Page 126 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I screw up my courage and lay my heart wide open.

‘Us.’

There. I’ve said it.

For a moment Spike doesn’t move. Instead, he just stares at me across the desk, his face expressionless, his eyes unblinking. Every millisecond feels like an hour. Just say something, I think urgently. Anything.

‘I see,’ he says finally, and steeples his fingers.

My heart constricts. Oh, God. This is dreadful. When I said ‘anything’, I didn’t mean anything. It suddenly dawns on me that the big romantic moment that I’d hoped for, the one where Spike was going to grasp me in some big corny embrace and kiss the living daylights out of me, is not going to happen. I feel like a complete idiot.

‘You know, I should be going, perhaps we can do this interview on email,’ I gabble hastily, standing up, the humiliation pouring all over me. Clutching my coat to my chest as a sort of shield, I head for the door.

Spike stands up and follows me. ‘When’s your flight?’

‘Oh, erm . . .’ I glance at my watch gratefully. Anything not to have to look at him. ‘Not for a few hours, but you know, the traffic might be bad . . .’ I’m desperate to get out of the door, but now Spike’s standing in the way and blocking it with his huge frame.

‘Really?’ he’s saying. ‘You know, you can do a lot in a few hours . . .’

Something in his tone makes me look up. His eyes are flashing with amusement. Suddenly the penny drops. Of course. The British sense of humour. He was winding me up. How could he do that to me! I feel a white-hot flash of annoyance, followed by total and utter relief.

‘And my flat’s just round the corner,’ he’s saying.

Well, I guess I did deserve it, I muse, then ask, ‘What are you suggesting?’ pretending to be shocked, while feeling a thumping beat of excitement. I’d be fibbing if the thought hadn’t already crossed my mind. I didn’t come here hoping just to apologise. Well, I am human, and his chest did feel very firm that night at the ball when I squeezed his pec.

‘Oh, I dunno, we could watch a spaghetti Western, do a crossword . . .’ He moves closer.

‘You know, I’m pretty darned good at the cryptic ones. I get all the clues,’ I tease, leaning my body towards him.

‘You are?’

‘Uh-uh.’

‘Great,’ he whispers, and I can feel his breath on my cheek. ‘But before we go any further, I think I should tell you something.’

I look at him. A flutter of nerves.

‘Don’t look so worried.’ He smiles. ‘I’m not going to tell you I’m crazy about you, I’ve told you that already.’

And wrapping his arms round me, he pulls me to his chest and gives me a great big bear hug. I feel a whoosh of happiness. There’s nothing quite like being hugged by a big strong guy you’re crazy about.

‘No, there’s something else,’ he murmurs, his lips brushing against my hair.

‘What?’ I gasp, a quiver running all the way down to my toes.

‘My name’s not really Napoleon Caesar—’

‘Nelson Hargreaves,’ I finish off, smiling. ‘I kind of figured that. So tell me – what does the B stand for?’

He looks at me, surprised.

‘I saw your email address, remember?’

Now it’s his turn to smile. Scrunching up his nose, he winces with shame. ‘Bryan. With a Y.’

‘Bryan with a Y?’ I giggle. ‘Damn, and I thought the name Napoleon was really sexy.’

‘What? Are you telling me you don’t find me sexy any more?’ He pretends to look affronted.