date.
It was probably a good thing she had said yes. It was so long since she had been on any kind of date she was bound to be a little rusty, a little awkward. This was an opportunity to practise without any pesky expectations hanging over her.
And that was all this fizz in her veins was. It certainly had nothing to do with Raff Rafferty. It was about a pretty dress, a chance to wear her hair down, to put on a lipstick a little darker, a little redder than she wore for work. A chance for heels.
No, Clara decided, eying herself critically in the mirror, she didn’t look too shabby. The vintage-style green tea dress was flattering and demure teamed with black patent Mary Janes and her hair was behaving for once, falling in a soft wave onto her shoulders.
She glanced at her watch. Five minutes. She wanted to be downstairs, sitting at her desk, working when he arrived. She might be all dressed up but this was work. Letting him upstairs, into her private space, was a step far too far.
And there could be no blurred lines.
She took a long look around the small, cosy sitting room. It wasn’t the grandest of homes, the fanciest. But it was hers, hers and Summer’s. Her sanctuary.
She’d bought it, paid for it, chosen the wallpaper, decorated it. Okay, there was a patch where it wasn’t perfectly lined up but it was hers.
Raff would dominate the room, suck all the air out of the space.
Make it unsafe.
The urge to sink onto the overstuffed velvet sofa was almost overwhelming. To play hooky from work, from responsibilities, from this devil’s pact. She could curl up with a large bar of chocolate and a Cary Grant film, block out the world for a few blissful hours. She pulled her phone out of her bag—one call and this whole crazy arrangement would be over before it had even begun.
Just one click. So easy.
Her finger moved to the contact list icon and hovered there.
Brrriiiing! The doorbell’s loud chime echoed through the room, making her jump.
Panic caught in her throat, making breathing difficult for one long second. Clara put her hand to her stomach and took a deep breath, purposefully clearing her mind, filling her lungs, allowing herself a moment to calm.
This isn’t real, she told herself. This is work. This is my business. I’m happy to clean loos, I’ll stock shelves, I even pick up dog dirt. I should be looking forward to a few weeks of socialising instead. Any of my staff would kill to swap with me.
She could do this.
But a part of her would much rather be scrubbing a room out from top to bottom, picture rail to skirting boards, than spend any more time alone with Raff Rafferty.
And the other part of her was looking forward to it just a little bit too much.
* * *
‘Relax, this is supposed to be fun.’ Raff threw an amused look over at his passenger. Clara sat up ramrod straight, clutching the seat as if it were her last hope. ‘I’m a safe driver.’
‘In a very old car.’
‘She’s not old, she’s vintage.’ He patted the steering wheel appreciatively. ‘These Porsche 911s were the It Car in their day.’
‘In the middle of the last century.’
‘She’s not quite that old. This is a seventies’ design classic.’ It was the only car Raff had ever owned. She might be red, convertible and need a lot of loving maintenance but she was a link to his father, the only link he had.
‘The seventies,’ Clara scoffed. ‘The decade that taste forgot.’
Raff grinned. ‘Sit back, Clara. Enjoy it—the wind in your hair—if you’d let me put the top down that is, the green of the countryside flashing by. What’s not to love?’
Clara was twisting the silver bangle she was wearing round and round. ‘A date, you said. I thought you meant a drink in The Swan or, if you wanted to go crazy, a meal at Le Maison Bleu. This isn’t a date. This is kidnap.’
‘We are supposed to have been together for a few months. Mad about each other.’ Her body got even more rigid if that was at all possible. Raff suppressed a smile. ‘So, we need to create a relationship full of memories in just one day. Now we can do this the easy way and actually enjoy ourselves or we can endure a torturous afternoon full of monosyllables and long silences.’ His mouth quirked. ‘Now, if we were faking a marriage then the latter would be fine.’
Was that a smile? An infinitesimal relaxation of all those rigid muscles?
‘What’s your favourite colour?’
‘My what?’ That made her move. Her head swung round so fast he thought she might get whiplash.
‘Your favourite colour?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t even...why on earth do you want to know that?’
‘I’ll go first.’ He leant back into the leather seat, enjoying the cold of the steering wheel under his hands, the purr of the engine. ‘Okay, my favourite colour is sea blue, the sea on a perfect sunny day. Favourite food is a good old-fashioned roast dinner, which is the boarding school boy in me, I know, but there are times when just the thought of Yorkshire puddings keeps me going. I didn’t think I was a cat or a dog person but after three days of Mr Simpkins I am definitely veering towards the canine. You?’
He sneaked a look over at his passenger. She was still gripping onto the seat but her knuckles were no longer white. ‘If I’d known there was going to be a quiz I’d have prepared,’ she said, but her voice was less frosty.
It took a few long moments before she spoke again. ‘Okay, green, I think. Spring is my favourite season. I hate it when the trees are bare. I grew up with cats so I’ll stick up for Mr Simpkins. What was the other one? Food? It’s not sophisticated but when I was travelling and eating all this amazing street food I craved cheese sandwiches. My dad’s cheese sandwiches. Home-made bread, cheddar so mature it can’t remember being young and his patented plum chutney.’
‘Just a simple sandwich?’
‘As simple as it gets in my house. Dad’s a foodie.’
‘You went travelling?’ That was unexpected. Maybe they had something in common after all. ‘I can’t exactly visualise you with a backpack! How old were you?’
There was a long pause. ‘Eighteen,’ she said finally.
‘Where did you go?’ As Raff knew all too well, most people jumped at the opportunity to recount every second of their travels. It could be worse than listening to other people’s dreams. Clara Castleton was obviously the exception; her silence was so chilly it was as if he’d asked her to recite The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Backwards.
‘Thailand to start with,’ she said reluctantly after the pause got too long. ‘Cambodia, Vietnam and then Bali and on to Australia.’ She paused again. ‘I was there for two years.’
Raff
