by Kate Hardy
‘Espresso?’ he asked, breaking into her thoughts.
‘Thanks. That’d be nice,’ she said politely.
‘Feel free to grab a seat.’ He indicated the dining table by the glass wall.
And of course he had a posh coffee machine—a proper bean-to-cup machine that ground the beans and made coffee with the perfect crema on top, which he brought over to her in a double-walled glass cup.
Posh.
So very different from her world.
Hugo belonged in Barney’s world—and she never had. Even though she knew Hugo was trying to make her welcome, she couldn’t help remembering the way Barney’s set had reacted to her, scoffing that the girl from the council estate really thought she could step into a world of privilege.
You don’t belong here, the voice said in her head.
But Hugo had asked her here without a hidden agenda. Feeling wary was ridiculous and stupid, and she needed to stop it. Right now.
To shut the voice up, she asked, ‘So do you have any photographs of the house you were working on?’
‘Yes.’ He took his laptop from a drawer, tapped a few keys, then slid it across the table to her. ‘All the photographs are in the same album. Help yourself.’
‘Thanks.’ She scrolled through them. ‘Wow. I can see why you fell in love with it. That’s an incredible staircase. And that glass dome...’
‘It’s pretty special,’ he said. ‘It’s as near a reproduction to the original as I could get. And we managed to save all the original glass that was left in the external windows.’
‘That’s impressive,’ she said, handing the laptop back to him.
* * *
Again, when her fingers brushed against his, it made Hugo’s skin tingle.
What was it about this woman that drew him?
He was seriously tempted to ask her to stay for dinner, but he knew it would probably be wise to put a little distance between them, so he could get his head back in the right place.
So he kept the conversation light until she’d finished her coffee. ‘Thank you for today,’ he said. ‘The butterflies were amazing.’ And then his mouth ran away with him and spoiled his good intentions. ‘Are you busy tomorrow?’
‘Do you want to do another field trip?’ she asked.
‘I was thinking we could take a look at some glass,’ he said. ‘The British Museum, perhaps, and then Kew.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll meet you at the British Museum. It opens at ten—is that too early for you?’
‘It’s a lot later than today,’ he said wryly, ‘so it’s fine.’
‘Ten o’clock on the steps,’ she said.
He nearly—nearly—kissed her cheek, but managed to hold himself back.
And he intended to spend the rest of the evening working with figures and formulae, until he’d got himself back under his usual control. He was absolutely not going to kiss Alice Walters.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, shepherding her out to the door.
And when he closed the door behind her, he realised that he was regretting not kissing her.
Utterly ridiculous. He’d get a grip before tomorrow. For both their sakes.
CHAPTER FIVE
HUGO FELT LIKE a teenager about to go on his first date with a new girlfriend. Given that he was meeting a lepidopterist, how ironic it was that he had butterflies in his stomach.
Today was supposed to be about his great-aunt’s legacy. But his heart still felt as if it had done a somersault when he walked through Bloomsbury and peered through the railings around the British Museum to see Alice standing on the steps beneath the famous pediment, waiting for him. As she’d done the previous day, she was wearing faded skinny jeans; when he drew nearer, he saw that today’s T-shirt bore the slogan ‘Butterflies do it with pheromones’.
‘Nice T-shirt,’ he said.
She grinned. ‘Here’s your fun fact for the day: a male butterfly can sense female butterfly pheromones from ten miles away.’
‘Ten miles?’ Was she teasing him?
His confusion must’ve shown on his face, because she smiled. ‘Really. I’m full of facts like that.’
‘They must have amazing noses.’
‘Butterflies don’t actually have noses, the way we do,’ she said. ‘They smell with their antennae and taste with their feet. If you’d said you wanted an anatomy lesson, Mr Grey, I would’ve brought one of my presentations with me.’
Anatomy lesson. Why did that suddenly make him feel hot all over? For pity’s sake. The last woman Hugo had dated was his late wife. He’d closed down his emotions and his libido since Emma’s death—at least, he’d thought he had. But, since he’d met Alice, that part of him seemed to have woken up again. She’d shown him things on their field trip that had enchanted him, and now the woman herself was enchanting him. Everything from that sassy slogan on her T-shirt, to the sparkle in her grey eyes and the way she smiled when she’d spotted something that interested her.
‘I don’t need an anatomy lesson, Dr Walters,’ he said—a little more brusquely than he’d intended, because she really flustered him. ‘Besides, today is about glass.’
‘Indeed. Time to strut your stuff, Mr Glass Expert.’
But there was no mockery in her eyes. She actually looked interested.
Interested in glass, or—his heart skipped another beat—interested in him? He wasn’t sure whether the idea scared him or thrilled him more.
Keep it professional, he reminded himself, and ushered her into the Great Court. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is one of my favourite buildings in London.’ That was it. Talk about his passion for architecture. Don’t think about emotions. Keep it focused on the abstract. Something safe. ‘I love the way the shadows of the steel beams change as you walk round.’
* * *
Hugo’s gorgeous blue eyes were suddenly all lit up as he talked about the roof, and he’d lost that slight grouchiness. Clearly he felt the same way about glass as she did about butterflies, Alice thought. And seeing him in love with his subject made him so much easier to deal with.
Though, at the same time, it made him dangerous. Mesmerising.
She needed to get a grip; she’d been burned too often by men she’d been attracted to and then it had all gone wrong. That wasn’t going to happen again. ‘Tell me about the glass,’ she said.
‘There are three thousand, two hundred and twelve panes in that roof,’ he said. ‘And no two are identical.’
‘Seriously?’ She couldn’t understand how you’d build a roof from what seemed to be a jigsaw puzzle. Besides, to her most of the panes looked identical.
‘Seriously. It’s because the roof undulates,’ he said. He took his phone from his pocket, flicked into the Internet and brought up a photograph. ‘This is it from above.’
It was nothing like she’d expected. ‘It looks like a turquoise cushion, with an ancient brooch in the centre—but, from down here, the glass seems clear. And what’s that in the centre?’
‘It’s the dome of the old Reading Room,’ he said. ‘And, actually, it’s not very much smaller than the dome of the Pantheon in Rome.’
She stared at him, as amazed by the statistic as he’d seemed when she’d explained about butterfly pheromones. ‘Seriously? But it looks tiny! I’ve been to Rome, with my best friend, and the Pantheon’s enormous.’
‘Which shows you just how huge this courtyard is—it’s the biggest covered square in Europe,’ he said. ‘I would’ve loved to work on something like this, merging the old and the new.’
Just as he had with the Scottish country house and its dome, she thought. Could he be tempted to build something new—the butterfly house—that would fit into the garden of Rosemary’s old house?
Together, they walked around the Great Court; just as Hugo had said, the light and the pattern of shadows c
hanged as they moved round the area.
‘This is pretty stunning,’ she said. ‘Though I’m not sure we could make a design like this work for a butterfly house.’
‘It wouldn’t.’ He smiled. ‘You wanted to show me an amazing butterfly yesterday, before you showed me the wildflower site. I wanted to show you my favourite bit of new architectural glass before we go and see the other stuff.’
‘It’s spectacular,’ she said. ‘Obviously I’ve been here before, but I never really noticed it. You’ve shown it to me in a very different way.’
‘Like your Iron Age hill fort yesterday,’ he said. ‘I know this is going to make me sound a complete heathen, given the treasures within these walls, but I’d really like to skip the rest of the building now and go to the second bit of our field trip.’
Field trip. Of course that was what it was. They were going to Kew together because of the butterfly house project, not because he wanted to spend time with her, she reminded herself. Part of her wanted it to be a date; but at the same time part of her was scared she’d be sucked into trusting someone again and end up being let down. Pushing away the mingled disappointment and wariness, she said brightly, ‘Sure.’
At Kew, they grabbed a quick coffee and a sandwich, then wandered through some of the formal gardens; Alice laid her palm against Hugo’s upper arm to direct his attention to some butterflies, and instantly regretted the impulse when her fingertips started tingling where she touched him.
‘Butterfly,’ she said, knowing how stupid she sounded. For pity’s sake, she should be speaking to him in full sentences, not mumbling single words at him. What was wrong with her? Why was she being so inarticulate?
‘What is it?’
Focus on the science, she told herself. Take your hand off his arm. Stop being flustered. Focus. ‘It’s a Polygonia c-album—more commonly known as a Comma.’
‘Because of the shape of its wing-edges?’ he asked.
She liked the fact he’d tried to be logical. ‘No, because of the white mark on its underwing.’
‘I love the colour. Especially the contrast with the purple flowers.’
‘It’s not necessarily purple to a butterfly,’ she said.
His eyes widened. ‘It’s not?’
‘They don’t see colour and resolution in the way that humans do—even though they have eyes in the back of their head and near three-hundred-and-sixty-degree vision, they can’t see the fine detail,’ she explained. ‘And they can see the ultraviolet patterns on flower petals that we can’t.’
‘What ultraviolet patterns?’ he asked.
‘The nectar guides.’ She gestured to one of the plants in the lawn. ‘To a butterfly, this yellow dandelion looks white at the edges, but red at the centre where the nectar is. And a horse-chestnut flower is yellow to them when it’s producing nectar, and red when it’s not.’
‘That’s amazing,’ he said, smiling. And that smile made her heart feel as if it had done a backflip. He actually listened to what she said. So far, he hadn’t tried to change her.
Could she take a risk?
Or should she be sensible, and find a way of putting some distance between them?
Yet she couldn’t. As they walked through the gardens together, their hands brushed against each other. Once. Twice. And then their fingers interlocked, just one at first, and then another, and another, until they were actually holding hands.
She could barely breathe.
This wasn’t supposed to be happening.
They were absolutely not a couple.
Yet here they were, holding hands, as if they were on a proper date. It was thrilling and terrifying, all at the same time.
‘This is what I wanted to show you. The Palm House,’ he said. ‘Victorian glass and iron.’
Was it her imagination, or did his voice sound a bit funny? As if he was just as flustered by this thing happening between them as she was, and he was trying really hard to keep it businesslike...and failing, the same way she was.
‘It’s like an upside-down ship,’ she said.
‘Well spotted. It was the first glasshouse built on this scale,’ he said, ‘so they used techniques from shipbuilding. And here you see sixteen thousand panes of glass.’
He let her hand go when he opened the door for her—but within moments they were back to holding hands. Neither of them said a word about it or even looked at their hands to draw attention to what was happening. But it was there. A fact. They liked each other enough to hold hands. And Alice wondered if Hugo, too, was feeling the little fizzy bubbles of pleasure that seemed to be filling her own veins.
The fact that Hugo really seemed to be considering building the butterfly house made her heart feel light with hope.
She had no idea how long they spent wandering through Kew, exploring the glasshouses and the gardens, with Hugo pointing out his favourite bits of various buildings and herself pointing out the butterflies flitting over the plants. All she could really concentrate on was the warmth of his fingers curled round hers, and how good it made her feel.
Time blurred, seeming to go in the blink of an eye and yet stretch for a week at the same time. But finally the gardens were closing and all the tourists appeared to be heading for the exits.
‘Time to leave, I guess,’ Hugo said, sounding regretful.
‘I guess,’ she said.
They walked back to the Tube station together. Alice knew they’d be taking completely different trains—Hugo to Battersea and herself to Shadwell. He’d sounded wistful earlier; would he want to prolong the time with her and maybe suggest dinner? Should she suggest it, maybe? Or were they back in the real world again, now they’d left the glasshouse behind? Would he want to put some distance between them?
‘Thank you for a nice day,’ Hugo said, which pretty much sealed it for her.
Distance it was.
Separate trains and separate lives.
She could ask him if he’d like to have dinner with her; but perhaps it would be better to spare them both the embarrassment of him refusing. Instead, she smiled. ‘I enjoyed it, too. Thank you for showing me the glass.’
He looked awkward, as if debating something in his head; and then he bent forward and kissed her swiftly on the cheek.
Warmth spread through her, along with some courage. ‘Maybe we can go to see a butterfly house, next.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Wednesday afternoons are usually free for me.’
He took his phone from his pocket and checked something. ‘I can do Wednesday, this week.’
They were talking as if this was a business appointment, but it felt like a date. And she was shocked to realise how much she wanted it to be a date.
Forcing herself to sound calm, she said, ‘We could meet at Canary Wharf station at, say, one o’clock?’
‘I’ll put it in my diary,’ he said. ‘See you then.’
‘See you then.’ She held her breath, just in case he decided to lean forward and kiss her other cheek—or, even, her mouth.
But he didn’t.
He just smiled at her and walked away.
Was she about to make a colossal fool of herself? Should she back off?
But all the same Alice found herself touching her cheek when she sat down on the train, remembering how his lips had felt against her skin.
Would he kiss her again, the next time they met?
Would it be a proper kiss?
And, if so, what was she going to do about it?
* * *
Butterfly fact of the day: a butterfly’s body temperature needs to be thirty degrees C before it can fly.
Alice regretted the impulse, the second she’d sent the email.
Supposing Hugo thought she was trying to flirt with him?
Well, she was trying to flirt with him. Even though her head knew it was dangerous and reckless an
d a very bad idea, that flare of attraction was strong enough to make her ignore her common sense. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d held her hand all afternoon, and that kiss on the cheek, and wondering just how his mouth would feel against hers.
He didn’t reply. Which served her right, and she forced herself to concentrate on her students and stop mooning over him. But, at the end of the day, there was an email waiting in her inbox.
Glass fact of the day: when glass breaks, the cracks move at three thousand miles an hour.
Flirting by nerdiness?
It was delicious. And addictive. She sent him a nerdy fact by text on Tuesday morning; he replied in kind, later in the day. By Wednesday lunchtime, Alice was practically effervescent with excitement. She couldn’t wait to see him.
Just as they’d arranged, Hugo was waiting for her at Canary Wharf station. He was wearing his sharp suit and posh shoes, and she wished she’d thought to dress up a bit, too, instead of being her usual scruffy scientist self.
‘Hi,’ she said, suddenly shy now she was with him.
‘Hi.’ And now he looked equally ill-at-ease.
What now? They weren’t officially dating, so she could hardly greet him with a kiss. But this wasn’t just business any more, either. There was definitely something personal.
‘Shall we, um...?’ She gestured to the platform, where the train was waiting.
He didn’t hold her hand on the train. He didn’t hold her hand on the way to the butterfly house, either. And he didn’t look that impressed as they walked up to the very ordinary glasshouse. Well, he was an architect who specialised in glass. Of course a square building with a gable roof would be dull and functional, in his view.
Then again, this was the man who’d built a removable glass wall between his house and his garden, and yet his garden was the dullest and most minimalist in the universe. So, the way she saw it, he really didn’t have the right to be picky about this place.
