Chapter 19 Liam #2
“Well. Yours is just as bad.” She surveyed me steadily.
“Obviously, I know you’re the CEO of Novexia.
And that you’re some sort of billionaire investor or whatever.
I’ve met your brother. The other stuff on here”—she gestured to my folder—“education, business titles, company names … it’s just so … meh.”
“Meh? At least it’s relevant. Yours is just … fluff.”
“Fluff, is it? My preferences and tastes, what makes me tick? No wonder you’re still single.”
My jaw clenched. I was single by choice. She made it sound like I couldn’t keep a girlfriend if I wanted to. Like I was some sort of emotional cripple.
That hit a bit too close to the bone.
“I know you’re creative,” I said. By the looks of her face, I’d touched a nerve. “But instead of doing what you love—painting—it comes out in other ways. Ways it probably shouldn’t.” That should shut her up.
Andrea’s mouth dropped open.
“You’re fastidious about your environment. You run your home with surgical precision.”
Except, perhaps, for the airing cupboard.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m a paragon of domestic virtue. Please, do go on.” She waved me away with a smirk.
Fine.
“You’re very visual,” I continued, remembering the dick-swinging chat. “You think in pictures. But you’re stuck in a corporate cage. You don’t have the nerve to make a change so you cover your disappointment with sarcasm and humor. Am I close?”
The smirk evaporated. “I …”
“You have an oat milk latte in the morning, and a cup of tea in the afternoon—strong, one sugar, lots of milk.”
No need to mention the breath mint too, but I’d never forget Lady Lucinda’s.
“How do you—”
“You’re warm and funny,” I said. “And … I think you like taking care of things. People. Animals.”
Who else but Andrea would have a cat like that?
“But authority”—I hesitated, twisting my glass by the stem—“that doesn’t sit comfortably with you, does it?”
As I knew only too well. Along with every other pale, stale male she’d worked for, probably.
Her lips parted, but nothing followed, as if the sentence had short-circuited her brain.
“And you’re a good actress,” I continued. “It’s what’s carried you through at Novexia. You can think on your feet. You’re smart.”
We both knew she wasn’t just slinging muffins. The self-deprecation was an act.
“Oh—”
“But despite all this, all these qualities—or maybe because of them—you still don’t do what you really want to do—whatever that may be. I suspect you’re hiding who you are and hating every minute of it.”
Yes, I’d been paying attention. Being around a father whose moods changed without warning meant I’d learned to watch people carefully.
Although with Andrea, I suspected it wouldn’t have made any difference. She was impossible to ignore, and my mind had been working overtime trying to figure her out since we’d met—whether I wanted it to or not.
She was staring at me, incredibly still. I’d spoken too long—I hadn’t given her a chance to respond. I’d just wanted to prove her wrong.
“Sir, ma’am, perhaps I could recommend something …” The waiter again.
Andrea stood quickly and looked behind her. “Excuse me.”
She was gone.
“Just a few more minutes.” I nodded at the waiter again. “Sorry about this, won’t be long.”
Was she coming back?
No. Of course she was. It was fine.
Was it?
Fuck.
After what seemed like an hour, she pulled out her chair and sat. It was probably only five minutes, but relief washed through me. I disguised it by shifting in my seat, angling my body like I was just getting comfortable.
“We should probably order.” Her face was blank. She’d reapplied her lipstick—the color was brighter.
“Andrea—”
“You’re good, Liam. Very good.” She smoothed over her napkin. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
At least she didn’t seem angry.
“Do you know what you want?” I asked.
“What I want—” She looked at me, eyes wide. “Oh. I thought. Right, of course, the menu.” She took a gulp of her wine. “Yes. I’m ready to order. You?”
“The ribs. They’re great. Everything here is, actually.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“I have. It was one of my mother’s favorite restaurants. She said the gallery made dinner feel like part of the show.”
Andrea blinked. “There’s a gallery?”
“Through there.” I nodded toward the side doors. “A small, private one. I know you like art, so I thought you might enjoy it. Didn’t you see? We can have a look later, if you like.”
Andrea studied me for a moment. “Your mother sounds … cool.”
“She was. Is.” I gave a short, awkward laugh.
“Are you close?”
“We were. I mean. I was at boarding school. Then uni. Then the RAF. Now …”
Excuses. Could she tell?
“I travel a lot.”
“Of course.” She smiled, but her eyes were soft. “Do you still bring her here?”
“Not for a few years.”
How had she got me talking about this? Things had been difficult ever since I’d joined the service. And even worse with everything that happened since. I didn’t want to see the disappointment in my mum’s eyes.
“That’s a shame, Liam. It’s a really nice place.”
“I—yes.”
The waiter turned up, his expression hopeful.
“Yes, we’re ready.” I gestured to my date, who wasn’t a date. “Andrea, do you know what you want?”
“I’ll have the grilled courgette, then the wild mushroom pappardelle, please.”
“And for you, sir?”
“The seabass, then the ribs, please.”
The waiter nodded and floated back toward the kitchen.
“Do you think wild mushrooms taste better than domesticated ones?” she asked.
Thank God we were just talking about the food again.
“Obviously,” I replied. “They’ve lived harder lives.”
“They’re basically the bad boys of fungi.”
I laughed. “I didn’t think through the ribs, did I?” I gestured to my white shirt.
“High risk for sure.”
“I have faith in my coordination,” I said. “But you might want to stay back.”
“Maybe you could donate it to the gallery afterward? Study in Barbecue Sauce No. 5.”
I laughed again. “Andrea—”
She put down her wineglass. “Yes?”
“Thanks. For coming tonight.” I paused. “I know we—”
“It’s okay, Liam.” She tapped my folder. “I’ll take it home and study it. I won’t let you down.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
But that wasn’t what I wanted to say. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. But it wasn’t … that.
She was still looking at me, her face serious. “In the meantime, you need to work on an addendum. To your dating CV. The who, not the what. And if it doesn’t address why you’re so scared of cats, I’ll be sending it back.” She folded her arms. “Unlaminated.”
How did she pick up on the cat thing? I’d been a picture of stoic endurance at that damn café. I’d even held that tyrannical little fleabag of hers too, Mr. Darcy.
“I’m not scared of cats,” I said. “They’re just … unpredictable.”
“Sure, Liam.”
The waiter appeared with our starters.
“Well. Thank you, Andrea.” I cleared my throat. “So we have just over two weeks now. We need to be ready. Are you happy to say we’d been keeping our relationship quiet, because we prefer privacy? Prior to the art gallery, I mean.”
She nodded.
“Good. The other thing is … you should probably see where I live. For authenticity.”
“Authenticity. Right.”
“I’ve seen yours already,” I said. “It did give me some … insight.”
She fixed me with a look.
“And we’ll need to get you some things,” I added quickly. “For the various events.”
“Things?”
“The wedding. It won’t be low-key. There’ll be photographs, people will expect a certain standard.”
“Are you saying there’s something wrong with my clothes?”
“No. Not that. You always look—I mean, your dress is very—you’re—”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Am I lovely, Liam?” She smiled and tipped her head on one side.
“Yes.” My ears felt hot. “You—you definitely are.”
“Oh.” Her eyes dropped, left hand reaching to touch the end of a strand of dark hair hanging over her shoulder.
“Anyway,” I said briskly. “We have to think about what you’ll need. For the welcome dinner, the ceremony, reception, after-party, the recovery brunch. It’s a lot.”
“It’s a wedding marathon.”
“With judgment at every checkpoint.” I picked up my knife and fork, determined to salvage some dignity. “So I thought—if you’re free—perhaps this weekend we might …”
“You want to upgrade me from Primark and Zara’s, is that what you’re saying?” I searched her face for anger or sarcasm but couldn’t be sure.
“I don’t—”
“It’s okay, Liam. I’m teasing you.”
Oh.
“Of course.” I looked at my seabass. I’d barely touched it. Andrea’s plate was already empty, cleared in anticipation of her bad boy mushrooms. “Well, should I pick you up? Or I could send a car—”
“I was hoping you’d just give me your credit card.”
Was she? Fuck. Maybe Bonnie was right—
“Liam. I don’t want your bloody credit card.” She rolled her eyes like the idea was ridiculous, then laughed.
She wouldn’t be the first to ask, though. One girl—Sveta—had kitted out her whole apartment after I’d let her borrow it to buy groceries. I wouldn’t have minded, but she didn’t even tell me. Bonnie had spotted Harrods on the bill later.
“Just do whatever you normally do when you’re fitting out a fake girlfriend in posh wedding gear,” she added.
“No plan, as it happens,” I said. “First time.”
“Well,” she said. “I am happy to smarten up my look on your budget, if you insist.”
“I appreciate that, Andrea.”
We smiled at each other. I couldn’t imagine any amount of money could improve on how she looked right now, hair falling over her shoulders, the soft restaurant lighting on her perfect skin.
But spending the day with her, seeing her reaction to the world I was used to?
That, I could invest in.