It was the moment he’d bent down to look in that shop window and seen a whole hidden world, one that Rachel had created and only shared with those willing to look a little deeper, a little longer.
And he’d been looking deeper and longer at her ever since. He couldn’t stop himself any more. Those damn mice had broken down a wall he’d spent the best part of a decade building higher.
He’d spent days thinking about Rachel and that dress, that kiss, that moment on the balcony looking at the butterflies…and he wasn’t an inch closer to knowing what to do about it. Especially since he didn’t know what she wanted him to do about it.
If it was anybody else, he’d ask her outright. But Rachel wasn’t just anybody. And for all he knew, actually asking her if she wanted him to kiss her again would only make the situation worse, especially if he embarrassed her or flustered her. She wasn’t like the usual women he dated, and he was at a loss to know how to handle her.
Except for the fact that he knew he had to be careful. Not just of her heart, but of his too.
He wasn’t about to change his whole life and philosophy just because Rachel Charles made cute window displays. Or even because she kissed like his dreams and because he loved listening to her talk.
It was too easy to let Rachel into his mind, and his heart. It might be hard to get her out again when he wanted to go back to his real life, once this project was over.
Telling the server to keep the change—and earning himself a genuine smile in the process—Damon took the two cups of hot chocolate, laden with chocolate shavings, marshmallows and a lot of whipped cream, and headed back to where he’d left Rachel. She’d barely moved, he realised, still mesmerised by the music. Or so he assumed, until he got close enough to realise that she was muttering to herself under her breath.
He knew he shouldn’t listen. That he should tell her he was there. But then, Damon had never been very good at doing what he should do.
He edged closer, just enough to make out the words as the carollers finished one song and prepared to break into another.
‘Do not read anything into the fact he’s buying you a hot chocolate. This is work. It’s just cold and he’s nice. That’s all. Do not read anything into it.’
Huh.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d been obsessing over the last week…
And maybe, just maybe, if he was careful, he might be able to find a way to do something about that. Before he drove himself crazy.
‘Hot chocolate?’ He smiled as Rachel spun around, horror in her wide eyes, careful to give her no sign at all that he’d overheard her personal pep talk. Instead, he held out the cup and she took it, the horror giving way to wariness, then a smile that made his pulse tick just a little faster as she spotted the whipped cream and toppings.
‘Thanks.’ Her voice was warm in the freezing air, a little husky even. Sexy. Damon couldn’t help but imagine some of the other ways he could make her sound like that, given half the chance.
But not yet, he reminded himself, as Rachel turned back to listen to the carollers begin their next song.
He needed to think this through. For once, he couldn’t just rush in. Not until he was completely sure he had a way back out of it again.
* * *
It hadn’t even been a full week since Rachel started work at Cressingham Arcade, but already the place was starting to feel like home.
Changing her shifts at Hartbury’s had given her plenty of free afternoons—and evenings—to spend at the arcade, figuring out what made the place tick, why it was special, and getting new ideas for how she could communicate that to Londoners at large. She’d spent time with each of the shopkeepers individually, looking through their stock, discussing display ideas, taking photos with her heavy Canon camera, and then spending hours looking through them on her laptop screen in Damon’s office after the arcade was closed.
Yes, Damon’s office. Her cheeks felt warm just thinking about how many evenings she’d spent sitting opposite him in that tiny room, each working on their own laptops on opposite sides of the small desk, as if they were partners, or a pair—
Rachel pulled herself up sharply. Four nights. Less, really, since tonight was only halfway done, and she wasn’t even in his office. Three and a half, then, since they’d returned to the arcade after the Victorian market and got to work. That was definitely not enough nights to start getting moony about.
Although…
As much as she was trying to be reasonable and rational about it all, and remember Celeste’s warnings—not to mention her own common sense—she had to admit, Damon had seemed…different, this week. Before the fake New Year’s Eve party their interactions had been limited at best. They were friendly, of course, but she wouldn’t have really called them friends.
Now… Now he knew how she liked her hot chocolate—with as many toppings as possible—and would bring her one from the coffee shop just outside the arcade whenever she was working late. He’d pore over images with her, deciding which ones best represented the shops, even when she was trying to decide between two almost identical photos. He’d listen to her ideas and smile and nod and he didn’t talk over her or try to change the subject.
And yes, she knew that all of those things were work related—well, apart from the hot chocolate, perhaps, although for all she knew he was only providing that because he felt guilty about her working late. She knew she should keep reminding herself that this was a working relationship. That Damon had never shown any sign of returning her crush in the ten years she’d known him, apart from that one misguided kiss at fake midnight.
But still…it felt different. And Rachel wasn’t at all sure what that meant, or what to do about it.
Which was why she was hiding out in the large bay window of the first shop in the arcade—the new stationery and invitation shop, owned by Penelope—fiddling with the first of her displays. Penelope had long since disappeared with her boyfriend, Zach, a huge Viking of a guy with the most besotted smile Rachel had ever seen on a man, leaving Rachel in peace and quiet to create. Or, as she was doing now, procrastinate.
She’d finished the window almost an hour ago, according to her initial design. It looked exactly as she’d pictured in her head too. From the Victorian writing desk in the corner, with inkwell and parchment, to the vintage-style papers she’d used to create the decorations that hung from the ceiling into the window. A Christmas tree made out of paper covered in swirly calligraphy—thanks to Penelope’s notebooks and the photocopier in the office—sat in the centre, surrounded by boxes wrapped in the Victorian Christmas card design wrapping paper she was selling inside. A stack of style notebooks from the stock with one open on top, a perfectly matched pen sitting on the page titled ‘Christmas Wish List’. There were fairy lights strung around giving it a magical air and the wooden floor sparkled with added stars and glitter too. It looked beautiful.
And yet…
Rachel sighed. It wasn’t right. It was everything she’d planned, but maybe she’d got the plan wrong. She’d felt so inspired after the Victorian market and she’d been full of plans to make each window specific to the business, but still with a period twist—just as she’d done for Penelope’s shop.
So what was wrong with it?
She stepped back into the shop and squinted at it, trying to identify the problem. But of course, she was looking at it from the wrong angle. She needed to go out into the arcade and look in, really. Except, if she went out she might bump into Damon and that was something else that wasn’t quite right. So she stayed where she was and glared at the display until a rap on the window made her jump.
Clutching a hand to her chest, Rachel looked up to see Damon grinning at her through the glass. He beckoned her outside and she went. Apparently avoiding having to deal with this…weirdness between them wasn’t an option any more.
Standing shoulder to sho
ulder, they both looked in at the window display.
‘It looks great,’ Damon said, and Rachel pulled a face. ‘No, it really does. It’s perfect for Penelope.’
She could hear the ‘but’, even if he wasn’t saying it. He’d given her this chance and she’d let him down already. Her first attempt at something outside the family business and she couldn’t do it.
Steeling herself, she said it for him. ‘But?’
He glanced down at her, his expression serious. ‘Where are the mice?’
Realisation flowed through her like mulled wine. Of course! That was what was missing!
‘I was trying to do a grown-up window, something new. And I focussed so hard on the shop and Penelope and the arcade and the Victorian details…’
‘You forgot to put some of you in it,’ Damon finished, with a gentle smile. ‘But that’s why I hired you, remember? Because I wanted your style. I want you.’
Oh, and didn’t those words hit her right where it tingled?
But he didn’t mean it like that. He meant the window display. Narrowing her eyes, Rachel studied it again, this time letting her imagination overlay reality, until she could picture exactly how it should look. Tiny felted mice, maybe in brightly coloured jackets, scurrying over the parcels, tightening ribbons and tying bows, or lifting a pen to write their own wish list in a mini notebook on top of the real one. The whole scene brought to life the way she hadn’t been able to make it tonight. It would take her a while to make enough mice, but felting the creatures was relaxing and she could do it in front of the telly in her bedroom, so it would be fine. And it would be worth it.
Because the display really would feel like hers.
She wouldn’t hide the mice away this time; she didn’t need to. But maybe she’d leave a hint for the children to look for the secret mice Damon had shown her, just for fun.
Bouncing on her toes a little, she turned to Damon, beaming. ‘I know exactly how it needs to look now. And I can carry it through to the other windows too…’ A Victorian-style mouse Christmas. It would be perfect. She couldn’t wait to get started.
Damon had other ideas, though.
‘Great! In that case, I’m taking you for dinner.’ Her breath caught at his words. What was this? A date? Or just a working dinner? Then he went on, ‘You’ve been at this for hours; you need more than just hot chocolate tonight,’ and she understood.
He was looking after her, probably at Celeste’s request. That was all.
She looked back at her window, and thought about her mice. Then she thought about dinner with Damon. Old Rachel would be hiding away making mice already by now, staying far away from temptation or opportunity or potential embarrassment.
But ever since that kiss, she hadn’t felt so much like Old Rachel any more. She felt like someone new. Someone who, perhaps, might take a chance once in a while.
Gesturing down at her leggings and jumper, she smiled ruefully at Damon. ‘As long as you’re not planning on eating anywhere with a dress code.’
His smile was warm, friendly. ‘Don’t worry. I know the perfect place.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAMON WATCHED RACHEL’S face light up as they approached the café with its outdoor tables and heaters, and the chairs with the rugs and blankets layered over the back for warmth. He’d been right. This was perfect for…whatever the hell this was between them.
As much as he’d love to treat her to a fancy restaurant—one of the stupidly expensive ones where paparazzi took photos of every patron because, really, they had to be someone to be dining there, even if the person behind the camera didn’t recognise them—that wasn’t them. It wasn’t Rachel and, honestly, it wasn’t really him either.
Luciana’s, however, was.
‘Ah! Mama’s best customer, here again.’ Tony, Luciana’s twenty-something son, rolled his eyes at Damon as he led them to his usual table. ‘Do I need to worry about my mother’s virtue?’
‘Only her lasagne,’ Damon assured him.
Tony clicked his tongue as he pulled out a chair for Rachel. ‘I won’t tell her you’re only interested in her for her food. It would break her heart.’ Handing them both menus, he disappeared to deal with another couple of customers looking at the board by the entrance.
Damon turned his attention back to his dinner companion, and found her staring at him.
He paused in taking his own seat. ‘Is this…is this okay?’ Maybe the thing about no dress code had been a joke. Maybe she really had been expecting one of those fancy restaurants. But no, she’d looked excited when they arrived. What had changed?
‘It’s perfect.’ Rachel shook her head, just a little. ‘I love Italian, and this place is darling. Plus no one is going to notice the dust from the window all over my leggings once I’m snuggled under this blanket.’
Damon sat, still not convinced. ‘Then what is it? You look…confused.’ Was that the right word? He wasn’t sure. He was normally good at reading people—their expressions, their moods, even their thoughts, to a point. But Rachel seemed to surprise him at every turn.
‘I just assumed you brought me here because, well, you thought it was more…my level, I guess. The sort of place I’d belong.’ She shrugged as if her words meant nothing, but Damon could hear the echoes of pain in her voice. ‘I never imagined it would be somewhere you’d come regularly.’
He didn’t push her on her original assumption—he could tell she was uncomfortable about having to say it out loud in the first place. But he did question the second part of her statement, not least because it echoed his own thoughts from earlier.
‘You thought I only frequented the uber-fashionable London restaurants, huh? The ones where people go just to be seen?’
Rachel raised her eyebrows, just a little. ‘Given how many times you have been seen at them, can you blame me?’
That was more like it. Those sparks of amusement, of life, that he’d grown used to seeing in Rachel over the last week or so were back.
‘Trust me,’ he said, setting aside the menu. He already knew it off by heart anyway. ‘I only go to those places because the people I’m dining with want to eat there. When it’s just me, I come here and eat Luciana’s lasagne. Or sometimes her risotto of the day. It’s comfort food for me.’
And so unlike the elaborate dishes his family insisted on cooking—or the ready meals or cereal he’d grown up on, since when they weren’t trying to impress each other, or other people, his parents were generally too busy to bother cooking at all.
Luciana cooked food she liked and gave it to people hoping they would like it too. It was that simple and refreshing.
‘How did you find it?’ Rachel wasn’t looking at the menu either, he realised. She was focused entirely on him.
‘I stumbled on it a few years ago and promptly offered over my soul in return for a regular table and lasagne whenever I needed it.’
That earned him a thwack on the head with the menu from behind. He didn’t need to look up to know who was responsible for it.
‘Luciana, my love.’ With a quick smile at Rachel, he turned around to charm the restaurant’s owner, head chef, and matriarch of the family business back onto his side again. ‘You know I think it was a perfectly fair price for lasagne as incredible as yours.’
Luciana rolled her eyes. ‘Like I’d want your soul. Who knows where that thing has been?’ She shot Rachel a sympathetic look. ‘All I accepted from him was the occasional suggestion for improving our business. Mostly stuff I’d have done anyway, but he looked like he needed feeding, poor little boy. Now, are you two ready to order?’
Rachel appeared to stifle a giggle at the ‘poor little boy’ comment, but he was pretty sure she could read between Luciana’s lines as well as he could. The restaurant had been on the verge of closure before he’d walked in that first night. The fact it was now bustling and busy on a Thurs
day night in December, with even all the outdoor tables occupied, brought him more satisfaction than any of the bigger, more corporate projects he’d done recently.
They both ordered the lasagne—Rachel without even looking at the menu.
‘You didn’t want to see what else there was on offer?’ he asked as Luciana retreated back to the kitchen.
Rachel shrugged. ‘You said the lasagne was best. I trust your judgement.’
It was a throwaway comment, Damon knew, one that didn’t mean anything more than that she fancied lasagne. But still, hearing Rachel say she trusted his judgement…it meant something more to him, somehow. That someone from outside his business world, someone who was more connected to his sister, his family, than his corporate achievements, trusted his judgement…
Damon smiled, slowly. ‘You won’t be disappointed,’ he promised.
And he really hoped he could keep it, long after the lasagne was finished.
* * *
Luciana’s was Rachel’s new favourite restaurant. By the time she’d swallowed her first mouthful of lasagne she’d already decided she’d be coming back again, soon and often. With or without Damon.
But, oh, she hoped it was with.
She didn’t exactly have a lot of experience of dating. She’d been on a few dates, of course, but they’d mostly been awkward affairs she’d been happy to get over and done with. But tonight? Sitting in a tiny pedestrianised square in London, at a café table with a fluffy blanket around her shoulders, eating lasagne, sipping red wine and laughing about the world…it felt like every romantic fantasy she’d ever had. Which probably said more about the feebleness of her fantasy life than she’d like.
She’d been so sure that this was just another ‘friends and colleagues’ dinner. But as the evening wore on and the wine took effect, she wondered. She looked into Damon’s laughing eyes and remembered for the millionth time how it had felt to kiss him after so many years of imagining it.
Harlequin Romance December 2020 Box Set Page 26
