything and everyone there. Tonight she had to admit that Miles had been fun. Kind, too. If discussing the various merits of a chocolate wedding cake over a traditional fruit one had bored her, it must surely have pushed him close to the edge.

In any case, she thought, smoothing out the final crease, his erudite endorsement of an assortment of cheeses and warm bread in favour of any cake had her vote.

Miles’s low laugh made her look up. ‘I haven’t seen anyone do that since school,’ he said, holding out his mint wrapper to her.

Jemima looked back down at the perfectly smooth gold square and back into his laughing blue eyes. A hard lump seemed stuck in her throat.

He had the most amazing eyes. So sexy. She felt like a rabbit caught in the glare of oncoming headlights. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t speak either.

‘I used to do that,’ Rachel said, spreading her own wrapper out in front of her. ‘It always used to rip, though.’

Alistair leant back in his chair. ‘That’s because you rush it. Jemima’s got patience.’

Finally Jemima managed to find her voice, albeit a huskier one than usual. ‘Jemima’s got two boys who need amusing when they go out to Sunday lunch. I make a pretty good job of putting After Eight Mint envelopes inside each other too.’

She took Miles’s wrapper and carefully eased out the creases. She was aware of Miles’s soft laughter and Rachel’s cry of irritation when her wrapper tore. Jemima kept her eyes focused on the gold paper until the last crease disappeared and she was left with a shiny square.

‘Beautifully done,’ Miles said softly.

He made even that sound seductive. No wonder he had women falling over themselves to go out to dinner with him. Like lemmings on a cliff…

Daft. She didn’t like to think how dreadful they must feel when he didn’t phone, didn’t make any effort to contact them again.