“Don’t take any notice of Nick,” Will jokes, trying to smooth over the awkward moment. “He missed the class on manners at prep school.”
My leg starts to bounce again. Dammit. No, wait. It’s not my leg jiggling the table. Someone else is jiggling. Oh, my God—it’s Nick. We have the same tell. If you’d told me five minutes ago I have anything in common with Nicholas the Rude, I would’ve laughed out loud. I’d never have picked him for the nervous tic type. He seems so in control of himself and his emotions. I’d go so far as to say he’s buttoned up tight.
“Well, I’m quite wired enough without drinking coffee. Perhaps you should try it?”
“Ha. Maybe you should, Nick. Might make you a little less … you,” Will comments with a laugh.
“I’m perfectly happy being me; thank you, Will.”
“Really? How lucky for you to be so happy with yourself.” I give him a sugary smile as his gaze locks with mine, and another of those shivers runs down my spine. This guy has a glare that could freeze lava. Harry's and Will’s eyes bounce between us.
“Perhaps some of us have more room for improvement than others. Now, if you’ll excuse me …” He leaves the thought unfinished as he rises from the table and stalks away, his stride as smooth and dangerous as a panther, without even waiting for the short black he ordered.
He’s almost at the door, when a very pregnant woman tries to stand up from her table, but can’t seem to get the chair out. She’s struggling, and the chair starts to unbalance. To my astonishment, Nicholas stops midstride, rights the chair, pulls it out from the table and helps her to her feet. I can’t hear their conversation, but I can see the kindness on his face. Who’d have thought?
Chapter Three
Nick
Intheend,Inot only have to put up with the offices being redecorated, but with Lulu MacLeod being the one hired to do it. Yes, her presentation was professional. And perhaps she had some good ideas. I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t listening. I was too busy looking at her lips. I mean, mentally crafting a client strategy. But I shudder at the thought of her prancing around the office with her preposterous hair and her irritating dimples and her delectable arse.
Not that any of the other designers impressed me. But at least I could ignore their waxed moustaches and too-short pants. Unlike Lulu. I don’t know what it is about her that gets under my skin, but I can’t seem to get her out.
However, I’m outvoted, so here we are. Stuck with Lulu MacLeod poking her delicate little nose into every corner of the office without even a week or two to get used to the idea. First thing, bright and early Tuesday morning, she’ll be here. At least she won’t be in my office.
Adding insult to injury, Harry manipulated me into a ‘celebratory’ lunch to seal the deal. There was small talk, which is not my forte. I concentrated on my meal and tried to ignore the chatting and laughing, which wasn’t difficult. The occasional waft of wildflowers floating across the table, on the other hand, was not so easy to ignore. By the end of the meal, my left leg had started to jiggle. A sure sign of my discomfort. When she ordered a chai latte, I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I got out of there without even waiting for my coffee. Which, based on my jiggling leg, I definitely didn’t need.
At least the mystery of the blue fingers has been solved. As well as being a decorator, Lulu MacLeod is an artist. Shocker. I should’ve known based on the weird clothes and hippie jewellery. Not to mention the hint of a tattoo I swear I saw peeking out from under her sleeve and wrapping around her delicate wrist.
My day has not improved by the time I arrive for my obligatory dinner with my mother. I have a nagging headache and a hair-trigger temper. Not the best frame of mind in which to deal with my mother, otherwise known as Meddling Mary.
“Nicholas? Is that you?” Mum calls as I close the door behind me with a little too much force.
“Who else would it be?” I mutter to myself. “God forbid anyone arrives at this overblown mausoleum without a formal invitation.” I take a deep breath. I need to keep those thoughts on the inside of my head. “Yes, it’s me,” I call louder. My footsteps echo on the cold marble as I head into the cavernous family room—a misnomer if ever there was one—where Mum sits with her pre-dinner sherry and an art auction catalogue.
Kissing her lifted cheek, I slump into the chair opposite, tearing at my tie and undoing my collar.
“Is Claire home for dinner?”
Mum purses her lips in disapproval, her grey eyes as cold as the North Sea. “Claire? No. Why on earth would she want to stay home and eat with her family when she can gallivant all over town with God knows who?”
“Good for her.” I wish I was doing the same. Although, I have never been a gallivanter, more’s the pity. I’d more likely be at home, working.
“You look like you had a bad day. Anything you can talk about?” Having been the wife of a lawyer for thirty-five years, Mum knows there are often things that can’t be discussed at home.
“Yes, I had a shocker of a day. Harry has hired a designer to redecorate the office. She’s, without a doubt, quite mad. It’s a ridiculous and pointless waste of money.”
“Well, at last. It’s certainly long overdue. Harry and your father had been debating it before he died, and then, of course, it had to be put on hold.” I should have known she’d take this position. Appearances are everything to my mother.
“I’m well aware of the history, Mum. The whole thing is already becoming a massive headache, and it hasn’t even started yet.”
“What pleasant company you are tonight.” Mum’s eyebrow rises along with the rest of her as she goes to the drinks trolley.
“I saw that eyebrow.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Drink?”
Mum drives me crazy, but one thing you can say in her favour is she’s utterly unflappable. No matter who is losing their heads around her, she maintains her dignity. Her only tell is her right eyebrow, which rises to her hairline when she’s displeased. A tell, I am sorry to say, I inherited.
