‘Agreed.’ And she didn’t want to meet at Ivy’s. ‘Where then?’
‘What about my flat? It’s not far.’
Telling herself the venue didn’t matter, it was just a business meeting after all, she smiled. ‘Same time tomorrow. Give me the address.’
Twenty
At 7.30 a.m. the next day, Fiona stood in front of a row of Georgian terraced houses which were perched on the clifftop above Brambleton Beach. The sea stretched out in a vast, undulating expanse, its surface shimmering in the early dawn light. The sun was just beginning to rise, washing buttery light over the rippling waves and painting the Devon coast in shades of amber and rose. A stiff onshore breeze carried the distant cry of seagulls, echoing through the crisp autumn air. It was the kind of view one dreamed of waking up to beside someone you loved. But her fingers tightened around her typed agenda; this meeting was about helping an old friend.
Ru buzzed her in. ‘First floor,’ he said in a husky voice, making her heart flutter.
She jogged up, inhaling the spicy sweet scent of cinnamon bread as her mouth salivated. ‘Thought we’d eat on the balcony, catch the sunrise. It’s too beautiful to miss. Grab that blanket off the sofa if you’re chilly.’
‘Is that your cinnamon bread toasting?’
‘Yup. And Eggs Benedict.’
She sighed, realizing how much she’d missed being cosseted by his cooking.
He picked up a tray and walked past her, whistling. She smiled. His joy was infectious, but she had to try not to get too drawn in. ‘I drew up an agenda.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
Outside on the balcony, she threw a blanket over her shoulders, drinking in the view of the sun rising over the sea. Either side was a smudge of rose gold, as if someone had dipped a paintbrush in the sun and drawn a thick line on the horizon. She thrust her meeting plan onto the table, the crisp sound of paper cutting through the crackling tension she could sense between them. As she adjusted her posture, Fiona reminded herself that this was business, just like meetings in London. The only difference? No staff members were present. She exhaled slowly, trying to settle into the role, deciding to pretend there were others on the balcony with them, recalling how she had fought to keep her composure during the first breakfast meeting after waking up in Ru’s arms.
Three years earlier, stepping into the professional kitchen where Ru was working as the sous chef, the lingering aroma of truffle oil and roasted garlic had greeted her, a rich reminder of the previous night’s dinner service. The cooking scents mingled with the faint trace of his musky cologne still clinging to her skin. She felt his gaze from across the room – a silent dare in his dark, knowing eyes igniting memories of their night together that sent a shuddering shiver down her spine. She took a seat. He sat opposite, and she was acutely aware of him across the table, his sleeves rolled up, his forearms dusted with flour, his strong, capable hands that made her heart beat a little faster. Her mind longed to wander to the previous night, but she pinched the inside of her palm, forcing her focus back to the meeting.
She had tried to stay tuned in to the head chef’s voice, hoping it would cut through the haze of desire, but it wasn’t enough to keep her attention. Under the table, Ru’s leg brushed hers, the touch so light she almost thought she’d imagined it. Her body responded, the reminder of the way his hands had traced her skin last night sending a flutter to her chest and a rush of warmth to her cheeks.
She recalled how a sharp voice had pierced her dreamy state.‘Fiona? Hello? Come in, Fiona!’
The chef’s scowl brought her back to the meeting. Had he asked her a question? She straightened, guilt flashing across her face, then bit her lip, where the taste of last night’s kisses still lingered, a thrilling, heady sweetness, rich and intoxicating like aged wine.
‘Sorry, Chef, I didn’t sleep well last night. What were you saying?’
Ru’s eyes flickered, his gaze a private conversation, as if communicating silently through a lover’s code. Their secret filled the space between them like static. Fiona wiped her sleeve over her face and refocused, offering a smile as he repeated his question.
This morning, Fiona feared that here, in Ru’s flat, she might disappear into that same haze. She threw off the blanket, enabling the morning chill to distract her, then tried to pretend the entire London team from the Fork & Cork was sitting on the balcony, looking to her to lead the meeting professionally. ‘How’s Ben coping with you away?’ she asked, dipping her fork into the velvety hollandaise sauce, letting the buttery richness coat her tongue.
‘Ben’s doing fine. We Zoom every day. He’s normally at the new restaurant so we can keep track of the refurb.’
She cut into a poached egg, letting the buttercup yellow yolk blend with the sauce.
As Ru’s best friend, not just his sous chef, Ben had probably known that Ru was planning to propose. Ben would hate Fiona for the hurt she had caused his friend. She shivered and pulled the blanket back around her, wanting to wrap her arms around Ru instead, feel his heart beating against her own, his warm body pressing against hers. But she knew she couldn’t falter. If they got back together, it would make their eventual break-upso much harder. Besides, yesterday, Ru had made it clear that he had moved on. Adopting a business tone, she asked when the renovations would be complete.
‘Kitchen will be finished in a month. All the wine you ordered is ready for delivery, but we don’t have a sommelier to check it.’
That was a surprise, but not a problem. ‘Easy enough to fix. Let’s add that to the agenda for next time?’
His eyes clouded with something unreadable. ‘There’ll be a next time, will there?’
‘Right, to Devon business.’ She shook her page at him as if it was a weapon. ‘The only way we can clear your name is by finding out who the thief is. Let’s brainstorm.’
He seemed to brighten. ‘How do you think the thief did this?’
‘They must know where the cellar key is hidden.’
‘Okay. Could you make a list of everyone who knows where it was kept?’
