Oh.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘You know, Leo, I saw the most intriguing thing about lobsters on the internet.’
‘Yes?’ He sounded wary.
‘They are actually immortal! They stay alive until they get eaten.’
‘That can’t be true.’
‘Which means coming back as a lobster in the next life wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Except...’ Nose-wrinkle. ‘Well, I’m not sure that when they’re caught they’re always killed humanely. So you might be lucky enough to live for ever—or you might get thrown into a pot of boiling water and be absolutely screaming, without even having the ability to make a sound, because some sadistic cook couldn’t be bothered to kill you first.’
Leo gave a sigh brimming with long suffering. ‘Okay—barramundi it is,’ he said. ‘Coated with lemon and caper butter and wrapped in pancetta, served with in-season asparagus.’
‘That sounds divine. And so much more humane.’
‘I am not a lobster sadist,’ Leo said, sounding as if he were gritting his teeth.
‘Well, of course not.’
There was the tic. ‘And they are not immortal.’
‘Well, they might be—who would know? And they can, a hundred per cent, live to about one hundred and forty years. Which is almost immortal.’
He regarded her through narrowed eyes. ‘How is it you’ve made it to twenty-five without being murdered?’
‘You’re definitely watching too many crime shows.’
‘Dessert,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m thinking about figs.’
‘Figs. Oh.’ Sip of tea.
‘“Figs oh” what? Is this the fruit version of your vegetarian hang-up? Because there will be sugar, you know.’
‘It’s not th— Actually, it is partly that. But, more to the point, I think fig pollination is kind of disgusting.’
He had that fascinated look going on.
‘Wasps,’ she said.
‘Wasps?’
‘They burrow into the fig and lay their eggs in the fruit, then die in there. Ergh. And it’s quite brutal, because on the way in the poor wasp can lose her wings and her antennae—it’s a tight fit, I guess. Come on—you have to agree that’s a bit repulsive. And sad too.’
Leo had closed his eyes. Tic, tic, tic.
A moment passed. Another. He opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘So, we’ll serve a variation on the glacé I made for you at Q Brasserie—perhaps with a rose syrup base. And, because it’s a wedding, some Persian confetti.’
Sunshine beamed at him. ‘That’s just perfect.’
‘And remember I know your modus operandi, Sunshine Smart-Ass.’
‘But I don’t have one of those!’
Leo simply put up the ‘stop’ hand. ‘For the non-seafood-lovers there will be ricotta tortellini with burnt-sage butter sauce as an alternative first course, and either chargrilled lime and mint chicken or a Moroccan-style chickpea tagine for your fellow commune dwellers for the main course.’
‘Oh, even the chickpea thing sounds good. Because chickpeas are sort of like the meat of vegetables, don’t you think?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘What about the cake?’
‘Four options: traditional fruit cake, salted caramel—which we can do with either a chocolate or butterscotch base—or coconut.’
‘Oh! Oh! Could we do one of those cake-tasting things? You know, where you sit around and try before you buy? I would so love to do a cake-tasting.’
‘For the love of God, can’t we just ask the guys what they want?’
‘What would be the fun in that?’ Sunshine asked, mystified.
Leo ran that hand over his head. ‘I’ll talk to Anton—he’s my pâtissier.’
‘And I have the most amazing idea for the decoration. Kind of Art Deco—my current favourite thing. Square tiers, decorated with hand-cut architectural detailing, in white and shades of grey, with painted silver accents. Wait a moment—I’ve got a photo.’
Sunshine leapt off the couch and raced into her office, grabbed the photo and raced back out. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, thrusting it at him.
But Leo was looking past her into the office.
She’d forgotten to close the door.
‘Oh,’ she said, seeing through his eyes the green-striped wallpaper, the reproduction antique furniture painted in vivid blues, reds, and yellows, the framed prints of lusciously coloured shoes through the ages hung on the walls.
The urn with Moonbeam’s ashes. In his direct line of sight.
Oh, no! Sunshine raced back to close the door.
‘So!’ she said, her heart beating hard as she came back to sit beside him. ‘So! The cake.’
‘I’ll talk to Anton,’ Leo said absently, still looking at the closed door.
Sunshine decided drastic action was needed—just to make sure he didn’t ask to actually go in there.
Going with gut feeling—and, all right, secret desire—she hugged him.
He seemed to freeze for a moment, and then his arms came around her. He gathered her in for one moment. She heard, felt him inhale slowly.
Wow! He was actually touching her! Voluntarily! Except that this wasn’t exactly touching—it was more. Better! Absorbing! He was absorbing her! Talk about exclamation mark overload!
His arms were so hard. So was his chest. It should have felt like being pulled against a brick wall...and yet there was something yielding about him. His hand came up, touched the back of her head, fingers sliding into her hair.
Good. But Sunshine wanted more. Much more.
She pulled out of his arms, sat back, looked at him. ‘I don’t know how you’re going to take this, Leo,’ she said, ‘but I want to have sex with you.’
Leo stared. Couldn’t so much as blink.
A minute ticked by.
She was waiting for him to speak, her head tilted—the curious bird look.
Had
