16
Tom rang Carole’s doorbell,a bottle of red wine at the ready for his host. She’d told him he didn’t need to bring anything, but Tom had never turned up empty-handed at someone’s house when he’d been invited for dinner and he wasn’t about to start doing it now, either.
He’d also brought back the fancy plate Carole had used to carry the cakes and cookies they’d shared on Sunday afternoon. When she’d left after showing him the wedding photos on her phone, she’d been in a mad hurry and Tom had been too dazed to realise she’d forgotten it, his brain half-scrambled on account of the bolt of undeniable attraction that had shot through him as they’d stared into each other’s eyes.
Had Carole felt the same thing? Was that why she’d fled from his back garden with all the speed of an Olympic sprinter?
And if the answer to those questions was no, then was it really such a great idea to turn up here for dinner? Lusting after his new next-door neighbour was not a good move. It was embarrassing and, well, it was potentially creepy, too.
After all, they’d promised to help each other out as no-strings-attached wedding plus-ones, and they still had one morewedding day to get through. He wasn’t exactly holding up his end of that bargain if he started drooling over her.
And while Carole might be entitled to enjoy some romantic fun on the rebound following the end of her long-term relationship, it was a bad idea all round for Tom—her neighbour—to be the one to provide it for her.
So why was he here on her doorstep tonight? The sensible thing was to cancel the dinner plans they’d made, invent some excuse, and just stay away from her.
Except he didn’t want to do that.
Instead, he wanted to sit down and share ‘passable lasagne’ with her and listen to her talking. The mad little narrative she’d whipped up when those squirrels had gone dashing through his garden on Sunday afternoon had charmed him in some incomprehensible way.
Hewantedto be here tonight, despite knowing it was a mistake after the way he’d reacted to her when they’d looked at those wedding photos together beneath the warm summer sunshine. He wanted to drink wine with her, eat her passable lasagne, listen to her stories about squirrels who were mortal enemies, and wait for the perfect moment to gaze into her eyes and…
The door was flung open, startling him from his thoughts, and suddenly Carole was standing right in front of him, smiling and waving him into the house.
“I told you not to bring anything,” she said, eyeing the wine in his hand.
“Well, I did it anyway. We don’t have to open it.”
“I’ve already got a bottle of red wine open that I used to make the lasagne sauce. We can drink the rest of that first.”
Pulling himself together, he followed her into the kitchen where the oven hummed and music played from a speaker on the counter. The small kitchen table was set for two, completewith a little vase filled with white daisies. Candles flickered in glass tealight holders. The scene looked… romantic.
She was killing him here.
“Dinner smells fantastic,” Tom said, setting down the wine and the plate he’d brought with him.
“Thanks. It’ll be ready in about ten minutes. I’ve got some snacks to keep us going in the meantime.”
She carried a bowl of glossy black olives to the table and then began slicing crusty bread at the counter. Tom noticed the apron she was wearing, which featured a cartoon image of a frazzled cook with the wordsQueen ofKitchen Disastersprinted on it.
“Nice apron,” he laughed.
Carole, who was carrying the sliced bread to the table along with a plate of butter, looked down at the apron and gave him a wry smile.
“This was a gift from my sister, who likes to think she’s hilarious.”
“It sounds like there’s a story there.”
“There is, but it’s not one that does me any favours. A few years ago, I volunteered to cook Christmas dinner for my family and it, er, didn’t quite turn out the way I planned. I burned the turkey so badly it looked like it’d been in an inferno, and we ended up ordering Chinese takeaway. This”—she gestured to the apron—“was Jane having some fun at my expense.”
“Burning the turkey was just a one-off, I take it,” Tom said, angling his head to peer through the window on the oven. “I don’t see any smoke or flames.”
“Lasagne I can handle,” she laughed. “Turkey and all the trimmings, not so much. Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control here and now accept my limitations. Can I pour you some wine?”
She held up the bottle she’d already opened, and Tom nodded. The wine was probably a bad idea once you mixed it inwith the flickering candlelight and the sweet daisies on the table, but it’d be weird if he refused.
Or so he told himself.
After pouring two glasses, Carole joined him at the table.
