‘I lived in London for a while. All the students in my flat drank that horrible instant coffee stuff.’ He shuddered, still smiling. ‘It was torture.’
‘Some of us like proper coffee,’ she replied with a beam. ‘And I never touch tea, much to my family’s disgust – they all seem to run on the stuff. Give me a decent cup of coffee, any day.’
‘I like you already.’
Even though she knew his words were flippant and inconsequential, her heart did a funny flutter.
‘It’s kept here. Please help yourself anytime.’ He opened a cupboard and pointed out a large glass jar of beans. ‘Grinder over there. Cafetières in here. Milk in the fridge and the cups are all in that dresser over there.
‘Brilliant,’ said Hattie with a blithe smile. He was making it quite clear that she wasn’t to be waited on. She lunged forward to grab the jar. She hadn’t stopped since Calais and she could murder a coffee. Unfortunately, she’d misjudged him because he stepped forward to reach for the coffee jar at the same moment and she found herself planting her nose straight into his chin.
‘Ow,’ she squeaked, sudden tears filling her eyes at the sudden shock of the pain. Why did noses always hurt so much?
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, his hands coming up in flustered alarm, his French accent suddenly much stronger.
‘No, id wad my fauld,’ she managed to mumble, pressing her nose gently as if that might push the pain back where it had come from.
‘Here, sit down.’ He grabbed her arm to guide her towards one of the ladderback chairs.
‘Id fine,’ she said, nursing her nose, feeling a hot trickle dribbling from one nostril. In a panic, she pulled out of his grasp and veered towards the sink, stepping hard on his foot. The last thing she wanted was to drip blood everywhere.
‘Dorry,’ she said horribly aware of the increasing flood running into her cupped hand. She barged past him and just made it to the large white butler sink in time.
Brilliant scarlet drops fell on the white porcelain, blooming like dystopian flowers in the faint sheen of water on the surface.
Nausea rolled in her belly and she tensed her stomach muscles, fighting against the white hot rush of panic.
‘Here.’ He thrust a piece of kitchen paper under her nose. In haste, she grabbed it, clamping his hand to her face in the process and elbowing him in the ribs.
‘Dorry,’ she said again. God, could this get any worse? She looked down, realising immediately it was a mistake. She heard a high-pitched whine in her head. The scarlet blooms flowered and burst like peonies. Please, please, don’t let her faint.
Uh oh. Her head felt floaty and not quite there and then nothing was quite there and…
Coming to, cradled in the arms of a handsome Frenchman, had to be right up there in the top ten of fantasies, unless you were covered in blood and had made a complete tit of yourself in the process.
She blinked up at him, a little dreamily, and smiled because how could she not? He was gorgeous. With looks like that he probably dated supermodels or super-successful women who made their first profit of the day before they’d even applied their make-up in the morning.
‘You are back with us?’ he asked, looking very concerned. Maybe she should faint more often. It was quite nice being the one who was looked after for a change.
‘I think so,’ she said in a pathetic little voice and then began scrambling to get out of his arms because, seriously, she didn’t do being looked after. As soon as she did, she realised her mistake because her head didn’t seem to be attached to her body properly and she went all floppy again.
‘Stay still. I’ve got you.’
He most certainly did. His voice, with that divine French accent, was so, so soothing but could this be any more embarrassing – lying on the floor, her head and shoulders on his lap, while he held a wad of tissue to her nose? Thankfully, after that first violent flood, her nose bleed seemed to have stopped. Oh God, she winced. Lying in this position there was only one place to look and that was up at him. It was all a bit too up close and personal and she seemed to have incubated a flutter of light-headed butterflies in her stomach which took off every time he looked down at her with those vivid blue eyes, assessing her.
‘Do you think you might be able to stand up?’
‘Can you give me a moment?’ She felt like she’d been flung into a washing machine put on a high spin and spat out, leaving her like a stranded, disorientated beetle.
‘Your English is very good,’ she said. Had she already said that?
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s very, very good,’ she observed, aware that she was saying it for the sake of saying something and not blurting out anything stupid.
‘I lived in London. After university there, I worked in my father’s London business. Are you starting to feel better?’
‘Mm. Yes. Sorry.’ He probably had better things to do than be sitting on the kitchen floor with a damsel in distress.
