Under Construction

Chapter 1

Shannon

Then

The thing about tonight’s date? I haven’t the foggiest idea who I’m meeting. You’d think I’d have given up on blind dates by now. I don’t exactly have the best track record where men are concerned, and if my last date was anything to go by, I probably should never have agreed to this one.

Roger the Dodger, I nicknamed him.

A maths teacher who liked to count every single penny, literally.

We’d arranged to meet, giving each other only the briefest description of what we’d be wearing.

He sounded nice over the phone, his deep, sexy voice did something to me — a toe curler, and we hit it off.

I thought I might actually be onto something.

How wrong could I be!

By the end of the night, after a string of boring conversations — all led by him, of course — the cracks began to show.

If it wasn’t bad enough, he had to go and prove to me how good his maths skills were when the bill arrived, totalling ninety-six pounds and twenty-two pence.

I suggested we both put sixty pounds down each, leaving a small tip. Fair, right?

Not for Roger.

The look on his face told me he was a tight-arse who’d more than likely named his cat as the main beneficiary in his Will.

He pulled the bill towards him and painstakingly went through it, item by item, adding up exactly what we’d each had, right down to the last bloody penny.

The bloke was a human calculator, trying to impress me with his mathematical skills.

I’ve never been interested in numbers. The only time I’ve been remotely excited by them was when I stepped on the scales and saw I’d lost eight pounds…

only to slap the fuckers straight back on a week later.

When he finally laid forty pounds on the little dish, he looked up at me with pride and said, “You’ll need to cover your half. I’ve let you off the twenty-two pence.”

He was deadly serious — and proud of himself for letting me off.

I sat there, stunned, as he pushed his glasses up his nose, looking smug.

He would be forever known as Roger the Dodger.

But now I’m facing another problem. The man I’m supposed to be meeting is already twenty minutes late. But at least the restaurant we agreed on is full of charm. It’s tucked away down a quiet, narrow passageway. It’s like stepping back in time along the quaint cobbled pathway.

Ashbourne is packed with historic little alleyways I like to explore from time to time.

The restaurant’s interior gives off an intimate French vibe.

Its small, inviting space perfectly matches its name, Petit Resto.

Soft, low lighting from the delicate, wax-dripped candles offer a subtle glow over the small round tables draped in crisp white linen.

The place has a romantic feel, already making me hungry with the subtle scent of herbs blended with sauteed shallots wafting through the air.

Couples are scattered around, sipping their wine, laughing, and looking far too comfortable to be on a blind date. I’m being judgy, but there is no mistaking the occasional glance in my direction, as if they’re making up their minds about why I may be alone.

“Oh, poor woman, left high and dry.” As if eating alone were wrong.

“I think your date’s a no-show, Miss,” the waiter’s voice to my left quips, loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.

This bloody waiter is starting to wind me up.

It’s the third time he’s been to my table in the last twenty minutes.

This man, Henri, his name revealed by the tag on his crisp white shirt, stands beside me with a smug look plastered on his face…

It’s not exactly calming my nerves. In fact, he’s getting on them.

“I’m reading the menu,” I bite back, picking it up again, pretending to browse through the dishes I'd already memorised.

My mouth waters at all the different choices my taste buds can’t wait to sample.

“Miss, the kitchen closes at nine,” he reminds me, shoving his notepad a little closer towards my face, as if the gesture will help me make my decision.

A decision which really should have been made with two people, two glasses of wine, and a smile shared between us.

Well, alright, maybe it would have ended up being the worst date ever…

if he’d bothered to show up, that is. Here I am trying to act like a refined lady drinking red wine and yeah, it might be the cheap variety, but I'm a pint drinker usually.

I’d love to tell Henri to sling his hook, but he’s got a point. This place caters to date nights on Fridays, and they make their money by getting customers in, fed and out the door on time.

But I don’t want to play by Henri’s rules. In fact, balls to him and his silly little notepad. I already look like some tragic spinster who’s been stood up, so yes, I’ll make him and his shitty notepad wait.

“I’ll have another glass of the house red,” I say, flashing him my most sincere smile as I lift my empty glass to the level of his pad, noticing the tick in his jaw.

“You know what? Make it a bottle of house red. I’ve got a feeling I’ll be here a while.

” I just can’t help myself. Henri grunts and finally walks away, leaving me to survey the other diners scattered around the restaurant. They all look so happy and content.

Deep in conversation.

I can’t help but wonder what they’ll get up to after they leave or, if it’s a first date, whether they’ll see each other again.

Blind dates… restaurants… When did it all start to feel so… boring?

Henri takes his sweet bloody time bringing over my bottle.

He removes the cork but doesn’t offer to pour, just whips out his notepad, again, ready to take my order.

But before he can ask, I raise my hand with a small flick of my wrist, signalling him to leave.

Off you trot, mate. A small laugh escapes me, which I’ll blame on the oversized glass of cheap house red and the fact I haven’t eaten since this morning.

I don’t feel sorry for Henri because he’s not exactly the right kind of charming.

I pull out my phone and scroll through my messages, trying to look busy. All I know is my blind date’s name is Wesley and he’ll be wearing a grey shirt. I’ve already done a sweep of the restaurant, and there isn’t a grey shirt in sight.

Popping my phone back into my bag, I swipe my hands over my midnight blue halter dress, feeling a little out of place.

Maybe he’s changed his mind. I glance around the dining area, playing part-time private investigator on the hunt for Grey Shirt Guy.

At the next table, a woman sits alone, nursing a cocktail in a blue dress eerily similar to mine.

Hopefully, Mr Grey Shirt doesn’t accidentally make a beeline for her… if he turns up, that is.

“I’m afraid, if you’re not ready to order, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Henri clips out. I didn’t even realise he was standing beside me until his voice piped up.

“Are you a ninja? I see you’ve mastered the art of moving in silence to perfection.” I snort, and wine dribbles down my chin. Very classy, Shannon.

You have the table manners of a toddler, let loose with a bowl of spaghetti for the first time.

He doesn’t answer, instead tapping his pen against his annoying little notepad, and glancing between me and my invisible date. It’s apparent Wesley is a no-show. I’m relieved the woman next to me in the blue dress has left her table, so no one’s close enough to witness I’ve been stood up.

The feeling of warmth spreading and rising to the surface of my cheeks screams embarrassment. Henri looks back at me. There’s something resembling sympathy in his eyes, or perhaps a silent judgment. I'm not worthy of the dating game and should give up… forever destined to be alone.

Henri is a prick.

I wonder if he’ll cork my wine so I can take it home and write off tonight as yet another failure…

one I won’t be in a hurry to repeat. I’m about to ask when the door opens.

A cool breeze flows in, washing over me.

Sighing as the air meets my skin, my head turns to face the door, briefly noticing the tall figure of a man step inside, slightly hidden by the entrance wall, separating the dining area.

He strides in further, eyes sweeping the restaurant as if he owns the place, dressed in a navy double-breasted cashmere coat.

Whoever he is, he’s got taste!

My gaze slowly travels down the long length of his body, admiring the way his navy-blue jeans cling to his thick thighs.

He’s got to be at least six foot four. He’d tower over my five-foot-six self.

The thought alone has me clenching my thighs and digging my teeth into my lower lip.

I peek down at his feet, and the corner of my mouth pulls into a smile, already knowing he’s the type to wear boots.

Designer well-worn chimney sweep boots, to be exact, as if they walked straight off the set of Mary Poppins. He dresses nicely, smart yet casual.

Here’s to hoping he’s wearing a grey shirt!

He steps further into view and my breath catches.

The sight of him stirring up a hot hum beneath my flushed skin.

This man is bloody handsome, no, scratch that, fucking hot.

Is it even appropriate to call someone ‘hot’?

Who cares? He’s easy on the eyes, and it’s clear he takes care of himself.

His thick, dark hair is just long enough to thread my fingers through, with a touch of silver, like nature’s own highlights.

I imagine his weight pressing hard against my body, my fingertips grazing along his scalp.

Shit, my thoughts are getting carried away with me… stop it, Shannon.