his blue drink and shuddered. ‘A real drink. What do you say?’
SHE SHOULD HAVE said no.
The last thing Maddison needed was a pity date. Even worse, a pity date with her boss. But Kit had caught her at a vulnerable moment. Nice as it was to be flirted with by not just one, or two, but several men at the party, all of whom had their own teeth, hair and impressive-sounding job titles, she couldn’t help but remember this time last year and the adorable little inn in Connecticut Bart had whisked her off to. Three months ago she was reasonably confident that this birthday he’d propose—not break up with her two months before.
Which meant she wouldn’t be married at twenty-seven and a mother by twenty-eight. Her whole, carefully planned timetable redundant. Somehow she was going to have to start again. Only she had no idea how or who or where...
Happy birthday to me. Maddison sighed, the age-long loneliness forcing its way out of the box she had buried it in, creeping back around her heart, her soul. It wasn’t that she minded the lack of cards and presents. She’d got used to that a long time ago. But she couldn’t help feeling that at twenty-six her birthday should matter to someone. Especially to her. Instead she’d been in denial all day. She wasn’t sure why she’d mentioned it to the young sales guy, maybe some pathetic need to have some kind of acknowledgement, no matter how small.
That’s enough. She wasn’t a wallower, she was a fighter and she never, ever looked back. Maddison pushed herself off the plush velvet sofa and paced the length of the room. If she did have to wait in Kit Buchanan’s house while he changed then she might as well take advantage and find out as much as she could about him. From the little she had gathered he was a constant source of speculation at work, but although the gossips were full of theories they had very few solid facts. A few juicy titbits could give her a way in with the social groups at work. She couldn’t just bury herself and her sore pride away for the whole six months like some Roman exile marooned on a cold and damp island.
After all, the weather in London was much nicer than she had expected.
At least it was just her pride that hurt. She’d never be foolish enough to give away her heart without some kind of security.
Stop thinking about it, Maddison scolded herself, looking up at the high ceiling as if in supplication. She had five months left in London; she needed to start living again so she could return to New York full of European polish and fizzing with adventure. If that didn’t bring Bart back on his knees, diamond ring in one hand, nothing would. After all, didn’t they say absence made the heart grow fonder? Think how fond he could grow if word got back to him of just how good a time she was having in London...
A piece of elaborate-looking plaster work caught her eye. Original, she’d bet, just like the tiles on the hallway floor and the ceiling roses holding the anachronistically modern lights. The huge semi-detached house overlooking a lushly green square was the last place she’d expected Kit to live; she would have laid money on some kind of trendy apartment, all glass and chrome, not the white-painted Georgian house. It was even more impressive than Bart’s brownstone.
She hadn’t seen much in the way of personal touches so far. A tiled hallway with no clutter at all, just a hat stand, a mirror and an antique sideboard with a small bowl for his keys. There was nothing left lying around in the living room either except a newspaper on the coffee table, neatly folded at the nearly completed crossword, and just one small photo on the impressive marble mantle—a black-and-white picture of two teenage boys, grinning identical smiles, hanging over the rail on a boat. She had no trouble identifying the younger one as Kit, although there was something about the smile that struck her as different from the smile she knew. Maybe it was how wide, how unadulterated, how wholehearted it was, so different from the cynically amused expression she saw every day.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs sent her scuttling back to her seat, where she grabbed the newspaper and scanned it, carefully giving the impression she had been comfortably occupied for the last ten minutes.
‘Sorry to keep you. I spilled some of that green stuff on my shirt and didn’t fancy going out smelling like the ghost of absinthe past.’ Kit walked into the room and raised an eyebrow. Maddison had kicked off her shoes and was curled up in a corner of the sofa, the newspaper on her knee, looking as studiously un-detective-like as possible. ‘Comfy?’
‘Hmm? No, I was fine. Just finishing off your crossword. I think it’s Medusa.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Six down. Petrifying snakes. Medusa.’
‘Here, give me that.’ He took the paper off her and stared at the clue. ‘Of course. I should have thought...’ He looked back up and over at her, his eyes impossibly blue as they took her in.
‘Do you like puzzles, Maddison?’
‘I’m sorry?’ It took all her resolution to stay still under such scrutiny. It was as if he were looking at her for the first time, as if he were weighing her up.
‘Puzzles, quizzes? Do you like them?’
‘Well, sure. Doesn’t everyone?’ He didn’t reply, just stared at her in that disconcertingly intense way. ‘I mean, when I was a kid I wanted to be Nancy Drew.’ When she hadn’t dreamed of being Rory Gilmore, that was. She swung her legs to the floor. ‘I believe you mentioned a drink.’
He didn’t move for a long second, his eyes still focused on her, and then smiled, the familiar amused expression sliding back on to his face like a mask. ‘Of course. It’s not far. I hope you don’t mind the walk.’
Maddison hadn’t known what to expect on a night out with Kit Buchanan: a glitzy wine bar or maybe some kind of private members’ bar, all leather seats and braying, privileged laughter. She definitely hadn’t expected the comfortable pub Kit guided her into. The walls were hung with prints by local artists, the tables solid square wood surrounded by leather sofas and chairs. It was nearly full but it didn’t feel crowded or loud; it felt homely, like a pub from a book. The man behind the bar nodded at Kit and gave Maddison a speculative look as Kit guided her to a nook by the unlit fire before heading off to order their drinks.
‘I got a sharing platter as well,’ he said as he set the bottle of Prosecco on the table and placed a glass in front of her. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m starving. I never get a chance to eat at those work parties. It’s hard to schmooze with a half-eaten filo prawn in my mouth.’
‘When I started out in events sometimes canapés were all I did eat,’ Maddison confessed, watching as he filled her glass up. ‘New York is pricey for a girl out of college and free food is free food. Some days I would long for a good old-fashioned sub or a real-sized burger rather than an assortment of finger food! Turns out a girl can have too much caviar.’
‘Happy birthday.’ Kit handed her a glass before taking the seat opposite her, raising his glass to her. ‘You worked in events?’
She nodded. ‘After I graduated I joined a friend’s PR and events company.’ It had been the perfect job, working in the heart of Manhattan with the heart of society—until her friend had decided she preferred attending parties to planning them, being in the headlines rather than creating them. ‘After that I landed a junior management role at DL Media and then Brenda poached me. I’ve only worked in editorial for the last six months,’ she added. She still wasn’t sure how
