Hattie turned and began to soak a cloth to wipe down the surfaces to make herself look busy. When she glanced up, thankfully he’d gone. She sagged back against the sink. Way to go, Hattie. Make a complete tit of yourself by being so awkward just because he’d had a woman over to stay. If only she could have been more blasé about it.
Sitting down she checked her phone. A text from Chris.
Good to talk. Xxx
But nothing from Gabby since Hattie had sent some very soft-focus pictures of the ballroom yesterday. Typical – after badgering her for pictures, her cousin had now gone very quiet and she still hadn’t updated Hattie on numbers. Was she disappointed with the room? Or maybe she was just busy with other wedding plans at the moment.
Over the next week, Hattie buried herself in the minutiae of wedding favours, order-of-service cards, provisional seating plans, working out the possible layout of the top table in the ballroom, ordering the champagne and the top achievement of finding a local furniture hire company. With that in place, she could start to relax, even though there was still no sign of the cleaning team that Solange had promised would come. In between updating her spreadsheet and making endless calls, she managed to do some more cleaning of the ballroom but there was still a lot to do. Despite this and the added annoyance of a summer cold, not helped by the dust – her nose ran constantly – things were starting to come together, and along with them she was gaining that quiet confidence that she had everything under control. Better still, she’d yet to see a mouse and was starting to think that maybe Yvette had exaggerated or perhaps even invented the problem.
On Wednesday morning she woke with a stuffy nose and also to a text.
We’re on our way. Be with you in an hour and a half.
‘No!’ She threw down the phone, flung herself out of bed, grabbed a robe and ran to the room next door.
‘Luc,’ she called, knocking on his door urgently.
‘Hattie.’ His face softened as his gaze fell on her face. ‘Are you okay? You look a little pale.’
‘I’m fine. The helicopter. It’s coming today and I completely forgot…’ Even feeling below par, she’d have to have been dead not to notice the loose drawstring cotton trousers draped low over his hips or the mesmerising sight of the shadowed hollows of his stomach and the dark hair around his belly button that ran down below the fabric. Something inside her loosened and she had to force her gaze up to his face. Amusement danced in his eyes. Bugger him.
Focus, she told herself sternly. ‘I forgot about marking the landing spot. They’re arriving in an hour and a half. And it’s not ready. And—’
He put steadying hands on her upper arms to halt her babbling flow. ‘It’s fine. I did it yesterday evening.’
‘You did.’ She sagged a little, grateful for the support of his hands.
‘I did.’
‘Thank you. How could I have forgotten that?’ She gave an inelegant sniff, realising she’d didn’t have a tissue.
‘You’ve been working too hard. Why are you still cleaning? I thought Solange was arranging her team to come in and do a deep clean.’
Hattie sniffed again. ‘They’ve been busy, apparently.’
He shook his head. ‘I think you’re overdoing it. You don’t look so well.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. Just a cold.’
Luc studied her face and then smiled, his gorgeous face lighting up, and she felt her heart do one of those really annoying little flips, like a just-landed fish.
‘It’s going to be a gorgeous day and there’s a great view from the landing place.’ Enthusiasm shone in his eyes. ‘Why don’t we play hooky for a little while and take breakfast up there? We could have a leisurely picnic while we wait for the chopper to arrive?’
‘What a wonderful idea.’ The words spilled out of Hattie’s mouth before she could stop herself. It sounded utterly idyllic and just the thought of it made her beam at him. The fresh air would blow away the incipient sinus headache that had been making itself felt since she’d woken up.
By the time she was dressed and came down to the kitchen, Luc had assembled a picnic in a gorgeous old-fashioned wicker picnic basket, complete with a half-bottle of champagne and two tulip glasses, held in place with neat little straps.
‘Ready?’ he asked. The woven strands of wicker squeaked as he closed the lid and buckled it into place.
‘Champagne for breakfast?’ she asked.
‘Why not? You’re not planning to fly the helicopter, are you?’
‘No.’ She laughed. ‘It just seems a bit self-indulgent.’
‘If we’re having a picnic, we shall do it properly,’ he said seriously, although a smile lurked at the corners of his lips. ‘In France food is a pleasure; you should never feel guilty. There is always time to enjoy a meal.’
‘Okay,’ she said, smiling back at him, charmed by this philosophy and the seriousness with which he delivered the words.
