Chapter 16
Claridges is even grander than I’ve expected, its front porch bearing the weight of a cluster of Christmas trees, monochrome chequered flags waving majestically, and a lobby inside with the glossiest, dreamiest black and white chequered floor.
It’s timeless, and it hums with decades of glamour and stories and fabulous guests.
In the bar, Miles greets the barman with uncharacteristic warmth and orders two glasses of champagne.
‘That okay?’ He pulls a low chair out for me and I sink into it with a groan, tugging off my coat. He glances down my body before quickly averting his eyes and throwing his outdoor clothing onto a spare chair.
‘Lovely,’ I say. ‘You seem to know the competition well.’
‘Always. It’s a small world at the top of the hotel industry. My parents used to drag us relentlessly round the best hotels in London so they could check out what everyone else was doing.’
‘Did you always know you wanted to take over from them?’
He cocks his head and considers. I feel like even more of an imposter here than I did in Selfridges, but I push the feeling firmly down.
I’m with Miles Montague, who’s presumably one of the hottest and most eligible entrepreneurs in London, and right now, I have him to myself.
So all the gorgeous women out there who’ve set their sights on him will have to wait.
Enjoy it, I tell myself sternly. Loosen up and enjoy this for what it is: a pleasant, friendly drink with your generous, and impossibly gorgeous, boss. The champagne arrives, and I take a sip. It’s cold and refreshing and delicious.
‘I was always interested,’ he says slowly.
‘They would have been pissed off if I hadn’t wanted to take over, yes, but I wanted it enough that I didn’t feel pressured.
To be honest, I was itching to get my hands on our hotels business before I even left uni.
There were too many things I disagreed with them on. ’
‘Really? Like what?’ I lean forward, clasp my hands over my knees.
‘They were old-fashioned. Not in terms of aesthetics, but thinking. They were good at investing in what they saw as the showpieces: bars and restaurants. They didn’t see the wellness trend coming, not even when it was firmly established. I had to push them.
‘But the main trend we disagreed on was couples versus families. Take the Montague. It’s always been a family hotel, but families with a large travel budget want more.
They don’t just want a babysitter; they want their kids to have as good a time as them and they want to spend quality time together.
My parents lost that traffic because they rested on their laurels. ’
‘Was The Playroom your idea?’
‘Yeah.’ He grins. ‘First thing I did when I took over the reins. They thought I was insane, giving that gorgeous corner of the hotel over to kids. But we’ve reaped the rewards.’
‘It’s an amazing space. So, you came up with that even before you were a dad yourself?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s not rocket science. You just have to look around you. Pay attention. And stay humble. I’m not sure my parents were very good at the latter. Oh, and never, ever get comfortable. Which leads me to ask you: what are we missing?’
He’s talking to me like an equal, for probably the first time. It’s heady stuff. No wonder he gets model-grade women. No wonder he’s the CEO of a super-successful global hotel chain. Right now, I’d do whatever he said. Whatever he wanted.
The weight of his attention goes to my head a little, and it gives me the confidence to answer as if he’s seriously asking, as if he’s really interested in my reply.
And so I tell him about my experiences in The Playroom, and my suggestion that the hotel has so much behind-the-scenes magic to offer the children of VIP guests, based on Bea’s morning in the pastry kitchen.
And he listens. He listens and interjects and asks questions and even pulls out his phone to take notes.
And all the while, the warm glow of his conversation and proximity and of the champagne grows, and a bubble of happiness expands inside me, and when he laughs and flashes his dimples just for me, I consider how easy and yet insane and inappropriate and impossible it would be to climb onto his lap and tuck my head into the crook of his neck and put my hand on one of those firm, hairy pecs that I haven’t remotely been able to forget.
My thoughts must be showing on my face, because he frowns at me.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ I blush. Put down my glass. ‘Just hot. It’s boiling in here, isn’t it?
’ I reach down for the hem of my polo neck, which I put back on before we left Selfridges but which is far too hot to wear in here, and pull it off in one move.
And when I get it off and blow my hair away from my face, his gaze slides up to my face, as if it’s been somewhere else entirely, and he squirms in his chair, and grimaces as if he’s in pain, and crosses his legs.
‘It is hot.’ He tugs at his tie to loosen it and undoes the top button of his shirt, and damned if my jaw doesn’t fall open at the tiniest glimpse of his collarbones.
I look down at my lap in embarrassment. My skirt really is quite short when I’m sitting down like this, even though I have opaque tights on.
I tug it down and pat it and avoid his eyes while he flags down a server.
‘Two more,’ he says. Excellent. Because another glass of champagne is going to do wonders for my soaring libido and ability to hold myself together in front of this man.
And then I start babbling. ‘This is the problem at this time of year. Layers. You have to wrap up so warm outside, and then the shops and hotels are sweltering, and you have to strip off as soon as you get inside. Not strip off. I mean—that would be inappropriate, obviously—but remove layers. And then you’re trying to shop with your arms full of coats and scarves.
’ I pause and shake my head primly. ‘It’s a nightmare. ’
‘Indeed.’ He frowns. He still looks like he’s in pain.
‘You know, Miles.’ I’ll do anything, now, to keep the conversation flowing and avoid thinking about how much I would like to undo the rest of those shirt buttons, and why, if I’m so hot in here, my nipples are now pinched to the point of pain under my t-shirt and my bra. Anything. I push on.
‘I’m not trying to angle for overtime, but while you have me, you should make good use of me.’
Oh, good Lord.
Not the right turn of phrase at all.
His eyes widen.
‘I mean,’—I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand—‘you should get me to do some babysitting. It’s Christmas.
I’ve been working for you for two weeks and you haven’t been out at all.
Unless you have a secret babysitter who comes in after I leave, obviously.
But you seem to work so hard. You should let your hair down.
Go out for some festive drinks. Go on a date. ’
Shut up, Saoirse. Shut up!
‘I don’t date.’ His reply is like whip lash.
‘Sorry, it’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have said that—you don’t?’
‘I don’t have time. I seem to have a pattern of attracting high-maintenance women. And I have a high-maintenance career and a daughter who deserves a lot more of me than she gets. So the dating will have to wait.’
‘It’s just’—I rub the back of my neck, which is sweating under my hair. He glances at my chest and then whips his head around to look over in an entirely different direction.
I try again. ‘I’m sure you could do with some adult company. You know, apart from the people you work with. I don’t really count. You could go out for a few beers with your friends. Or your brothers. Or, I don’t know, go on Tinder.’
His eyebrows rise. ‘Tinder? Would you go on Tinder?’
‘God, no, but—’
‘Exactly. I think I’ll stick with celibacy and Peppa Pig of an evening. But thanks for the concern, Saoirse.’
He picks up his fresh glass of champagne and sits back in his chair, surveying me with what looks like amusement.
Great. Now he’s gone and said my name in that sexy, clipped, even tone.
And he’s used the word celibacy. It’s such a loaded concept: it smacks of him being all puritanical and self-controlled and self-denying, and it’s hot as hell, because he is a ride; he is the biggest fucking ride I’ve seen on either side of the Irish Sea, and it is such a waste that he’s not sharing himself with any women at the moment (particularly me).
It’s such a bloody travesty. It’s such a waste.
‘It’s such a waste.’
‘What?’ It comes out like a laugh, and he sits forward.
I’m instantly scarlet. Oh, God. ‘I mean. Because you’re, you know. A good-looking guy. You’re a catch. Objectively. I just feel bad for the women who are… who are your type, who are being deprived of dates with you.’
He doesn’t take his eyes off me. He’s enjoying this. He definitely has a sadistic streak.
‘Being deprived of dates with me? Or sex?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug sulkily. I’m furious at myself for being such a total idiot. ‘You’re the one who brought up sex, or the lack of it. All I said was that you should go on a date.’
His mouth twists. Dimples, dimples, stay away. Come out to play another day.
‘What are you doing Friday night?’
‘Me? What?’ I’m seriously sweating now; I’ll have damp patches under my arms any second now.
Really attractive, Saoirse. But he’s looking at me in this intense way, and he’s rolling the stem of his champagne flute between his fingers, and I stare at his hands to avoid looking at his face.
His fingers are manly, but long. Strong. Elegant.
God.
‘Would you like to come on a date with me and Bea on Friday?’
‘I. Um.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t try anything funny.
Bea can be our chaperone. I’ve been meaning to ask you to join us, actually.
As our guest, not our nanny. It’s about an hour outside of London, at a resort called Sorrel Farm.
It’s an afternoon and evening thing, a family party.
I think you’d like it. It’s a stunning venue—a friend of mine runs it. Evelyn.
‘And Siobhan will be there; she’s doing all the event planning. You might find it inspiring. Oh, and it saves me having to drag along some high-maintenance pain in the arse who doesn’t like kids as my date.’
Another wink. And a pseudo date. And the suggestion that he’s thought hard about how much I’d enjoy this event.
I may actually have a heart attack.