For half a beat Melinda’s face stiffened and then her mouth fell open. ‘What? Is she—?’
‘Her water broke...’
‘Ooh!’ Melinda seemed to inflate, then she was collapsing into Erris’s arms. For a moment they stood, crooning to one another, and then Melinda was stepping back, wiping her face with her hands, fidgeting with her hair and her blouse. ‘We’ve got to go! My baby girl needs me.’
Emilie’s stomach lurched. If Melinda and Erris left, it meant that she would be solely responsible for looking after Joel.
‘You don’t mind, Emilie...?’ Melinda’s eyes were glistening.
Oh, God! She couldn’t refuse, she just couldn’t, even if it meant she was going to have to wait on Joel at dinner, as well as cooking. She sucked in a breath, shaping it into a smile as she let it go. ‘Of course I don’t mind. I mean...hello? You’re having a grandbaby!’ She gave Melinda a mighty hug, then turned her around and propelled her towards Erris. ‘Go! Right now! Just make sure you text me when the baby comes.’ She smiled. ‘I want to know if it’s a boy or a girl.’
‘I will.’ Melinda’s hand found hers, gave it a little squeeze ‘Erris will be back in the morning. Until then, look after yourself...and look after Mr Larsson too.’
* * *
She managed to smile, even though the hot dinner plate was burning her fingers through the cloth. ‘Here you are...your main course of grilled sea bass on a bed of crushed baby potatoes and creamed spinach with a mustard honey jus and a black pudding crumb.’ She set the plate down smartly, covertly frisking her fingertips against her tunic.
‘Thank you.’ Joel’s eyes met hers. ‘It looks...wonderful.’
‘Can I top up your wine...?’ Even to her own ears she sounded tentative. This was beyond awkward. She was not a sommelier, she was not a silver service waitress, she was a cook. She could strip and slice an onion in seconds, but for some reason placing a plate of food in front of Joel Larsson was making her knees tremble. The whole thing was feeling like a silly charade. Fine dining for one! Linen, silver, crystal. It seemed excessive, especially since he hadn’t even dressed for dinner. He was wearing a tee shirt and faded jeans, no socks, and his loafers had definitely seen better days. He looked like a fish out of water and she certainly felt like one.
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m good...thank you.’
‘Okay.’ She took a little step back. ‘Enjoy.’
She walked towards the door, heart racing. Were his eyes boring into her back or was it just her overactive imagination? She had no idea; two courses down and her senses were shot to pieces.
In the kitchen, she took a ramekin of crème brûlée from the fridge, then leaned over the work surface. On the beach that afternoon they’d had a few laughs, but from the moment she’d approached him on the terrace to present the menu, things had taken a different turn. For some reason he’d seemed shocked to see her, disappointed even, which had stung a bit. When she’d explained that she wouldn’t usually be cooking and serving the food, that it was all because of Erris and Melinda’s imminent grandbaby, he’d seemed to rally. He’d even smiled. But the smile hadn’t quite touched his eyes and, ever since then, she’d felt decidedly out of sorts.
Out of sorts and full of self-doubt. She wasn’t convinced that he’d liked her starter: hot smoked breast of pigeon on a bed of endive and rocket leaves, garnished with a red onion and beetroot jelly cube, and a port and damson jus. He’d eaten it all, and three bread rolls, but his face hadn’t exactly been the picture of satisfaction when she’d gone in to lift his plate, and when she’d presented him with the main, he’d looked similarly neutral.
She stood up, rotating the tension out of her shoulders. What was his problem? She’d got top grades at catering college. Her training with Michel Lefevre had been second to none and at twenty-seven she’d started her own restaurant with Tom. She knew her way around a kitchen better than anyone! She’d double-checked her seasonings, taken great care not to overdo any single flavour, or to over or undercook anything. She knew for certain that the dishes she’d presented were excellent...so why hadn’t there been a single spark of joy in his eyes?
‘Knock knock...?’
Joel?
She drew a slow breath and turned around.
He was standing in the doorway, holding his empty plate in one hand and the wine bottle in the other. His eyebrows twitched up. ‘Can I come in?’
She felt her neck prickling, her mouth going dry and suddenly it wasn’t Joel standing there, but Tom, his face taut, his eyes glittering...
‘Two stars! Two bloody stars from Raoul Danson! I told you the menu was wrong, but you never listen! We’re meant to be doing bistro food, not second-rate Lefevre! The restaurant’s finished and it’s all your fault!’
Second-rate Lefevre! Tom had certainly known how to twist the knife and now there was Joel, standing in the doorway. Was he about to do the same? She ran her tongue over her lower lip. ‘Yes, of course. What can I do for you?’
He seemed to hesitate and then came forward, setting the plate and the bottle down on the island unit carefully. When he turned to her again, she felt a wash of relief. There was no reprimand in his gaze, just a trace of uncertainty. ‘It’s not about what you can do for me. It’s about what I can do...’ Blue-grey eyes held hers. ‘I’ve come to apologise.’
Definitely not what she’d been expecting! She swallowed. ‘For what?’
‘For being—’ his shoulders slid upwards ‘—weird.’
She jammed her tongue against her teeth. Staying silent seemed wise.
He motioned to the wine bottle, gave another little shrug. ‘I was thinking...wondering if you’d join me for a glass of wine while I explain...’ A corner of his mouth twitched up and it seemed to switch on a light in his eyes, a warm magnetic sort of light.
She glanced at the ramekin dish: a variation of Lefevre’s famous pineapple crème brûlée. The sugar topping needed caramelising, but Joel didn’t seem to be thinking about dessert, and anyway, she was curious. If talking was going to eliminate the awkwardness between them, then she was all for it. It would make the next three weeks easier.
‘Okay.’ She fetched two wine glasses from the dresser, then pulled out a stool and sat down.
He picked up the bottle, one eyebrow arching. ‘Does madame wish to taste it?’
His fake French accent was excruciating, but it was good to see that lighter side of him again, the side she’d seen on the beach. She felt all her edges smoothing out, a real smile lifting her cheeks. ‘No thank you. Madame wishes you to crack on!’
He laughed. ‘Say no more.’
Laughing Joel was so different to serious Joel. Laughing Joel was dangerously disarming. She lowered her gaze, watching the red wine sloshing into her glass, then into his. His hand around the wine bottle looked manly. It was easy to imagine where that hand might fit, how that hand would feel—
‘Cheers!’ He was looking at her, glass raised.
She hadn’t noticed him sit down. Too busy fantasising about manly hands. What was wrong with her? Focus! She touched her glass to his, took a long steadying sip, then met his gaze. ‘So...?’
‘So...’ His teeth caught on his lower lip and then he sighed. ‘Okay, the first thing I want to say is that I’m not weird, at least no more than anyone else, but I know I’ve probably seemed that way...?’
‘Erm—’
‘Never mind.’ He smiled, took a sip of his wine, then his smile faded. ‘So, the thing is, I didn’t book this trip—it was a gift, from a friend.’
‘Nice!’
‘Yes, it was... It is! It’s amazing.’ His eyes clouded. ‘But it’s...not what I was expecting.’
Her heart dipped. ‘What do you mean—is there something wrong...?’
‘No!’ He shook his head. ‘It’s my bad—totally. I didn’t look at the brochure...just t
he front cover...the photo of the island...’ He was toying with the stem of his glass. ‘I thought I was going to be alone here so when you met me on the beach, I was—’ he blew out a sigh ‘—very surprised.’
She felt a smile edging on to her lips. ‘I think I got that...’
Amusement coloured his eyes, but only briefly. ‘And when you said that you were the chef, I was, frankly, shocked...’
‘Right!’ She bit her lip, trying to make sense of it. His friend had booked the trip for him, but for some reason he hadn’t read the brochure. Why? That was definitely weird. But it also explained a lot. ‘So, just to be clear, when you say you were expecting to be alone, you mean alone as in Robinson Crusoe?’
He nodded slowly.
‘You weren’t expecting a chef?’
‘No.’
‘Okay...’ She took a small sip of wine, felt a flicker of unease bursting into a flame. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you don’t want me to cook for you?’
His hands went up. ‘No! I’m definitely not saying that.’ He was frowning. ‘I’m just trying to explain why I seem so...’ He sighed. ‘Look, Emilie, your food is delicious...and I’m not complaining about anything...but I thought I was going to be staying in a little house on a little island, doing my own thing, and instead it’s—’ he was juggling the air ‘—service and silverware and it’s all too much. I don’t want to be waited on. I’d rather things were more casual...’ His eyes swept over the kitchen, then settled on her face. ‘To be honest, if you’d be okay with it, I’d rather eat in here.’
She took another sip of wine. How would it feel with him sitting in the kitchen while she cooked? Weird, definitely, but there was something endearing about the way he was looking at her with hopeful eyes. If he’d been anticipating something low key, the house and the whole catering set-up must have been a shock. What would Melinda think?
She sipped her wine again, swallowing slowly. Probably Melinda was going to be too busy with Kesney and the new baby to care about where Joel wanted to take his meals...and there was nothing to say that he couldn’t dine in the kitchen if that was what he wanted to do. He was the guest, after all, and, bottom line, her job was to look after him. It might even be nice. She smiled. ‘I’m fine with that.’ She put her glass down. ‘Now, are you ready for dessert?’
* * *
‘Have you been working here long...?’ He’d have happily sat in silence, just watching her—the deft movement of her hands, firing up the blowtorch, adjusting the flame; the way the pristine sleeves of her chef’s jacket rode up the golden skin of her wrists as she worked—but having asked to be there, he didn’t want to make her to feel awkward by just gawping. Besides, he was curious about her.
‘No. I arrived three weeks ago—from England.’ Her eyes flicked up. ‘It’s just a short contract.’
‘It’s a long way to come for a short contract.’
Her cheeks coloured.
Skit! Somehow, he’d embarrassed her and he hadn’t even meant to say it out loud. Giving voice to his thoughts was a bad habit, a side effect of constantly pitting his wits against computer security systems. For him, work involved an incessant internal dialogue. Talking himself through traps, fathoming logic, asking questions, answering them in his head—supposedly answering them in his head—but sometimes internal became external without him noticing. He’d have to be more careful.
She threw him a glance. ‘It was a long way to come, but it was...timely.’ She was moving the blowtorch back and forth, concentration furrowing her brow. ‘I happened to be available and who wouldn’t want a job on paradise island?’ She held the flame away and peered at the little white dish which held his crème brûlée. ‘The regular chef’s on leave for eight weeks—a family bereavement, I think—so it all worked out.’ She killed the flame and looked up. ‘For me, I mean...not so much for the person who died...’ Her lips twitched, then she was turning away, transporting the little dish to the fridge. He held in a smile.
When she turned to face him again, she seemed to have regained her composure. ‘We’ll have to wait a while now, for it to cool.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m a bit behind—’
‘Which is my fault.’ He tipped some more wine into their glasses. ‘Come sit. You can tell me what you were doing before you arrived in paradise.’
She came over, but she didn’t sit down. Instead she picked up her glass and leaned against the worktop. ‘I think it’s my turn to ask you a question...’ Her eyebrow quirked up. ‘Quid pro quo.’
Saying ‘pro’ and ‘quo’ had made her lips pout enticingly. He drew a steadying breath, reaching for his glass, then thought better of it. He was jetlagged, already a little muzzy and he couldn’t allow himself to be muzzy. He leaned back, folding his arms. ‘That’s fair enough.’
She took a tiny sip from her glass. ‘Why did your friend book this trip for you? And why didn’t you read the brochure?’
‘That’s two questions.’ And very direct questions at that, neither of which he wanted to answer. Her eyes were holding his, curious, expectant, but there was kindness in them too. He sighed. Nils was good at grand gestures and tequila shots, but he wasn’t a heart-to-heart kind of guy and as for his own family... A knot tightened in his belly. That wouldn’t be happening any time soon. Maybe telling Emilie, even just a little bit, would be a release. He unfolded his arms, sliding his glass over the counter so that it was out of easy reach, and then he met her gaze. ‘My friend, Nils, who booked this for me, was supposed to have been my best man...’
Her eyes narrowed fractionally.
‘The wedding was called off.’ His throat went tight. ‘Not by me...’ He swallowed hard. That was enough; she didn’t need to hear the whole tragic story.
Her eyes were glistening. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Such ready empathy. Undeserved! He took a breath. ‘That was eight weeks ago. These three weeks were supposed to have been our honeymoon...’ Astrid had booked a honeymoon suite on Bora Bora, a luxurious overwater bungalow at the end of a long, curved jetty. He’d thought it looked romantic, but now the thought of it only led him into the same numb maze as always. He sighed, refocusing on Emilie’s lovely face. ‘Nils said that since I’d cleared my schedule anyway, I should take off, but I wasn’t fit to organise anything, so he booked this for me, called it a “cancelled wedding” present. He drove me to the airport, gave me the brochure—’
‘But you didn’t have the heart to look at it.’ Her eyes were lustrous, full of kindness.
‘Something like that.’ He looked down, suddenly unable to hold her gaze. There was too much honesty in it and for some reason it was making him feel like a fraud.
And then a little ping broke the moment into pieces.
Emilie shot him an apologetic look. ‘That’ll be Melinda...’ She pulled a phone from her trouser pocket. ‘I asked her to text me about Kesney’s baby...’ She tapped the screen, nibbling at her lip, scrolling, and when she looked up again her eyes were gleaming with tears. ‘It’s a boy! Seven pounds, twelve ounces. They’re calling him Ben.’
His breath caught on an unexpected spike of emotion. What was wrong with him? Getting emotional about a baby wasn’t his style at all. It had to be fatigue catching up with him. He needed to sleep. He slid himself off the stool. ‘That’s wonderful news! Please send Melinda and her family my congratulations.’
‘I will!’ She seemed to register that he was on his feet. ‘Are you going? What about dessert?’
‘You have it...’ He smiled. ‘I’m sorry, but I need to crash.’
‘Oh! Yes! Of course. You must be exhausted.’ Her eyes held his for a long moment. ‘Goodnight, Joel. Sleep well.’
He nodded and turned towards the door. Maybe he would sleep well. If he did, it would be the first time in eight weeks.
CHAPTER THREE
‘WHAT BIG EYES you’ve got, Grandma!’ Emilie couldn’t help
giggling. ‘You need to hold the phone further away from your face...’
‘Wait a minute...’ The picture wobbled, was briefly obscured by a pink splodge—a finger—and then Grandma’s face came properly into view. Silver hair, silver-rimmed glasses, bright blue turtleneck sweater. She was peering at the screen, then she broke into a lovely smile. ‘Emilie! I can see you!’
She smiled back. ‘Who says the older generation can’t grasp technology? You’re nailing it, Grandma!’
‘Isn’t it clever?’ More peering. ‘It’s like you’re on television!’
‘Smartphones are clever. That’s why I was nagging you to get one, so we can see each other when we talk.’ She stood up. ‘It also means that I can give you a tour...’ She tapped the screen, holding in a smile.
‘Oh! What’s that?’
‘It’s my lovely little sitting room... I’ve flipped the camera so you can see.’ She panned the phone slowly, showing off the cream linen sofa and the gleaming wooden floor, and the full-length windows with their slatted blinds, then she walked through to the bedroom, showing off the bright sea views through the open French windows, and then, smiling because there was a lot of oohing and ahhing coming from the phone speaker, she entered her favourite space—the bathroom—tracking along the huge slipper bath, turning to take in the wide shower, and the square porcelain sink with its chunky chrome taps, and then it was time for the compact kitchen, panning over the wooden counters—
Grandma was laughing. ‘I see Ruby in the fruit bowl!’
She grinned. Ruby was her treasured Rubik’s cube. Grandma had given it her when she was little and she couldn’t go anywhere without it. Crazy really since she’d never managed to solve it. She turned the camera back on herself. ‘Of course I brought Ruby! She reminds me of you...colourful and chaotic!’
‘Very funny!’
‘So, what do you think of my pad in paradise?’
‘It’s lovely, darling! You must be thrilled with it.’ Grandma’s head was bobbing up and down. ‘Now, tell me, are you getting any time off yet?’
Harlequin Romance April 2021 Box Set Page 49
