The Greek Doctor's New-Year Baby. Kate Hardy
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âDoes an appointment with an ironing board and a pile of laundry the height of K2 count?â she asked wryly.
âThat,â he said, âdoesnât sound like fun. How about having lunch with me first?â
âAs long as you let me pay,â she said. âMy treatâseeing as you shared your prize with me.â
He smiled. âI didnât mean in a restaurant. I donât live far from a tube station. Come and have lunch with me.â
Go to his home?
Sheâd have to be crazy, especially given the way her body had reacted to his on the balloon. âItâs a bit early for lunch.â It was barely eleven.
He shrugged. âWe were up early. Iâd say itâs lunchtime.â He raised an eyebrow, as if challenging her. He couldnât make it any clearer that he thought she was being a coward.
Well, she wasnât. âLunch,â she said, lifting her chin, âwould be lovely.â
âGood.â
He unlocked the front door of a tiny Victorian terrace with a pocket-handkerchief-sized front garden. The décor was neutralâwhich sheâd expected from a rented houseâthough a brief glance into the living room as she passed the open door showed framed photographs clustered on the mantelpiece. So clearly he was trying to make the place home rather than just somewhere to live.
âAnything I can do to help?â she asked.
âYou can put the kettle on, if you like.â His eyes glittered with amusement. âDonât worryâI have English coffee.â He retrieved a cafetière and a bag of ground coffee from the cupboard above the kettle, and sliced open the seal. âIf I was going to make proper coffeeâthe way I drink itâIâd use a briki.â It must have shown on her face that she didnât understand, because he said, âItâs a Greek coffee-potâyou use it straight on the stove.â
Heâd already removed his jacket and hung it on the newel post, but now he stripped off his sweater to reveal a white V-necked T-shirt. One that clung in all the right places.
Heâd looked hot in a suit. Gorgeous in that leather jacket and sweater. But now, in jeans and that white T-shirt, he was completely edible.
Madison only just stopped herself touching him.
But no way could she keep her fleece on. She was melting as it was. âIt is OK if I put my fleece on top of your jacket?â
âSure. Now, letâs see.â He was rummaging in the fridge and stacking a pile of ingredients on the worktops. âAnything you donât eat or youâre allergic to?â
âI like all food.â As long as she didnât have to cook it.
âGood. So weâll start with toasted pitta and hummus, then chicken and salad.â He handed her a bottle of milk. âNo sugar for me, please.â
It felt oddly domestic, making coffee for them both while he chopped salad. Sheâd never done this with Harry. Then again, she and Harry had hardly ever been at home together. Theyâd nearly always eaten out, neither of them being particularly fond of cooking. âAnything else I can do to help?â she asked when sheâd filled their mugs, added milk and returned the bottle to the fridge.
âYou can lay the table in the dining room, if you like. The cutleryâs in the top drawer and plates are in the cupboard next to the kettle.â Meanwhile, he was whisking lemon juice and olive oil and fresh herbs in a bowl as if he were a born chef.
She collected the cutlery and went through to the dining room. There was a small dining table with four chairs, and a computer table with a desk lamp and laptop; next to it was a bookcase, stuffed with textbooks she recognised and other books that were printed in Greek and could have been anything from medicine to poetry. There were more photographs on the mantelpiece and a stunning watercolour of a Mediterranean seascape.
Sheâd just finished laying the table and was about to take a closer look at the photographs when Theo walked in, carrying a plate with hot pitta bread and a bowl of hummus.
âLunch. And Iâm really ready for this. Must be the fresh air.â He gave her another of those knee-buckling smiles.
The hummus was goodâto the point where she suspected it probably hadnât been bought from the deli counter of the local supermarket. And when he brought in the next courseâa salad of cucumber, tomatoes, olives, red peppers and salty feta cheese, to go with chicken heâd marinated briefly in that dressing before grilling itâshe knew for sure that heâd made it himself.
Theo Petrakis was simply gorgeous. Body, mind and heartâsheâd seen him in action in the department enough to know he was kind and clever. And he was a great cook to boot.
If she wasnât careful, she could really fall for him.
âThat was fabulous,â she said when theyâd finished. âYouâre an excellent cook.â
âThat wasnât cooking,â he said. âThat was throwing stuff together from the fridge.â He held her gaze, his dark eyes flecked with green and gold and grey. âOne evening Iâll cook you a proper Greek meal, if you like.â
Oh, sheâd like. âThank you.â
And again her heart felt as if it had done one of those odd little flips. She decided to take refuge in a safer topic: work. âSo where did you train?â she asked.
âWith a surname like Petrakis, where do you think?â he teased.
Greece? âYour English is perfect and you barely have an accent.â Just enough to be exotic. Sexy as hell. âAnd Englandâs a pretty multicultural place. So Iâm not going to presume to guess.â
âI trained in Greece,â he said. âBut I came to England five years ago. Iâve been working in the Midlands.â
âJob enrichment?â she guessed.
He shrugged. âMy grandparents are English. I wanted to spend some time getting to know them.â
âYou didnât see them much of them when you were growing up?â
âNo.â
Something in his tone warned her that this was a sore spot, something to be left alone.
âWhat about you?â he asked.
âI trained in London, but my familyâs from Suffolk. My cousin Katrina lives a couple of doors down from me, so if weâre on the same shift I see her quite a bit out of work.â
âIs she a doctor too?â
Madison