‘Me actually.’ He grins modestly. ‘I do a mean Thai curry.’
‘Definitely the way to a woman’s heart!’
It trips off my tongue without thinking. Oh God, I hope it didn’t sound like a come-on.
Seb throws me an oddly apologetic look. ‘Jas can just about manage beans on toast, I’m afraid. But then I guess he could write you a love song, which would be much more impressive.’
I laugh as our eyes meet, although I’m not quite sure what he’s saying.
Nothing probably.
It’s just banter.
‘But don’t let him get within ten yards of a toaster if he’s working on a musical composition,’ he adds, hunkering down to bring out casserole dishes for me to take my pick. ‘That’s when his common sense flies completely out of the window.’
All this is said with great affection. It’s obviously a solid friendship.
‘So what about you?’ I ask, when the lamb shanks are sizzling on the hob. ‘How did you get into the garden centre business?’
He places a glass of ruby red wine on the worktop beside me. ‘Ah, bit of a story there.’
I start mixing redcurrant jelly with stock and some fresh herbs, ready to pour over the lamb when it’s nicely browned.
Seb holds up the bottle. ‘Splash of red wine in there?’
I nod. ‘Great. So what’s the story?’
‘Well, I suppose I was a bit of a rebel at school. Didn’t fit in. The problem was, I lived for sport and the outdoors. My dad had high hopes for me. He would have loved me to use my brain and get a degree, but with few academic qualifications, that was never going to happen.’
Seb sits down at the breakfast bar and pulls out a stool for me.
‘What sports were you into?’ I ask, hopping up beside him.
He shrugs. ‘Rugby, football, skiing, rock climbing. Anything physical. It was all I was interested in.’
‘What about now?’
‘I still run and play football for a local team. And I get to the gym when I can. What about you? Are you sporty at all?’
I smile, thinking of all the stuff I did with Nathan. Usually trailing well behind, of course. But I did it all the same.
‘Well.’ I draw a deep breath. ‘This year, I’ve done three 10k runs, a bike race and completed a lake swim for charity.’
He looks impressed. ‘A lake swim? Phew. How was that?’
I’m about to say the lake swim was hard but I’m glad I did it for the sense of achievement at the end.
Then I think: Who am I kidding?
It was total shit from start to finish. Getting into the wetsuit was bad enough but ploughing through grey, choppy water, swallowing a great deal of it while the rain lashed down and my arms ached so much I thought they might drop off, was sheer bloody purgatory.
The only achievement I felt was the fact that I came out of it alive.
I look up into Seb’s reassuring, green eyes.
And something clicks in my brain.
My days of pretending to like someone’s hobbies just so they’ll like me and want to spend time with me are over.
From now on, they’re going to get nothing but the real me.
‘It was shit, actually, that lake swim.’ I shrug philosophically, feeling quite proud of myself. ‘Hated every minute of it.’
Seb laughs. ‘Never again?’
‘Never again.’
‘Good for you.’
I glance at him. He looks as though he means it.
‘So you were a naughty boy at school?’ I say, to get back to the thread of our chat.
‘Yeah. Of course I regret it now.’ He gives me a rueful look. ‘But at the time, I couldn’t see the attraction of spending all my time in a dusty library when I could be doing other, far more interesting things. Stuff more suited to my nature and capabilities.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, for a long time I was a ski instructor in Austria during the winter, and a holiday rep over the summer months.’
I laugh. ‘I bet that was – um – fun.’
He nods. ‘Then I was a guide for a company specialising in adventure holidays.’
‘Oh, wow. Where did you go?’
‘Everywhere. Trekking in the foothills of the Himalayas, exploring India on a houseboat, camping and hiking in the Grand Canyon. Brilliant five years.’
‘So why did you stop doing it?’
He sighs. ‘My dad died. I came home for the funeral. Mum and Lou, my sister, were in a hell of a state so I decided to stay. It wasn’t just for them. I was nearly thirty and I think I’d reached the stage where I wanted to settle in one place. Put down roots. I got a job at the local garden centre, found I enjoyed it, and when my inheritance from Dad came through, I—’
‘Bought the garden centre?’ I ask, enthralled.
He laughs softly. ‘No. I left my job at the garden centre and went to horticultural college. The route I probably should have taken ten years earlier. If I’d listened to Dad.’
I shrug, wanting to put a smile back on his face. ‘You had to get it out of your system, all that travelling and exploring. Otherwise you might have spent your life regretting not doing it.’
He smiles sadly. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right. And I think Dad understood that. Eventually. I only wish he could have been alive to see me make a success of the garden centre business.’
‘Were you close, you and your dad?’
Seb nods. ‘We’re a close-knit family. After I left horticultural college, Mum, Lou and I pooled our resources and I set up my first garden centre from scratch. Dad loved sunflowers, hence the name.’
‘He would have been proud of you.’
‘Yeah.’ Seb smiles. ‘I think he probably would. When it started to take off, we added a café, which Lou managed until she got married and had the kids. Mum still manages it, though.’
‘So now you’re planning to expand to other locations?’
He nods. ‘We’re just at the negotiation stage at the moment, but hopefully, early in the New Year, we’ll have a second operation in the Scottish Borders.’
‘Oh.’ An odd feeling washes through me. Like a black cloud has just covered the sun. ‘Jas said you’re just living with him temporarily, until you buy a place of your own. So will that be in the Scottish Borders?’
‘I’m not sure. It would be handy living there while I get the new place up and running. But I do love the Lake District. It’s beautiful.’
He looks directly at me. ‘And there’s a lot holding me here.’
There’s a sudden intensity in his eyes that makes my heart jolt.
Then I realise what he’s talking about.
It’s obvious, really. He’d miss his family and friends, and – like he just said – the beautiful Lake District.
We smile at each other and sip the wine.
It’s deliciously smooth and reminds me of blackcurrants.
‘Jasper’s a great guy,’ he says suddenly, staring into the glass and swishing it around. ‘The best.’
‘Sorry?’ I feel slightly wrong-footed by the sudden change of subject.
‘He’s infuriatingly haphazard about stuff at times. But he’d walk through fire for the people he cares about. He’s incredibly loyal.’
I smile and nod, trying to work out how we got on to the subject of Jasper.
And then suddenly, it hits me.
Seb thinks I like Jasper. Really like him.
I swallow hard.
I do like Jasper. Just not in the way Seb imagines.
I know this now beyond all doubt.
And there’s something else that’s just dawned on me. Something that’s currently making my head spin and my insides lurch about like the wool cycle on a washing machine.
But no, that’s ridiculous.
I like Seb, that’s all. He’s a really caring guy and he’s saved my bacon today all right.
Yes, I find him attractive but it’s nothing more than that.
A wav
e of self-consciousness hits me out of nowhere. Suddenly, my cheeks are raging hotter than a forest fire. Seb’s not helping, either. He’s just sitting there, on the stool next to me, staring into his wine glass as if he has the worries of the world to sort out.
An awkwardness has descended. It’s as if we’ve completely run out of conversation. I’ve got to break the silence.
Casting desperately around the room for inspiration, my eye lights on a giant poster of a female flamenco dancer, all whirling skirts and haughty stance.
‘Do you dance?’ I blurt out.
‘What?’ He looks at me, confused. ‘Now?’
‘No, I mean in general.’ I flush stupidly.
‘Oh.’ He studies me, his eyes glinting with amusement. ‘Well, in general, no. I’ve got two left feet.’
‘I went to ballroom dancing classes when I was eight. I can still remember how to cha-cha.’
‘Go on, then.’ He swivels on his stool and points at the floor space.
‘No!’
‘I dare you.’
His challenging smile crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes me tingle all over.
I shrug and get to my feet.
And for the first time in almost twenty years, I start doing the steps of the cha-cha with an imaginary partner. ‘One-two-cha-cha-cha. One-two-cha-cha-cha. Hey, once learned, never forgotten!’
I should be feeling like a right prat – but actually, I don’t in the slightest. In fact, I’m quite enjoying myself. Eventually, I reach out a hand to Seb.
‘Come on, Prince Charming, you shall go to the ball.’
He folds his arms and I’m expecting him to resist and tell me to bugger off because he’s not that much of a ballroom fan.
But instead, he gets up and takes me in a very firm hold. We start to move and he shadows my feet with his.
I normally find dancing with men rather laboured. I’m always waiting for them to tread on my toes.
But Seb and I move easily and naturally together. I don’t know where he gets the idea about two left feet.
‘Hey, have you done this before?’ I murmur, startled to find myself suddenly so up-close-and-personal with him. Squashed against his broad chest, I feel suddenly incredibly alive, every nerve ending tingling.
He chuckles. ‘No, I’m obviously a natural at ballroom dancing.’
‘We need some music.’
‘Why don’t you sing?’
I look up, laughing, intending to say something cheeky. But when our eyes meet, there’s something else there, something quite apart from the humour and the banter.
For a second, the tension between us sizzles like a loose electric wire.
Then he grasps me more firmly round the waist and I’m moulding myself to him unashamedly. My heart is pulsing so hard, I’m convinced he must feel it through his shirt. I want to stay like this, crushed against him, for a very long time.
Then I realise we’ve stopped dancing altogether.
I slide my hand up over his chest and loop my fingers around his broad, strong neck. And a second later, his mouth is on mine and my entire body is responding with so much abandon, it’s just as well he’s clinging on to me so firmly because otherwise I’d be sinking to the floor.
For a blissful moment, I’m aware of nothing else but our lips and our bodies.
Then a piercing shriek splits the air.
And as quickly as we came together, we pull apart.
I’m gasping for air, trying to get my head round what’s happening. Seb has a firm hold of my forearms, and he also seems to be struggling to get his breathing under control.
‘Bloody smoke alarm,’ he mutters hoarsely, disappearing into the hall.
I feel cold and disorientated. Where there wasn’t a single centimetre between us before, it now feels like an enormous gulf has opened up.
Reality filters gradually into my brain and I almost groan aloud.
I can’t believe I just launched myself on Seb like that. What must he think? The stress of Christmas is clearly getting to me big time.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks, reappearing. He looks so apologetic, as if it was all his fault and he totally missed the bit where I brazenly put my hand on his neck and pulled him down to me.
He sniffs and looks around. ‘Can you smell something?’
At that same moment, the scent of burning reaches my nose, too.
‘Your shanks!’ He strides over and pulls the casserole dish off the hob.
I grab the tongs. The meat is welded to the pan but after some energetic scraping with a fish slice, Seb manages to loosen them.
I peer anxiously at them.
To say my lamb shanks are ‘browned’ would be optimistic, to say the least. They’re a lovely golden colour on one side and a rather less than lovely shade of incineration on the other.
‘They’ll be fine.’ Seb sloshes over my herby red wine stock and sticks the lid on the dish. I bung the casserole in the oven then lean back against the worktop with a sigh.
‘They should have been in twenty minutes ago.’ I cover my face – and my confusion over Seb – with my hands. ‘Dinner is going to be very late.’
Actually, dinner is the very last thing on my mind.
Seb perches on the edge of the table, arms folded, and looks at me tenderly. ‘Sorry. I guess that was my fault.’
‘No!’ The fire in my cheeks leaps out of control. ‘It wasn’t anyone’s fault! It just happened.’
His lips twitch. ‘I meant it was my fault for keeping you talking.’
‘Oh, right, yes.’ I laugh a little hysterically and wag my finger at him. ‘Bad boy.’
Honestly, I’m a total quivering wreck after that close encounter. My face feels hotter than the cremated side of those bloody lamb shanks.
But Seb, to my slight irritation, looks perfectly calm. He’s regarding me with a weary smile. Probably wondering how quickly he can get the place to himself again without being rude.
It’s definitely time I went.
‘Right, I’ll just pop downstairs. Make sure they’re not killing each other.’ I laugh to show I’m joking.
I’m really not joking.
I walk into an atmosphere.
The four of them are sitting watching Morecambe and Wise with solemn faces and folded arms.
Oh God, I’ve been away barely an hour and, already, the Christmas mood of earlier appears to have evaporated.
The tree, I notice, has been moved about five feet to the left. Justine, no doubt.
‘Dinner in an hour,’ I announce optimistically. ‘Anyone like a drink?’
We decide on wine and Mum comes through to help.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask lightly, getting the wine out of the fridge.
‘Oh, yes, we’re fine, love.’
‘Justine behaving herself?’
Mum sighs. ‘She kept going on and on about the tree and where it should be positioned for best reflective effect. Then she started talking about Seb. She kept saying what a very nice gay man he is, and Rob just happened to remark that you can’t always determine someone’s sexuality by outward appearances and maybe he and Jasper were just good mates. And honest to God, Lola, she shot him down in flames.’
‘Oh, God. Poor Rob.’
‘I know. He’s a saint, that boy, the way he puts up with her. But anyway, apparently her “gaydar” – first time I’ve heard that expression – is second to none. She just would not admit that Rob might have a point.’
I suppress a giggle.
If Justine had seen Seb and me five minutes ago …
Mum shakes her head sadly. ‘Your dad walked out. He said he thought he’d left the car unlocked but I think he just wanted to escape Her Highness in there.’
She leans in and presses my arm. ‘So is he gay, Lola? He was wearing pink socks.’
Hysterical laughter bubbles up, threatening to escape. I turn away and grab a cloth to wipe up an imaginary spillage.
‘Seb’s not gay, Mum, I can ass
ure you.’
Merely saying this out loud is enough to make my temperature rocket instantly.
God, that man is so, so not gay.
‘Oh, really?’ Mum’s radar for nuance is apparently in excellent working order.
When I turn, she’s studying me with interest, no doubt wondering whether I have personal experience to back up my claim.
‘No, Mum. Nothing like that.’
I’m flushing hotter than a dodgy car engine idling in a traffic jam, which rather belies what I’m telling her. It’s just I can’t stop these incredibly erotic images, involving Seb’s seriously hard, muscular body, flashing through my mind. The two of us moulded together. Hands everywhere. Abandoning ourselves to that kiss.
‘Honestly, Mum. It’s purely platonic.’
She nods. ‘Of course it is. He is extremely attractive.’
I glance at her, vaguely offended by her instant acceptance that there’s nothing going on between us. As if there couldn’t be anything between us because he is, after all, an extremely attractive man and obviously capable of taking his pick.
She’s right, of course.
My spirits take a dive.
Now that I think about it, with a flush of shame, there was definitely an element of me hurling myself at him. And being the perfect gentleman that he is, Seb naturally did the honourable thing and responded, so that I wouldn’t feel embarrassed.
Mum’s still mulling over Justine’s behaviour. ‘I just keep reminding myself that the poor girl doesn’t have any family. We’re all she’s got, really.’ She glances at the door and lowers her voice. ‘But why does she have to be so bossy and right all the time?’
I nod. ‘She’s getting worse.’
‘She is, isn’t she? I whispered exactly that to Malcolm when she was at the loo. I’m wondering if she might be going through the menopause.’
I arch my brows. ‘I doubt it, Mum. She’s only thirty-five.’
‘Yes, well, it can happen, though.’
‘I don’t know. But something’s up with her. You know when we were driving back from the pub? I saw her coming out of that really seedy motel place.’
‘Really?’ Mum looks shocked. She’s probably thinking of Norman Bates. ‘What on earth was she doing there?’
‘No idea. But she looked sort of furtive, like she didn’t want to be seen.’
Mistletoe and Mayhem Page 20
