“You sound surprised.”
“Well, yes,” Bo found herself replying. “You, umm, don’t give musician vibes.”
“What vibes do I give then? If not musical ones?”
Bo shrugged. Once again, she took in Max’s ultra-casual attire, from the sandals worn with socks to his wrinkled button-down shirt. “I don’t know. My friend was worried you might be a secret murderer.”
Max gave a wry smile. “Don’t worry. The only things I murder are Beethoven and Brahms occasionally.”
She couldn’t help but smile back at that, a full and genuine grin that stretched across her face. Max inhaled sharply, and Bo’s smile dropped as she stared at him.
“What is it?” she asked worriedly, but Max simply shook his head.
“Nothing. That was the first time I’ve seen you smile, is all. I was starting to worry you didn’t know how.”
“I know how to smile,” Bo replied, feeling cross again. “It’s not my fault that you’ve only made me smile once. You should be funnier.”
“You’re right. It’s not your fault. It’s my fault, and entirely remiss of me. You’re ten times as beautiful when you smile, did you know that?” Max asked easily. “If I’d known having a sense of humour would give me that smile as a reward, I’d have told knock-knock jokes from the moment I met you.”
For a moment Bo was speechless, but somewhere in her mind, even as her heart treacherously picked up tempo once more, a warning bell sounded.
Professional boundaries, Bo,she lectured herself.You must stay professional here.
“Oh, well, I—”
“Have dinner with me tonight,” Max suddenly suggested, looking at her intently with eyes that were, Bo realized, the colour of the sky on a stormy day. “I know our arrangement doesn’t officially begin until next week, but I’m not working this evening, and I planned on ordering Indian food. I’ve missed good Indian food in Berlin.”
“I don’t know,” Bo replied, biting on her tongue to stop herself from immediately saying yes. “Is that a good idea?”
“We’re being friendly, remember? Happily complicated?”
“Well, yes, I know, but . . .” she trailed off uncertainly, looking down.
“But what? It’s just dinner.”
She shrugged, steadfastly staring at the ground.Willa told you to get to know him,she suddenly thought,you’d just be following her instructions. Besides, dinner would be a good place to start to ask questions, like why he and Geoffrey didn’t get along. And it’s just dinner, after all. You don’t have to go to bed with him again, or anything like that.
She coloured pink as soon as she thought of going to bed with Max again though. Her skin felt warmer and her body tighter, and when she looked back up at him, their eyes locked and she felt a tremor run down her spine.
“All right,” she agreed. “Dinner sounds nice. Happily complicated, right?”
“Right,” Max agreed, a slow smile spreading over his face. “Happily complicated.”
Chapter Seven
Bo spent far too long working out what to wear for dinner that night. With Sir Geoffrey, she’d worn whatever she was most comfortable in. Jeans, old shirts, sometimes even her pyjamas. She’d pad up to his house in her old clothes to cook them both dinner, Geoffrey drinking a glass of port or sherry at the kitchen table while she stirred up spaghetti Bolognese or chicken curry. Comfort food was her forte and happy place, having spent years under the fastidious yoke of her mother’s diet, surviving off salads and lean steak or whatever other food her mother was currently picking at. Her mum didn’t really eat so much as miserably move food around her plate, always in a constant battle with her own body’s needs. Margot Armstrong, beautiful, proud and vain, lived in horror of curves, and saw women who had them as weak, lazy and unattractive. As such, she kept to a rigid diet and enforced the same upon her daughter, determined that Bo would never be one of those women with the full hips and breasts she so despised.
In London, and away from her mother’s eternal quest to be thin, Bo ate what she pleased. She’d learned to love carbohydrates and had a new appreciation for bread and butter. She worked hard in Ida’s shop and Geoffrey’s garden during the day, burning off her energy and working up a hunger, and saw nothing wrong with eating a full and hearty meal at night. Geoffrey never complained about the simple and hearty meals Bo prepared for them, in fact, he encouraged her by filling the larder with all manner of delicious ingredients.
“I’m too old for avocado mousse and escargot,” he told her. “At my age, I’ve earned the right to eat what I please, and at your age, you can eat what you want without feeling the effects.”
Standing before her tiny cupboard, clutching a handful of shirts, Bo felt grief for Geoffrey strike her again. Never againwould she go up to the house to cook for him. Never again would she sit at his kitchen table and talk about her life, about the flowers that were growing well and the auditions that went badly. She sat on her bed, sadness overwhelming her, wiping away tears with the shirts she still held tight in her hand.
The shirts. Shaking her grief away, Bo brought her mind back to the task at hand: dressing for dinner. Somehow, despite Max’s casual attire, she didn’t think he’d be the kind of person to appreciate a guest at his table in their nightwear. She still remembered the first night they’d met, when Max had sat and glared at her from across the dinner table. She’d felt gauche and underdressed in her old jeans and T-shirt, and in a way, she’d felt more comfortable, and certainly more of an equal, when they’d both been naked and intertwined later on her bed.
Jeans and a shirt were definitely out then, Bo decided. She pushed them to one side, examining her small collection of dresses and once again feeling overwhelmed by choice even though her options were somewhat limited.
This isn’t a date, you’re being ridiculous,she told herself firmly.Just pick something and put it on. Max won’t care what you wear. He will, however, care if you’re late. So, for the love of God, throw something on and get yourself up to the house.
