The Best Man for the Job

by Lucy King

  She’d started off so patient, so calm and confident, absolutely certain that she’d done the right thing in putting the ‘love’ thing out there for him to confront, but as the days had dragged by and he still hadn’t come to find her her calm had shattered, her confidence had crumbled and she’d slowly fallen apart inside.

  The past week had been agony. She’d thought love sounded lovely, but it wasn’t. It hurt like hell. She only had to think of him and she physically ached. Something would happen, something she’d do, and she’d want to tell him. The first time she’d felt the baby kick, the job offer she’d received, the stupid mobile she’d bought for a nursery that she didn’t yet have... She’d picked up the phone. And then had to put it down again, her heart wrenching and her eyes stinging.

  And while outwardly she put on a good front, catching up with friends, keeping doctor’s appointments and house-hunting, her heart had broken piece by tiny piece. Until now there was practically nothing left of it.

  Nothing left of anything really, she thought miserably. She was all out of anger at his obstinacy. All out of frustration. And all out of hope.

  She’d been so stupid. So naive. Had she really thought she’d be able to defeat his strength of will? Had she really been so arrogant as to presume she knew what he was feeling?

  If only she hadn’t resigned. Then at least she’d be working, keeping so busy that she wouldn’t have time to think about him. But she had, and as a result she’d thought about little else, wondering what he was doing, who he was with, and driving herself mad by going over that last conversation and beating herself up with regret over pushing him too hard too soon, wishing so much she hadn’t done it.

  But she couldn’t change any of it. All she could do was learn to live with it and hope that by Kit and Lily’s wedding next weekend she’d have built up enough strength to handle seeing him.

  It wasn’t as if she’d be able to drink herself into oblivion to get through it, was it? So maybe she’d take a date. If she could find one who didn’t mind her five-months-pregnant belly. Maybe she’d hire someone instead. Someone witty and gorgeous and who’d pretend to be utterly devoted to her. Someone who’d show Marcus that she wasn’t missing him. Wasn’t thinking about him. Wasn’t—

  The buzzer buzzed and Celia jumped. She cast a quick glance at the clock and frowned. She was going out with friends tonight in an effort to perk herself up, but the taxi she’d ordered was an hour early. Damn. Maybe she’d given the wrong time. A couple of months ago she’d never have made such a mistake but now it felt as if she was making them all the time.

  Whatever had gone wrong, she wasn’t anywhere near ready. She was still in her dressing gown, make-up free and her hair was still wet. She wasn’t going anywhere for a while, so with a sigh she walked over to the intercom and lifted the handset.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘there’s been a bit of a mix-up. Could you come back in an hour?’

  ‘No mix-up,’ said the voice at the other end, a voice that made her breath catch, shivers run up and down her spine, goosebumps break out all over her skin and her heart lurch. ‘And as I can’t wait an hour, or even another minute really, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to come up.’

  Celia’s heart began to thump as her head swam and emotions like joy, relief, love and hope began to surge through her. Oh, God, this was what she’d been waiting for for so, so long. He was here. At last. And in all the scenarios she’d envisaged she was looking immaculate and composed instead of a washed-out wreck, but it didn’t matter. He was here, and that was all that counted.

  Unless, of course, he was here to tell her that she’d been wrong, she thought, her heart suddenly plummeting and all those lovely feelings vanishing. That while he’d always be there for the baby he’d never be able to be there for her. That he didn’t love her and never would. Because of what happened with his parents. Because he was as stubborn as a mule, because... Well, because of just about anything, really.

  Ordering herself to get a grip before she got hysterical, Celia pulled herself together. Whatever the reason he was here she wanted to know, and the only way she was going to do that was by letting him in. So, reminding herself that she’d be wise to keep her emotions in check and her face blank, even if it killed her, she took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer.

  * * *

  Marcus pushed open the downstairs door and felt a wave of relief sweep over him. He was in. That was a start. Now for the hard bit.

  He jogged up the stairs, his heart beating hard and fast, which had nothing to do with the energy needed to climb four flights of stairs and everything to do with the woman at the top of them.

  Who was standing there, looking neither ecstatic nor horrified to see him, merely inscrutable. And so utterly, gorgeously magnificent he couldn’t believe he’d taken so long to realise just how much he loved her.

  ‘Marcus,’ she said coolly.

  ‘Hello, Celia,’ he said, not fazed by the coolness one little bit because what with the idiotic, selfish way he’d been behaving he hadn’t expected anything less.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to see you.’

  ‘Clearly,’ she said witheringly. ‘However, I’m about to go out.’

  ‘Not for another hour.’

  She frowned. ‘OK, fine. What do you want?’

  ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Me?’ she said, looking a little surprised at the change of conversational direction. ‘Oh, absolutely fine.’

  ‘And the baby?’

  ‘Fine too.’

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Well, I resigned.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘So I’ve been relaxing.’

  ‘About time.’

  ‘And learning to cook.’

  He grinned. ‘How’s that going?’

  ‘Messy. I’m a long way off roast beef with all the trimmings, but I’m getting there.’

  ‘I can’t wait to try it.’

  She arched an eyebrow as if to suggest there wasn’t a hope in hell of that, and if it hadn’t been for the desire in her eyes, the faint blush that stained her cheeks and the way she was tightening the belt on her dressing gown he’d be worrying that he was too late. That he’d lost her and she’d already moved on.

  ‘I’ve been offered a job that I think I might take.’

  God, he was so proud of her. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve also put an offer in on a house.’

  Marcus went still. Well, hell, that wasn’t happening. ‘Withdraw it,’ he said.

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘What? No. It’s in a great location, has loads of space and a lovely garden.’

  ‘So does mine.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Move in with me and let’s be a proper family. I love you, Celia. So much. I’m sorry it’s taken me such a long time to figure it out, but I adore you. Everything about you. You’re amazing and I’m so, so proud of you. Our child is the luckiest child in the world to have you as its mother. I should have told you all this that night, but I was spooked, as you knew I would be. Running away was a knee-jerk reaction but I stayed away out of fear, obstinacy, stupidity, and I’m so sorry.’

  He stopped, breathing hard, his heart thumping and his blood racing as he watched her, standing there staring at him speechless, as if it was all too much to take in. And suddenly he thought, Oh, to hell with it. The most efficient way to show her how he felt and to find out how she felt was to simply march over to her and kiss her.

  * * *

  As Marcus’ arms came round her and his mouth descended, his eyes blazing with everything he’d just told her he felt for her, Celia melted.

  It had been so hard maintaining a cool, stony-faced facade when all she wanted to do
was hurl herself at him and beg him to love her. She’d so nearly cracked when she’d mentioned the sensible but soulless house she’d found. And then he’d said what he’d said and she was still reeling, still hardly able to believe it.

  Was it really true? Did she really not have to be miserable any more? Could she really let herself believe it?

  His kiss told her it was, she didn’t and she could, and she nearly passed out at the happiness coursing through her, filling every corner of her and making her heart beat madly.

  ‘I love you, Celia,’ he murmured raggedly against her mouth. ‘We have so much to look forward to. I’ve spent so long looking backwards it’s clouded my judgement. For far too long. But not any more. Will you marry me?’

  She went dizzy, practically about to burst with happiness. And then she winced and took in a quick, sharp breath.

  ‘What?’ he said, drawing back and looking down at her in concern. ‘Too much? I knew it would be too much. Or is it too soon? OK, we can wait. If that’s what you want. I’d marry you right now if I could, but I can understand if you have doubts. I mean, I know I’m a sure bet but of course you’d have concerns. Especially when I’ve been such an idiot—’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ she said, her heart almost bursting as he stumbled over his words.

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘The baby kicked.’ She took his hand, and put it on her bump. ‘Here. Feel.’

  ‘God. That’s incredible.’

  ‘You’re incredible,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t have any concerns about you, Marcus. I have no doubts. Because I love you too. You’re my best man and you always will be, and of course I’ll marry you.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  He looked down at her. ‘Who’d have thought?’ he said almost in wonder.

  ‘Who’d have thought?’ she echoed softly.

  For a moment he looked at her, his eyes shimmering with love and hope and a tiny glint of wickedness. ‘So this thing you’re meant to be going out to tonight...’ he said, tugging on the belt of her dressing gown and pulling her towards him.

  Her breath hitched and desire began to surge through her. ‘Easily cancellable.’

  ‘Anything else in the diary for the next few months?’ he murmured.

  ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, smiling and lowering his head, ‘because we’re going to be a while.’

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from FALLING FOR HER RIVAL by Jackie Braun.

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  ONE

  Gather ingredients

  Lara Dunham moved the sprig of basil a fraction of an inch to the left on a sautéed chicken breast that sat atop a bed of risotto and asparagus tips. Afterward, she took a step back. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the food editor of Home Chef magazine, she eyed the table.

  “I don’t know,” the other woman murmured. “It still doesn’t look right.”

  Nor did it taste right, but Lara kept the thought to herself. She’d filched a nibble during the setup. It wasn’t merely a trick of the trade that had left her palate dissatisfied. Food used in photo shoots was often undercooked to help retain moisture. No, in this case, the rice needed more seasoning. In fact, it needed a lot more seasoning. But she bit her tongue because doctoring up the recipes wasn’t her call.

  She did say, “The square plate isn’t working for me.”

  Just as she’d suspected, it was giving off a decidedly Asian vibe that didn’t lend itself to the Italian-inspired dish.

  The plate had been the editor’s suggestion; one Lara had taken out of expediency rather than agreement. She knew from past experience with the prickly older woman that it was easier and ultimately less time-consuming to show her that something didn’t work than to insist on something else up front.

  Sure enough, the editor made a humming sound before agreeing. Lara held back a triumphant smile and turned to the college intern who was assisting her.

  “Bring me the large round one with the wide rim. And let’s swap out the candles and napkin rings.” Again, they had been the older woman’s suggestion. “The silver is too formal.”

  Forty-five minutes later, with the food carefully replated and the tablescape tweaked to represent Lara’s vision, the photographer got his shot. It would grace the October cover of the national publication and be seen by millions of people.

  “Another fabulous shoot,” the editor gushed as the photographer gathered up his equipment and Lara prepared to leave the magazine’s offices. “I should know better than to give you suggestions. What you come up with always looks better. No one makes food look more appetizing than you do.”

  Lara accepted the compliment with a nod. As a food stylist, that was her job and she was good at it. She was much sought after because of her attention to detail, a reputation that she’d earned over the course of nearly a decade.

  Perhaps that was why it stung so badly that to her father, Lara remained a colossal disappointment.

  Those who can, cook. Those who can’t, style food.

  So sayeth the legendary restaurateur Clifton Chesterfield.

  He’d paid her tuition to the top-rated culinary school in the country, after which he’d sent her abroad for two years to study cooking techniques in both Tuscany and the south of France. From the time Lara had been old enough to make a simple roux, his plan had been that she would follow in his footsteps and someday run the kitchen at the New York landmark that bore his name. The landmark where he’d spent practically every waking hour of Lara’s childhood.

  Was it any wonder that she’d resented the restaurant? Was it any wonder that she’d resented him for choosing it over his family?

  So, as a full-of-herself young twentysomething, she’d rebelled. And she’d done so spectacularly.

  At thirty-three, Lara could look back and admit that she’d taken her revolt too far. She’d publicly dissed both her father and his beloved restaurant, and then married the only food critic in Manhattan who’d ever dared to give the Chesterfield a subpar rating.

  Her marriage to Jeffrey Dunham had lasted only slightly longer than the rise on a first-year culinary student’s soufflé before she’d come to her senses. By then, however, the damage was done. Her father refused to speak to her.

  Six years later, Lara was old enough and wise enough to admit that she’d cut off her nose to spite her face. Irony of ironies, she now wanted to hang up her stylist credentials and pursue a career as a chef. She also wanted her dad’s respect, if not his affection. She wanted to hear him say, “Well-done.”

  But when she’d approached him a year earlier about a job, he’d broken his silence only long enough to refuse to hire her—not even to do prep work. And since he wouldn’t hire her, no credible kitchen in the city would either. Such was Clifton Chesterfield’s reach and reputation.

  Well, finally, she had an opportunity to make her father see her as a serious chef, and Lara wasn’t about to blow it.

  With the shoot wrapped, she stepped outside to catch a cab. Barring a traffic tie-up, she had just enough time to make it to Midtown before one o’clock. Of course, she w
ouldn’t have a chance to grab lunch, but since nerves had tied her stomach in knots, she wasn’t complaining.

  Overhead, fat clouds the color of ripe eggplants were huddled together. Any moment, the sky was going to open up and it was going to pour, and she hadn’t brought an umbrella. She tried not to think of the weather as a bad omen, but she couldn’t deny its effect on her hair, which had a hard enough time holding a curl when there was no humidity. It was stick straight now, a glossy auburn curtain that fell even with her shoulders. Before raising her arm to hail a cab, she fussed with the fringe of bangs she already regretted getting at her last salon visit.

  When a taxi pulled to a stop a moment later, she dashed for it. She reached for the door handle at the same time a man did. Their fingers brushed and they both stepped back.

  “Oh!” Lara gasped, not only because she had competition for the ride, but because the competition in question was drop-dead gorgeous.

  While most of the men on the street at this time of the day wore decked-out business attire, carrying briefcases and barking orders into cell phones, this one was wearing faded jeans and a lightweight windbreaker. He looked as if he should have a surfboard tucked under his arm and be heading out to Long Beach to catch a wave. His face was tanned. His hair was a sandy-brown with streaks of sun-bleached blond thrown in. A quarter-inch worth of stubble shadowed his jaw and framed an easygoing smile that seemed at odds with his intense gray eyes.

  “Rock, Paper, Scissors?” he asked.

  “Why not?” she replied, hoping the rain would continue to hold off while they played.

  “On the count of three, then.”

  She hiked the strap of her purse onto her shoulder to free up her hands and nodded.

  “One. Two. Three,” they said in unison as they each pounded a fist into the opposite palm.

  Afterward he was holding his right hand out flat. Lara, meanwhile, was mimicking a cutting motion with her index and middle fingers.