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BETH THOMAS
An Unforgettable Proposal Part of the Love…Maybe Eshort Collection: The Guilty One
Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015
Copyright © Beth Thomas 2015
Beth Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008136130
Version: 2015–01–23
Table of Contents
When I get to the restaurant, the maître d’ shows me to our usual table. It’s empty but that’s OK; I don’t mind getting here first. I had expected to anyway, and to be honest I am ten minutes early. But I’ve been looking forward to this all week and couldn’t wait any longer. I don’t even mind that I’m sitting at a restaurant table on my own on Valentine’s Day. I know Sam is going to be here soon, so no one has to feel sorry for me.
Our table is by the window so I can watch the street. Look out for him. The traffic comes and goes but none of it interests me. In a few moments, I’ll see him and finally it’ll feel like the day has started. I glance at my watch. Almost seven-thirty. He’s generally only slightly late, so probably only another five or six minutes to wait.
I order us both a drink so Sam’s will be here waiting for him (all right, maybe it was mostly to let everyone else in the restaurant know that I am expecting someone to join me) and sip mine as I wait. I think about making a rushed trip to the loo to check my hair, but then I hear his motorbike on the street and a second or two later it comes into sight. As I watch, he slows it right down and expertly bumps up onto the pavement right outside the window. One of the advantages of riding a motorbike: being able to park anywhere. Another one: legitimately turning up everywhere fully clad in leather.
I start smiling as I watch him flick down the stand, dismount, then take off his helmet and turn. I am, as usual, caught off guard by his beauty; his long blonde hair messy from the ride, his broad shoulders, his leather-clad thighs. How is it possible that this guy, this amazing, sexy, funny, charming guy, is my guy? A couple of girls walking past on the pavement clock him and sway a bit, trying to get his attention, but he doesn’t even glance at them. He’s scanning the restaurant window looking for me, and when he sees me a big grin appears instantly on his face. My own poor heart thumps like a dog’s tail as we lock eyes, then he tucks his helmet under his arm and starts walking towards the door.
Just before he gets there, he stops abruptly. He scratches his head and exaggeratedly looks down at his hands, apparently just noticing that the only thing he’s carrying is his crash helmet. He appears to think for a second, then pantomimes suddenly remembering something by snapping his fingers and jerking his head back. He turns dramatically round to face his bike and walks back across the pavement towards it. He knows he’s got my undivided attention as, with giant movements, he unlocks the box on the back of the bike and reaches inside, then turns to face me again. I’m laughing a little now, sat alone at my table watching this lovely man gesturing something to me. He points at me, then puts his hand over his eyes. Then points at me again. I nod and smile – he can’t see whether I’ve closed my eyes or not from there. But he cocks his head and puts his hands on his hips. I nod again, feeling foolish, trying to chuckle silently, then raise my own hand and cover my eyes. I spread my fingers a little, though, so I can still see him. Sure enough, he turns back to the box and reaches in, then turns suddenly back round to check on me. A fat laugh escapes me, and he points at me accusingly, knowing I can still see him. He taps his foot and mimes looking at his watch, glances around the street, up at the sky, whistles, folds his arms. So I put both hands over my eyes and block him out altogether. Next time I look, the bike is alone.
*
Two years ago today we were both at the same party. A Valentine’s Day event for singles, I’m sorry to say, but that’s how it’s done these days. He walked straight over to me, beer bottle in hand, and said, ‘Do you come here often?’ Then he took a swig as I tried to collect myself and think of a witty and urbane reply.
‘I refuse to answer that on the grounds that I might incriminate myself. You?’
He laughed, pleased, and nodded. ‘Ha. Well I wouldn’t say I was here often exactly, unless you count once a year for five years often.’ I snorted out a subtle laugh. There was absolutely no way he had spent the last five Valentine’s Days at an event for singles like this one. He was probably only about twenty-one, for a start. And completely gorgeous, in a stubbly, long-haired, leather-clad kind of way. The best kind of way. He watched
