‘I mean,’—I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand—‘you should get me to do some babysitting. It’s Christmas. I’ve been working for you for two weeks and you haven’t been out at all. Unless you have a secret babysitter who comes in after I leave, obviously. But you seem to work so hard. You should let your hair down. Go out for some festive drinks. Go on adate.’
Shut up, Saoirse. Shut up!
‘I don’t date.’ His reply is like whip lash.
‘Sorry, it’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have said that—you don’t?’
‘I don’t have time. I seem to have a pattern of attracting high-maintenance women. And I have a high-maintenance career and a daughter who deserves a lot more of me than she gets. So the dating will have to wait.’
‘It’s just’—I rub the back of my neck, which is sweating under my hair. He glances at my chest and then whips his head around to look over in an entirely different direction.
I try again. ‘I’m sure you could do with some adult company. You know, apart from the people you work with. I don’t really count. You could go out for a few beers with your friends. Or your brothers. Or, I don’t know, go on Tinder.’
His eyebrows rise. ‘Tinder? Wouldyougo on Tinder?’
‘God, no, but?—’
‘Exactly. I think I’ll stick with celibacy and Peppa Pig of an evening. But thanks for the concern, Saoirse.’
He picks up his fresh glass of champagne and sits back in his chair, surveying me with what looks like amusement.
Great. Now he’s gone and said my name in that sexy, clipped, even tone. And he’s used the wordcelibacy. It’s such a loaded concept: it smacks of him being all puritanical and self-controlled and self-denying, and it’s hot as hell, because he is a ride; he is the biggest fucking ride I’ve seen on either side of the Irish Sea, and it is such a waste that he’s not sharinghimself with any women at the moment (particularly me). It’s such a bloody travesty. It’ssucha waste.
‘It’ssucha waste.’
‘What?’ It comes out like a laugh, and he sits forward.
I’m instantly scarlet. Oh, God. ‘I mean. Because you’re, you know. A good-looking guy. You’re a catch. Objectively. I just feel bad for the women who are… who are your type, who are being deprived of dates with you.’
He doesn’t take his eyes off me. He’s enjoying this. He definitely has a sadistic streak.
‘Being deprived of dates with me? Or sex?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug sulkily. I’m furious at myself for being such a total idiot. ‘You’re the one who brought up sex, or the lack of it. All I said was that you should go on a date.’
His mouth twists.Dimples, dimples, stay away. Come out to play another day.
‘What are you doing Friday night?’
‘Me? What?’ I’m seriously sweating now; I’ll have damp patches under my arms any second now.Really attractive, Saoirse. But he’s looking at me in this intense way, and he’s rolling the stem of his champagne flute between his fingers, and I stare at his hands to avoid looking at his face. His fingers are manly, but long. Strong. Elegant.
God.
‘Would you like to come on a date with me and Bea on Friday?’
‘I. Um.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t try anything funny. Bea can be our chaperone. I’ve been meaning to ask you to join us, actually. As our guest, not our nanny. It’s about an hour outside of London, at a resort called Sorrel Farm. It’s an afternoon and evening thing, a family party. I think you’d like it. It’s a stunning venue—a friend of mine runs it. Evelyn.
‘And Siobhan will be there; she’s doing all the eventplanning. You might find it inspiring. Oh, and it saves me having to drag along some high-maintenance pain in the arse who doesn’t like kids as my date.’
Another wink. And a pseudo date. And the suggestion that he’s thought hard about how much I’d enjoy this event.
I may actually have a heart attack.
CHAPTER 17
Saoirse: Wednesday 15 December
