He’d stood down, tucked all the awkwardness into his own pockets. No wonder he was so successful in business. He had emotional intelligence and the tenacity to extract a portion of what he’d originally pitched for. It was impossible not to smile. ‘Yes! I’ll be careful.’
He looked at his watch. ‘In that case, I’ll quit while I’m ahead.’ He threw her a smile then rose to his feet, lifting his jacket from the arm of the sofa. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
She stood up, battling disappointment. It seemed too soon for him to leave. ‘You’re welcome. Thanks for bringing me home.’ Suddenly her heart was drumming. How would they say goodbye? It wasn’t as if they’d been on a date. They’d simply left the event together. Hesitantly, she stepped forward, opened the door then skipped back quickly as Cleuso streaked across the threshold, meowing loudly.
Theo laughed. ‘Were you expecting visitors?’
How different his face looked when he was laughing; all the shadows filled in with light. She smiled, grateful for the distraction. ‘Cleuso’s not a visitor; he lives here.’
‘Cleuso? What a great name for a cat. He’s...erm...’
He didn’t seem to be able to find the words. She followed his gaze to where Cleuso was sitting under the cheese plant, butting his head against the underside of a big, glossy leaf. She felt a smile coming. ‘He defies description, really. When I went to choose a kitten, I knew straight away that he’d be picked last, so I took him...’
She sensed Theo’s gaze and turned to face him. The light in his eyes was soft, a little hazy. His chest was rising and falling. Rising. Falling. She held her breath, waiting, not sure what she was waiting for, and then he leaned in slowly and kissed her cheek.
‘Goodnight, Mia.’
CHAPTER FOUR
THEO POURED HIS coffee and leaned into the warmth of the old Dutch range. His interior designer, Direk, was trying to convince him to go for a sleek, streamlined kitchen design—black gloss units, black granite work surfaces—but that didn’t seem sympathetic to the spirit of the old canal house. Direk kept telling him that it would be cool to ‘subvert expectation’ but a kitchen was for cooking; a kitchen was the heart of a home. Why subvert it? Besides, he didn’t want his home to have a black heart.
He picked up his cup and eyed the deep window-sill over the sink. An aloe vera plant might fit there. Mia had said that it would be a good plant to start with. He’d looked it up in her plant book: leaves like fleshy blue-green lances, little serrations along their edges. It was a desert plant. They could grow to quite a size, but he supposed there’d be a way of containing the growth—she’d know how to do that.
She’d filled every nook and cranny of her compact sitting room with plants. ‘Kew Gardens’, she’d called it.
He smiled. He’d liked her plants. He’d liked her barge. Everything scaled down, cleverly designed to fit the narrow space. There’d been something of the playhouse about it, something magical, and yet it had felt like a proper home. The sofa had been comfortable; the faded Persian rug on the floor had felt plush under his feet. He’d looked around while he waited for her to get changed. Her books were the classics, mostly, and collections of poetry. There’d been a stack of interiors magazines and a few copies of the Paris Review on a side table, and along the top of the bookcase there’d been photos of Ash and herself as kids in smart school uniforms, then in shorts and tee shirts at the beach. He’d noticed in particular a picture of a happy young couple—her parents, presumably—taken in a dry, exotic location. India, or Africa maybe...
He set his cup down and surveyed the old plaster walls around him, the myriad shades of ancient. It was two days since he’d cycled through the city streets with her laughing and squealing behind him. He smiled at the memory: the way she’d yelled an apology to the scattering tourists; the warmth of her hand on his back...
When he’d asked her to leave the fundraiser with him, he thought he’d known what he was doing. He’d wanted to spend some time with her. He’d wanted to get to know her better but, on the barge, his feelings had started to run away with him. As she’d recounted the tale of how she’d stopped Lotte’s attacker, he’d felt a ferocious tangle of emotion. Admiration for her bravery, fury that she’d put herself into such a dangerous situation and...tenderness. He’d felt an overwhelming desire to protect her, but then he’d overstepped the line, asking her for a promise he’d had no right to ask for, and in that moment he’d realised he was in trouble.
He was so drawn to her, to the warmth in her eyes, to the courage in her heart... Caring so much about someone he barely knew—someone who seemed to be able to draw things out of him with just a look and a smile—had thrown him into a flat spin. He’d felt out of his depth, unsure of what was happening to him. He’d had to leave; take some time to sort out his thoughts and feelings.
He pushed himself away from the stove and walked slowly around the huge scrubbed table where he cooked and ate. He couldn’t get it out of his head: Mia confronting Lotte’s attacker...
The scumbag could have turned around, blocked the umbrella strike, smashed his fist... He could have thrown Mia to the ground, used his feet... He stopped, felt a cold shudder travelling through him. She’d have understood why he’d asked her to make that promise if she’d seen what he’d seen.
He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of his mother’s sobs, chairs crashing, Bram launching himself at their father, fists flying, shouting at him to take Madelon away... He’d grab Madelon’s hand, pull her from the house clutching
