Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Mind if I join you?’ asked Liam. ‘That is, if you haven’t already got company.’
‘N-No,’ I stuttered, still feeling horribly on edge about the snooping. I hastily retrieved the mobile and stuffed it in my handbag. ‘I-I mean, I don’t mind you joining me. I’m here on my own.’
‘Fab,’ he said, giving me a blow-torch grin.
Dear God. Those smiles shouldn’t be allowed. They gave menopausal women like me total temperature tantrums.
‘I fancy a cappuccino,’ he said, before noting my almost empty cup. ‘Can I get you another?’
‘That would be lovely,’ I nodded.
‘Chocolate sprinkles?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, trying to settle down. ‘I adore spocolate crinkles.’ What? I flushed. ‘I mean-’
‘I know what you meant,’ he laughed.
As Liam headed over to the serving area, I groaned and tried not to slump over the tabletop. Instead, I rummaged in my bag again and this time pulled out my compact mirror.
A quick peek at my reflection revealed all was well in the lip area – no adhered cake crumbs and no telltale cappuccino moustache. However, the cafeteria’s bright lights showed me that an appointment with creme bleach was long overdue. Either that or some industrial-strength wax strips.
I snapped the compact shut, then studied Liam as he stood at the serving counter.
He had his back to me. I found myself admiring the broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist and delectable bottom.
Nice. His physique was very… Superman. Yes, Clark Kent aside, Liam Lancaster was possibly the only other man on this planet who could pull off wearing red underpants over spandex.
I looked away. Knowing my luck, Liam would suddenly turn and catch me leering at his backside.
Two women at the next table caught my eye. They were both doing exactly what I’d just been doing. Staring at Liam. One of them had picked up a laminated menu and was vigorously fanning herself. She leant toward her friend, her body language indicating that she was about to share a confidence.
‘Phew,’ she stage-whispered. ‘Is he hot or what?’
‘Frigging scorching,’ said her pal. ‘Give me that menu. I need to fan myself too.’
Not for the first time did I privately wonder at the injustice of how men aged so much better than females.
I looked away from the women and lowered my gaze.
Studied my nails. Fiddled with my wedding ring.
Why was I still wearing it? After all, I’d consulted a solicitor about divorcing Peter.
Not that he’d ever known. I’d been a bag of nerves as I’d sat in the reception of Gardener and Stewart Solicitors, waiting to be shown into the inner sanctum of Gabe Stewart’s office.
I’d travelled miles out of my way to meet with this particular matrimonial lawyer, such had been my terror that Gabe might, somehow, have known Peter. It was one of the first things I’d blurted.
‘Do you know my husband?’
‘In a professional sense?’ Gabe had deadpanned. ‘Or are you about to tell me that you’ve discovered your spouse is gay and you suspect he’s seeing me behind your back? In which case, why don’t you tell me your hubby’s name, and I’ll tell you if he’s my type.’
It had taken me a moment to realise that Gabe had a very dry sense of humour and had been bantering to put me at ease. He’d followed up with the assurance that he was heterosexual and happily married to wife Wendy.
I sometimes wondered – if things hadn’t turned out the way they had – whether I would have been brave enough to have progressed matters beyond that initial meeting with Gabe. Now, I’d never know.
Perhaps I should take the wedding band off.
Did widows do that? Or did they keep it on, like some sort of proclamation: stay away from me.
I might be single, but my heart still belongs to my deceased darling.
Or maybe some widows carried on wearing their rings as a way of keeping unwanted male attention at bay: Unavailable.
Out of bounds. Don’t bother wasting your time chatting me up because I’m not interested.
‘A penny for them?’ asked Liam, setting a fresh coffee down in front of me.
‘Oh’ – I shrugged carelessly and said the first thing that came into my head – ‘I was simply wondering what to make for dinner this evening.’
‘Ah, yes. That’s a question I often find myself pondering.’ He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down. Behind him, the two women were now nudging each other and giggling like pubescent schoolgirls. ‘So, what have you decided to cook?’
‘Um’ – I frowned, mentally scrabbling for a quick answer – ‘something swift and easy. Beans on toast is always a good one. What about you?’
‘To be honest, I haven’t thought that far ahead.’ He smiled again and my tummy flipped for a second time. Why did he have this effect on me? ‘However, it will be something that takes a bit longer than beans on toast. I love the whole cooking process.’
‘Really?’ I said, genuinely astonished.
‘Definitely. It’s relaxing.’
‘What sort of meals do you like to cook?’ I asked curiously.
‘Nothing too adventurous,’ he assured. ‘I’m not someone who frets over a curdled brandy sauce or fusses about a collapsed soufflé. I go for healthy staples. My favourite is a good steak with plenty of organic garden veg and tiny pearl potatoes.’
My mouth involuntarily watered.
‘Sounds delicious.’
‘I have a large garden and take pleasure in growing my own food.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘My daughter once brought home from school a baby tomato plant. She was so proud of it. Unfortunately, I killed it with overwatering. I’m not very good at stuff like that. I do, however, occasionally like to bake.’
‘Me too. You can’t beat a homemade sticky toffee pudding.’ Liam stirred his cappuccino, letting the chocolate sprinkles disappear into the froth. ‘I’m not averse to getting in touch with my feminine side,’ he chuckled.
Feminine side indeed. There wasn’t anything remotely feminine about Liam Lancaster.
‘Anyway,’ he said, putting down the spoon and meeting my gaze. ‘I came here today to sort out an overdue order of saplings for a previous project. But what brings you to this particular garden centre?’
His question brought me up short, and I had no immediate answer. Caught on the hop, I found myself staring helplessly at him.
Think of something, Jen. And make it snappy.