It was why he’d suggested lunch, not dinner. Lunch was safe. Lunch would level things up, give them a chance to talk casually. Being in a confined space with Mia—in the car to Greenwich; in the small sitting room on the barge—played havoc with his senses, set his imagination going, leaping ahead, weaving scenarios. Maybe she felt it too. Maybe that was why she’d refused a lift. Hadn’t he told her that his car was compact?
He turned his back to the breeze, watching the rain sheeting across the canal. At least there was a canopy over the restaurant entrance. He hadn’t wanted to wait inside, leave her to walk in on her own—that wasn’t his style. He glanced at his watch, felt a twist in his gut. For a splintered second his head filled with a vision of wet cobbles...a tangled bicycle... But his father had been drunk, had blundered straight into the path of the tram. The weather had been incidental. He drew a long breath and pushed away his dread thoughts. Mia was far too sensible to end up under the wheels of a tram. She was late, that was all. Or...maybe she’d changed her mind.
He swallowed hard, turning to look at the street once more. Still no bicycles, but there was a figure walking quickly along the pavement, drawing near. She was in a trench coat and dainty black boots and she was holding a red umbrella that had a price tag dangling from its innards. He couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t have to. The way she carried herself and the way she moved already seemed to be imprinted on some part of his brain. And then she was right there in front of him, tilting the umbrella back, looking into his face and smiling. It was like being struck by a meteor shower.
‘You’re here!’
She shook her umbrella, folded it and stepped under the canopy. ‘Of course I’m here.’ Wet drops glistened on her cheeks, clinging to the strands of hair that fell about her face. ‘Did you think I wasn’t coming?’
‘It crossed my mind.’ He smiled. ‘But I was hoping you would...’
Her tongue touched her bottom lip. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I had a puncture, so I had to abandon the bike, and then it started pelting down, so I had to buy an umbrella.’
Her lips were red, dewy from whatever she’d put on them. ‘If you’d let me pick you up...’
‘I know. I’ve been reflecting on that all the way here.’
‘You should have called... I’d have come.’
Clear brown eyes held his. ‘I know you would, but...’ She glanced at the door. ‘Shall we go in?’
‘Of course.’ He opened the door, stepping aside for her. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. You must be cold.’
‘Your face is healing well.’
It had been over a week since the episode at the canal. He’d left a few days before calling her to arrange a date. He’d been going for casual, meanwhile he was anything but! He ran a finger over the taut little ridges near his eye. ‘Thanks to you.’
She laughed. ‘What can I say? Florence Nightingale made a big impression on me when I was a kid.’
He pictured her rescuing injured birds, bandaging her teddy bears. ‘I’d like to have seen you as a kid.’
Her eyes clouded. She turned away, looking around the restaurant. ‘It’s lovely in here, isn’t it? Very cosy with the candles. Perfect for such a horrible day.’ She picked up the menu, scrutinising it closely. ‘What do you recommend?’
She’d thrown up a wall. For some reason it made him think about the photographs he’d seen on the barge: Ash and her in smart school uniforms, the architecture of the buildings in the background... Boarding school? She’d told him about summers on Texel but maybe there were things about her childhood that were less than rosy.
He glanced at the menu. ‘I like the ravioli with the shaved truffles, but the risotto’s good too.’
She smiled. ‘The ravioli sounds perfect.’
‘Wine?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll have a sparkling mineral water...’ She shot him a mischievous look. ‘But I’m totally having a dessert. I love zabaglione.’
When she looked at him that way, he couldn’t help smiling. ‘You can have as much zabaglione as you want!’
Her eyes held his. ‘Worth walking through the rain for, then.’
‘Definitely...’
It was happening again—the effortless back and forth, the subtle flirting. Candlelight in her eyes, a touch of pink in her cheeks, that luscious mouth. It was easy to lose himself in the changing geometry of her smile, in the muted colours of her soft dress and in the warm fragrance she was wearing, but feeling attraction wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel more, wanted to know who she was inside, because she was doing something to him, tilting him off-centre in the best possible way.
When the waiter had taken their order and disappeared, he watched her watching the bubbles rising in her glass. That night on the barge she’d asked him a straight question about why he was involved with the refuge charity, and he’d answered truthfully, even though he wasn’t in the habit of revealing his family history to anyone. But she’d just deflected his light-hearted attempt to talk about her childhood. Did she still think it was inappropriate to talk about her family because of Ash and their business connection?
Ash himself hadn’t been as circumspect. When they’d met in London, he’d remarked to Theo how close he and Mia were, had told him that they’d ‘been through a lot’ together. There’d been sadness in his eyes, an awkward pause... Maybe he should have picked up Ash’s baton, asked him what it was that he and Mia had been through, but it wasn’t in his nature to ask personal questions. He’d cultivated
