“Cheers, and thanks for coming round for dinner,” she said.
“Cheers, and thanks for inviting me.”
They clinked glasses and sipped. The wine was good, rich and robust, and Tom figured it would be perfect with the lasagne Carole had prepared, the aroma of which was filling the kitchen.
“So, how’s your dad doing?” Tom asked, spearing an olive with a cocktail stick.
“He’s on the mend. Lots of nasty bruising, unfortunately, and the bash on his head looked awful for the first couple of days, but he says he’s starting to feel better now that the aches and pains aren’t quite so bad.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“He sings your praises every time I pop round to see how he’s feeling. Mum and Dad are grateful for getting them to the hospital and home again.”
“I was happy to help.”
“Dad says he enjoyed chatting with you about football in the waiting room at A&E and says he wants to take you for a pint to watch a game sometime once his cast is taken off, just to say thanks again.”
“He doesn’t have to thank me, but I’d be up for a trip to the pub to watch some football. Tell him I’ll look forward to it.”
Carole smiled. “Thanks, Tom. I’m sure that hanging out in some pub with my dad isn’t your idea of a great way to spend your free time, but it’ll mean a lot to him to buy you a pint and show his appreciation. You’re a good guy.”
He speared another olive, wondering if she’d still describe him as a ‘good guy’ if she knew the thoughts he’d had about her on his way over here tonight. Probably not.
Sitting here at her kitchen table was only making those thoughts race faster through his mind. While Carole was commending the aid he’d rendered at the weekend to help her father, he was thinking about how gorgeous she looked in the flickering candlelight as she sipped her wine. Even the daft apron she was wearing did nothing to blunt his attraction to her.
In fact, it somehow only made it stronger. That she’d happily wear the joke apron that her sister had given her to commemorate the disastrous Christmas lunch she’d prepared was evidence of her good humour and refusal to take herself too seriously. He liked that about her.
And the way the apron cinched at her waist and showed the curves that lay beneath it only made him want to tug the ties loose and…
Okay, he wasn’t even going there. What was wrong with him?
When they’d sat together at dinner during the wedding reception, he’d had none of these feelings or mad impulses. So, what had changed?
It was the slow dance they’d shared at the wedding that had done it. He was sure of it.
He might even have realised as much at the time, if it hadn’t been for that prat Steven Weaver knocking Carole’s father to the floor and unleashing mayhem. Once that happened, he’d thought only of helping Frederick, and any flickering attraction he’d felt towards Carole on the dance floor had been swamped by the emergency they’d faced.
But when he’d sat with Carole in his garden on Sunday afternoon looking at the wedding photos on her phone, the image of the two of them slow dancing together had instantly rekindled that flickering attraction.
And it had caused some sort of emotional tectonic shift inside him, too.
Now here he was, drinking wine with Carole as the candlelight danced in her eyes, and she was talking and smiling, and why hadn’t he noticed just howamazingher smile was before or the way she tilted her head when she laughed in a way that just about killed him?
Tom gulped down some wine and stuffed some olives into his mouth in an attempt to get himself under control. He’d never felt something like this happen so quickly before, this sudden overwhelming attraction to a woman, and the shock of it left him floundering.
He realised he wasn’t even listening properly to what Carole was saying while she chattered away beside him.
Nice one, Tom, sit here and ignore her—that’ll prove just how much of a ‘good guy’ you really are.
A pinging sound from the counter had Carole getting up from the table and turning off a little kitchen timer. She opened the oven door and pulled out the lasagne dish.
“I’ll let this cool down for a minute before we eat so we don’t burn our mouths on the sauce,” she said, and then removed a bowl of salad from the fridge. “I haven’t added dressing to this salad yet in case you’re picky, but I’ve got plenty of choices.”
After setting the salad bowl on the table, she added bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, along with bottles of premixed salad dressings in various flavours. She topped up the crusty bread in the basket, accepting Tom’s offer of help to carry more olives to the table. Once everything else was ready, she sliced into the lasagne and spooned generous servings onto two plates.
“That looks awesome,” Tom said, and meant it as he admired the thick layers of pasta and meat sauce that comprised the dish. “Did you make it all from scratch yourself?”
“Everything except the pasta. That’s from a box, because in all honesty, life is too short to faff around making your own freshpasta sheets. But I made the meat sauce and the white sauce and put it all together myself. I just hope you like it.”
