London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2)

by Carla Laureano

  Ian watched her, a slight smile on his lips. “It’s a pop-up restaurant. It’s kept completely secret until the night of. No one knows where it will appear next or what the theme will be.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” She looked at him in wonder. “You didn’t have to go to this trouble for me.”

  “First dates should be memorable.”

  “This is more like our five hundredth date, Ian.”

  “It’s our first date,” he said firmly before he reached for the jug of sangria on the table in front of them. “Of course, considering it was a last-minute first date, I’m happy I managed to pull it off. This usually requires some advance booking.”

  “How advance?”

  He shrugged, but his eyes twinkled in the low light. “Four months, give or take.”

  “The advantages of working in the restaurant business?”

  “The advantages of having a food critic owe you a favor.” He raised his glass to her. “Hence the fact I get to be Mr. Smithson for the evening. To surprises and starting over.”

  “And secret identities,” she said, clinking her glass to his. He was trying to impress her, and she found it completely endearing. More than that. Humbling. Her heart twinged with something painful and unfamiliar. She had practically begged him for a second chance, and yet he was acting like he was the one who needed to prove himself.

  Ian shifted so he was facing her on the bench. “So, the obligatory first-date questions.”

  “What do I do for a living?” The sangria was already making her feel a little warm and flirtatious, so she set the glass down on the table and folded her hands primly in her lap.

  “I think we have that one covered. But since we’re being somewhat adventurous … what’s the maddest thing you’ve done in the last few years?”

  “Maddest or most ill-advised?”

  “Either. Though it makes me wonder that you have to draw the distinction.”

  She laughed. She had plenty of both to choose from, but she also had enough practice to steer away from the truly heart-wrenching stories to the ones people wanted to hear. The ones that sounded far more glamorous in the retelling than they had felt at the time. “Riding in a NATO chopper on a rescue mission in Iraq.”

  “Really! That was not what I was expecting. What happened?”

  Maybe she did need another sip of the sangria to tell the story. “I won’t go into the why, but when we approached the landing zone, we took fire … Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” he asked, smiling.

  “Like I did something brave. I was holding on for dear life. I really thought I was going to die. I was so terrified, I didn’t even get any shots off.”

  “Somehow I don’t believe that.”

  “Completely true. I’ve been held at gunpoint, robbed multiple times, locked down in hotels because of bomb threats, but that was the most scared I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t see myself getting back on a helicopter for any reason anytime soon.”

  “And yet you can tell the story so easily.”

  “It’s a good story.”

  “It’s a very good story. You really think you can leave all the good stories behind?”

  The question hit close to home on a night when she just wanted to enjoy herself and get to know a very handsome man. She went for lighthearted instead. “Who needs all that when I can visit Basque Country right in the middle of London?”

  He didn’t say anything but looked at her in that intense way that caught her breath and made the twinge turn to a quiver. The serving plates began to go down all along the tables, placed by men in embroidered white trousers and red berets. It began with the Basque version of tapas called pintxos: goat cheese and green-olive tapenade on toasted bread, thinly sliced smoked fish wrapped around fruit, something that tasted like seviche piled on a peppery cracker.

  “This is amazing,” she said with a happy sigh. “When’s the last time you were in Spain?”

  “With you. Do you remember? Barcelona?”

  “Ah yes, Barcelona. I remember. Your squad won.”

  “Yes, we won. But that’s not what stands out most from that trip.”

  Grace flushed as she followed his memories. They’d been there for his rowing competition, but they’d found more than enough time for strolls hand in hand through the Barrio Gòtico, the Gothic Quarter steeped in history and romance. There had been one particular bar decorated like a fairy wood, complete with trees and strong sangria—

  “Wait. Did you … is that why you chose this? Because of Barcelona? I thought no one knew the theme?”

  He shrugged, but his smile over the rim of his cup gave away the answer. “I told you. Advantage of being owed a favor by someone in the know.”

  Something about the fact he’d specifically tried to re-create one of their romantic moments made her breathless. She’d taken his words last night about not having forgotten as a warning, a reminder that his trust would not be so easily won. But had he also meant that he hadn’t forgotten what they once were to each other?

  The server was back again, removing the pintxos plates and trading them for the enameled pottery bowls of fragrant lamb stew. Despite the fact that there must have been two hundred people in the room, the darkness, the sensual flamenco music, the aromas of exotic, unfamiliar food wound around them like a cocoon. It would have been the perfect seduction scene, but now it was even more romantic because she knew he intended nothing of the sort. In fact, despite being nestled together on a single bench, eating with their fingers, he didn’t touch her. Just looked at her with those unsettling clear-blue eyes as if she was something wondrous.

  “If you keep looking at me like that,” she murmured, “I’m going to think you like me.” It was a stupid thing to say, but she had to do something to lessen the spell that wove steadily around her with each moment.

  “If I didn’t like you, we wouldn’t be here. Besides, first date. Remember?”

  “Right, first date.” And from the lack of suspicion in his expression, she could believe he meant it. Could almost believe it herself.

  They finished their night with gâteau Basque, a shortbread cake filled with a fragrant pastry cream and brandied cherries, just about the most delicious thing Grace had tasted in years. When Ian took her fork and fed her a bite of it with a wicked little smile, she almost changed her mind about the seduction.

  “You’re dangerous, do you know that?” she said when he helped her on with her coat, the end of the evening coming much too soon. “You certainly know how to make an impression.”

  He smiled mysteriously and guided her into the crowd, making their way to the front of the warehouse, where a line of taxicabs waited to pick up the departing guests. He put up the umbrella against the steadily falling rain and pulled her closer beneath its shelter. Her heart gave a little hiccup.

  It turned to a full-fledged stutter when they slid into the humid backseat of a cab, and he turned the full force of that intense gaze on her. “Did you have a good time?”

  “And then some. This morning I would have said it would be impossible for you to surprise me, but I’m surprised. Thank you. This was … lovely.”

  “It was entirely my pleasure.”

  As the cab slid through the dark, Grace fell silent, aware of the mere inches that separated them. She could practically feel the heat from his body, imagined the electric current spanning the space between their hands on the seat, achingly close but still so separate. She shifted her handbag into her lap so she wouldn’t be tempted to give in to the mad impulses rushing through her veins. She was feeling the magic of the night, the allure of the unexpectedly perfect surprise. His romantic streak hadn’t dissipated with time.

  By the time he handed her out of the cab in front of Asha’s building, she felt as jittery as a schoolgirl anticipating her first kiss.

  “Don’t you need it to wait?”

  “Tube’s still running. Or I can walk. I’m close by.”

>   “In the rain? I doubt you live that close.”

  “I own a flat on Gloucester Road.”

  “Of course you do.” Grace felt a little silly to have thought he was still living in his second-floor flat in Islington.

  “Here, allow me.” Ian gently took her key and opened the door, making her realize she’d been staring at him like an idiot on the building’s stoop.

  As she climbed the stairs, her heart thudded harder than the exertion warranted. Outside the flat, she took back her keys and flipped through the ring with a tremor in her normally steady hands.

  He closed his hand over hers to stop her fumbling with the lock. “Wait.”

  She froze, suddenly aware of the small space that separated them, the kindling warmth in his eyes, and realized there was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to kiss him. Which was a spectacularly bad idea when the way his gaze skimmed her face shot her pulse into overdrive.

  Then again, she’d always had an affinity for bad ideas. She stepped into him and lifted her face to his.

  It was all the invitation he needed. His hand went to her waist automatically, but he didn’t pull her closer. Instead he limited the touch to the merest brush of lips, the mingling of breath. She lifted her hand to his neck to caress the bit of skin that showed above the collar of his coat, her thumb tracing the edge of his jaw.

  His fingers tightened on her waist just before he pulled away. “Good night, Grace.”

  “Good night, Ian.”

  He paused at the top of the stairs while she fitted the key to the door lock and let herself in with a crack of warped wood. She fastened the latch and chain and took a long moment to catch her breath, with her forehead pressed against the door.

  Heavens have mercy. If she had any doubt whether their chemistry had survived a decade apart, it was long gone. He’d woven a spell around her all night long, and that was even before the kiss.

  She needed to be realistic, though. Just because they had one date—a magical, sensual date—didn’t mean anything had changed. She had to remember that. As soon as she managed to wipe the stupid smile off her face.

  After the previous morning’s blunder, Grace purposely stayed in bed so she wouldn’t wake Asha. When she finally pried her eyes open to a brightly lit reception room, she was met with the unmistakable crackle and aroma of bacon frying.

  “Am I hallucinating, or are you actually making breakfast?” Grace blinked sleepily from the doorway, aware of the irony in this role reversal.

  Asha picked up a crispy piece of bacon draining on the plate next to the range and took a bite. “I’m not making breakfast. I’m frying bacon. There’s a difference.”

  Grace laughed and nudged Asha out of the way. “Go get the eggs for me. If you’re going to bait me with bacon grease, you could at least make my tea.”

  “On it.” Asha pulled a mug from the cupboard. “So …”

  “So what?”

  “The date? How was it?”

  Grace felt it coming, tried to stop it … but no, the stupid smile came right back to her face. She’d done so well putting her expectations in line last night, only to have her hopes flare right back to life. “It was good.”

  “Just good?”

  Grace bit her lip. “Fine. It was amazing. Incredibly romantic.”

  Asha squealed and hoisted herself up on the counter, looking far more like a giggly coed than a thirty-seven-year-old doctor. “Tell me everything.”

  “Tea?” Grace prompted.

  “Right. Here. Now you go.”

  “Well, he took me to a pop-up restaurant called Seek. I’m not really allowed to give details because they swear you to secrecy when you leave.”

  “That’s no fair. How can I live vicariously if you won’t tell?”

  Grace smiled at the recollection. “Let’s say it re-created a romantic moment in our past.”

  “That’s a good sign,” Asha said. “Should the eggs be smoking?”

  “Blast.” Grace twisted down the heat, then flipped the eggs over in the pan. A little brown but not scorched. “It’s eggs over well this morning, Ash.”

  “Completely worth it. Did he kiss you?”

  The smile came back.

  “He did.” Asha sighed. “This is really good, Grace. Is it bad if I’m a little jealous?”

  “Not as long as you don’t let Jake hear you say it.”

  Asha chuckled. “Jake has nothing to fear. You realize this proves my theory all along.”

  “Which is?”

  “That he was waiting for you. None of those other women had a chance with him. He went through the motions until you showed up. Do you think he’s put anything like that together for anyone else?”

  He had called in a fairly significant favor, thanks to his connections. But reading into it too much would only set her up for disappointment. She changed the subject. “So what are you planning for today?”

  “Meeting Jake this afternoon. I’m on at six tomorrow, so it will be an early night. You could come along, you know. He’d love to see you again.”

  “Some other time. I’m not going to barge in on your Sunday-afternoon plans. Besides, three’s a crowd.”

  “Then invite Ian.” Asha’s sweet smile hid a hint of the devil.

  Grace laughed. “I don’t think we’re at double-date status yet, but thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. I think you might be surprised at the time he could free up if you rang him.”

  Grace grinned and put their plates on the table. She managed to divert the subject from her and Ian until they finished breakfast and Asha was out the door. She even managed to keep him out of her thoughts while she booted her laptop and opened the folder that contained her raw files still to be processed. She paused at one of the mist-shrouded bridge shots she’d taken that first morning she had found him at his rowing club, and had to press down the anticipation that welled up inside her.

  That had been some date. And brief as it was, the kiss hadn’t been half bad either.

  She chewed her lip against the smile that once more surfaced unbidden. The amount of effort Ian had put into surprising her seemed to express his feelings pretty clearly … or at least his willingness to give them a shot.

  Grace plugged her earphones into her mobile and scrolled through her usual choices—the Rolling Stones, the Kinks, the Clash—but none of them suited her mood. She finally landed on the Beatles and smiled. Abbey Road. Perfect. She and Ian had listened to it endlessly on road trips to his regattas, sharing one set of earphones like teenagers. She couldn’t deny the lift in her spirits when “Come Together” blasted out. The perfect blend of nostalgia and energy.

  Inspired by her musical choices, she plowed through her editing in record time, uploading files to her portfolio, then checking her email.

  The phone cut off George Harrison singing “Something,” and she jerked it up with her heart in her throat before she noticed it was not Ian’s number on the screen but Melvin’s. “Hello, Melvin. Let me guess. The first prints are done?”

  “That they are. Are you busy?”

  She glanced at the clock—3:23. Asha was out with Jake. Grace checked her phone for text messages or voice mail. Nothing on the status bar. “No. Just finishing up for the day. Shall I come over?”

  “Please do. I can’t wait for you to see these.”

  It was better than passing the time hoping Ian might call and waffling over whether she should call him. She grabbed her camera bag out of reflex, stuffed the phone in her pocket, and headed out the door.

  Half an hour later she entered the gallery to find Melvin speaking with an elegantly dressed couple before a large abstract oil painting. Without missing a beat of his pitch, he gave her a little tilt of his head to indicate she should go back to his office.

  Several minutes later Melvin entered. “Grace, beautiful.” He kissed both cheeks, then held her back at arm’s length. “My. You look pleased with yourself. Finding London to your liking?”

  “S
omething like that.” She shrugged, but the bloom of heat up her neck gave her away faster than any words could.

  “Ah, must be a man. Don’t worry; I’m not going to grill you about it. Come on back and see what I’ve got so far.”

  Melvin led her down the hall to a space adjacent to his darkroom, humming to himself in a way that made her think he wasn’t about to drop the subject completely. A twelve-by-eighteen had been affixed to the whiteboard. Grace moved closer to take in the details of the print from inches away. It was the best of a series of shots she’d taken in a Sudanese village witnessing the rebuilding that was taking place after its destruction years before. She’d impulsively switched from her Canon to the Leica to capture the image of a farmer squatting in his field, his hands cupping new growth springing from the ground.

  “You burned this area round the seedling,” she said. The highlighting drew the eye to the sprout, emphasizing the detail’s symbolism.

  “I think this is one my favorites.”

  “Mine too.” She still remembered the conversation she’d had with the farmer through an interpreter. The farmer had lost most of his family, and yet he stayed, saying he wouldn’t give anyone the power to force him from his rightful place. She had promised she would come back to see his progress the next time she passed through Sudan.

  That would probably never happen now.

  “Grace?”

  She lifted her head and realized she’d been staring blankly at the photo for some time. “It’s perfect.”

  “Harder to leave behind than you thought?”

  She drew in a long, deep breath before she could answer. “How can you hate and love something simultaneously?”

  “Because hate and love are the flip sides of the same coin. It would be impossible for you to feel indifferent toward leaving this behind. Have you thought any more about the job?”

  Kenneth DeVries’s business card was in the outer pocket of her gear bag, but she’d not yet decided whether she was going to call. “I have. I’m still not sure an office job is for me. I’ve spent ten years in the field, Melvin. Settling down feels like—”