“Why do women always imagine they need to dress up for a simple drink?”
“Because we hate to be mistaken for the plumber.”
He gives me a once-over. “Nah! You don’t look anywhere near rich enough to be a plumber. They make a killing. Maybe a plumber’s apprentice.”
I laugh. “I hate you.”
“Come on, it’s a village pub; nobody cares.” He glances towards the bar. “What do you want?”
“Something citrussy and refreshing, please.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “A mojito? An orange margarita? Isn’t there some fashion rule about drinking trendy cocktails while wearing plumbing clothes?”
“You said I looked fine.”
“You look fine for a pint of lager, and fish and chips.”
“Wow. You’re treating me to fish and chips?”
“Nothing if not flash, me.” He puffs up his chest, making me laugh.
“Actually, I was thinking a jug of ice water with many slices of lemon.”
“You’re a cheap date.”
He didn’t really mean date. It’s blindingly obvious by his expression after the words come out of his mouth. I’m all too familiar with the way men regret words they didn’t really mean.
“If you find us a table, I’ll order the food.” Osian calls me back from my internal thoughts.
“Cod with salad instead of chips, please.” I swivel away and go in search of a table.
Now that he’s buying me dinner, it would have been nice to look a bit more presentable.
Then like a flash, I remember the pretty purple party dress I’d bought for our date sixteen years ago.
I push the memory away and lock my mental gates against it. The women he likes are adorable, flirty and sexy. Nora is closer to the mark than me. And besides, haven’t I learnt my lesson after what just happened with Marcus and Ian? Mixing work with love only leads to disaster.
In my life, only one relationship doesn’t end with disappointment; only one love that is requited and rewarding and gives me back twice as much as I put in. Gardens.
Osian comes over with a tray. On it are two bottles of water, one sparkling, one still. A jug half-filled with ice and lemon slices, a couple of empty glasses and a pint of lager.
“I forgot to ask what water you like.” He places both bottles on the table and asks with his eyes.
“Doesn’t matter, a mix would be good.”
He opens both bottles and pours equal amounts into the jug, making the ice float to the top and bubbles fizz around the lemon slices.
Who needs champagne?
He sits and takes a small sip from his pint, then licks the foam from his upper lip; I have to work very hard at pushing away thoughts of what else his lips can do.
“I wish I knew what you’re thinking.” His question makes my heart thump and heat flood my face.
“You have this way of disappearing inside your own head,” he goes on. “Sometimes, you can carry on a lively conversation while all the time your mind is somewhere else.”
“It’s very useful in TV. You have an earpiece that the producers and crew talk through,” I explain, glad of something to divert the question away from where my thoughts really had been. “Sometimes they’re telling you things and sometimes they’re talking to one another. You learn to keep talking to camera, even when there’s a whole other conversation going on about lighting and booms.”
“So what were you thinking earlier?”
