act together. You can advise me on all this kind of thing.’
He raised his eyebrows at her quizzically.
‘Where I’m going wrong, of course. Why he isn’t falling over himself to get a ring on my finger.’ She warmed to her subject. ‘You must have a wealth of experience just waiting to be tapped. You can show me how to be totally irresistible to him.’
He thought for a moment she might actually be going mad. Hangover forgotten, he barged into the kitchen behind her. She’d had some crazy ideas in her time, but this…
‘No. Absolutely no way.’
CHARLOTTE PHILLIPS has been reading romantic fiction since her teens, and she adores upbeat stories with happy endings. Writing them for Mills & Boon® is her dream job.
She combines writing with looking after her fabulous husband, two teenagers, a four-year-old and a dachshund. When something has to give, it’s usually housework.
She lives in Wiltshire.
This book is for Nick, who made me finish it.
With all my love always.
‘WILL YOU…?’
Lucy Telford leaned forward expectantly, mouth slightly open, sea-green eyes wide. So certain was she of how this sentence would end that for a moment she actually thought she’d heard the words ‘marry me’. But by the time her brain caught up and performed a reality check, Ed had moved on to describing the cottage for sale on the outskirts of Bath—on which he hoped she would supply the deposit. And it dawned on her to her utter disbelief: it had happened again.
She drove grimly through the quiet streets of the city early the following morning. Apparently the strength of cliché and female experience on her side meant nothing in the face of the male inability to take a hint. It was Valentine’s Day, check. She was out with her boyfriend of two years, relationship good, check. He’d booked her favourite restaurant, bought her favourite flowers and told her he had something special to ask her that evening. Check, check, check. What girl wouldn’t have expected a marriage proposal given a situation like that? Add in the heavy hints she’d been dropping for at least the last six months. Surely the odds were somewhere approaching dead cert?
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her face set, her dark curls even more defiantly springy than usual, reflecting the way she felt. The rest of the evening had passed in an angry red blur. The night hadn’t been much better. She’d tossed and turned, alternately hot and throwing the covers off, then freezing cold. Then somewhere around two a solution of sorts had come to her. A way of taking control.
She pulled the car into a roadside space in one of Bath’s lovely streets, the golden stone of the Georgian terrace picked out by the winter sunshine. It was a perfect February morning, icy cold but bright. Running her own bakery business had made her accustomed to extremely early starts and she adored the way the city looked when it was still half asleep. It did nothing to distract her today.
Killing the engine, she stalked, as well as she could in trainers, across the pavement and up the stone steps to the three-storey town house of the one person she could moan at unreservedly. The one person who would let her vent her anger, calm her down and give her an objective opinion on what she should do. Childhood friend, adult protector, confidant and big-brother figure, Gabriel Blake was about to kiss his Sunday morning lie-in goodbye.
Gabriel tried mashing one of the pillows over his head and holding it against both ears but the ringing simply faded to a more annoying level. Opening one eye to glance at the bedside clock, he groaned. Seven-thirty. He only knew one person who got up this early on a Sunday. The ringing continued and he eventually crawled from the bed and staggered half asleep down the stairs, gripping the banister for support. His thick dark hair stood up in crazy sleep spikes and a shadow of stubble defined his strong jaw. He rubbed at his scratchy eyes. By now she had obviously tired of intermittent ringing and was simply keeping the button depressed, resulting in a constant noise that challenged his impending hangover like an ice pick.
He opened the door a crack and, closing his aching eyes against the morning sun, he snarled through the gap. ‘Lucy, it’s seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘You’ve got your eyes shut. How did you know it was me?’
‘Nobody else I know would dare disturb me at this time of the morning.’ He opened one eye and squinted at her. ‘Especially on a Sunday.’
She made a move to lean around the front door and see past him into the house, glancing indifferently as she did so at his toned torso and the muscular broad shoulders that were set off by the remains of a tan from his last trip abroad. She’d stayed with him in this house for a while a year or so ago and as a result she had developed a unique immunity to the fact that with no shirt on he looked like a god. Unlike the rest of the female race, to her he just looked like Gabriel. Best friend of some twenty-three years. No romantic attraction involved.
‘Is there someone with you?’ she asked him bossily. ‘Because if there is, get rid of them. This is an emergency.’
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it more than ever, and tried to think straight. ‘There’s no one here—it’s just me. What do you mean an emergency? Are you OK?’
‘I can’t discuss it on the doorstep. Let me in!’
He leaned wearily back against the wall and she lost no time in pushing past him like a tornado into the hall. He looked longingly back up the curving stairway in the direction of his bedroom and waved a mental white flag. Now he’d let her in the house there was no way sleep was going to be on the cards. He closed the front door and followed her resignedly to the kitchen to put coffee on.
She turned as he entered the room and he felt a fresh stab of exasperation as he noticed for the first time she was wearing jogging gear. Three-quarter-length running shorts hugged her lean frame, giving away for once the fact that she was fit and toned. She was so tiny that ordinary loose clothes gave her the impression of fragility. Ironic, he sometimes thought, that someone whose life revolved around cake should be so slender. Her dark curls were caught up in a band, but tendrils escaped as usual around her face. The clothes could only mean one thing. She intended to persuade him to go running with her when he still had at least three hours’ sleep to catch up on.
On the brink of losing his already frayed temper, he saw just in the nick of time the dark smudges under her green eyes, starkly contrasting with the creamy complexion, and the troubled expression on her face. Unable to feel anything but protective towards her when she was unhappy ever since she was six years old and he was eight, he abandoned his mission to fill the kettle and gave her a hug instead. He couldn’t help noticing the stiffness in the muscles of her shoulders even through her clothes, and her hands against his bare skin as they slid around his waist were cold enough to make him jump. Everything about her exuded tension.
‘What’s
