A New Year Marriage Proposal (Harlequin Romance) (7 page)

He made two mugs of coffee and cut two slices of the cake. Which tasted even better than it smelled. He could get addicted to this stuff.

‘So what are you doing this morning—if you can tell me?’ she asked.

‘What I can tell you is that it’s to do with surveillance systems.’

‘Surveillance systems.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Could you make one for a house?’

She wanted a surveillance system? Given what she’d told him last night, the question made him frown. ‘What’s worrying you, Carissa? Is your ex stalking you? Because, if he is, I know people who can have a quiet word with him and scare the hell out of him to make sure he leaves you alone in future. And, yes, of course I can do a surveillance system for you.’

‘He’s not stalking me.’ She lifted her chin. ‘And I’m fine.’

Quinn knew a lie when he heard one. The second bit was definitely a lie. She wasn’t fine at all.

‘I wasn’t asking you about a system for my house,’ she said.

‘Whose house, then?’

She bit her lip. ‘I need to think about this. Anyway, that’s not why I came to see you. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.’

‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

But there was something else. He could tell from the way she was sitting that there was something on her mind—something making her a little tense. ‘Why do I get the feeling that the cake was softening me up for another of your alleged proofs of the magic of Christmas?’ he asked

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Actually, I’m after your biceps.’

All his blood drained south and he had an immediate vision of lifting her up and carrying her to his bed. Not that it was going to happen. Given what her ex had done, Quinn knew he was lucky that she trusted him to be nearer to her than a ten-foot bargepole would allow.

‘Why exactly do you need my biceps?’ he asked. Then a really nasty thought hit him. ‘You’re not doing a calendar or something, are you, to raise funds for Project Sparkle?’

She laughed. ‘No, but you’d hold your own in a group of bare-chested firefighters on a calendar photo. My PA thinks that smart-is-the-new-sexy headline was spot on.’

‘I wasn’t fishing,’ Quinn said loftily, but secretly he was flattered. Very flattered. ‘So why do you need my biceps?’

‘To haul a tree about.’

Oh, no. ‘Would this be a Christmas tree?’ he asked, knowing that the answer was perfectly obvious, so the question didn’t actually need asking in the first place.

‘It’s the first of December today. I always put my tree up on the first of December.’

‘Right. So this means a trip to a forest or something?’

‘No—a market in the East End,’ she said. ‘Though I plan to drive. We’re not lugging a tree up and down the escalators and on the Tube.’

Market? He struggled to compute that one. ‘But you’re not the type to shop at a market.’

‘Don’t be such a snob,’ she said crisply.

‘Carissa, you live in a mews house in Belgravia, you’re a lawyer, and you wear designer clothes,’ he pointed out. ‘The only market you’d shop in would be a posh farmers’ market.’

She folded her arms. ‘I’ll have you know that I come from East End barrow-boy stock—generations of them. My family’s had a fruit stall in an East End market for years and years and years.’

He blinked at her. ‘But I thought your grandfather was a barrister? Are you trying to tell me your family’s not posh?’

‘Mum’s is,’ she said, ‘but Dad’s isn’t.’

And her accent was completely cut glass. No way would she fit in with people who spoke broad Cockney. ‘Don’t you feel out of place?’

‘What, when I visit Nan and Poppy?’ She laughed. ‘No way—I’m a Wylde. Totally one of them. They all loved my mum and they all get on well with Granny and Gramps, too.’

He couldn’t quite process this. The posh girl was actually from a very ordinary family?

She grinned at his obvious confusion. ‘Where do you think I learned to bake brownies like that? Poppy had a fruit stall and Nan had a cake stall. I used to help on a Saturday morning when I was little by polishing the red apples for Poppy or helping Nan bake.’

‘Poppy?’ Wasn’t that a girl’s name? Her aunt—or her grandmother’s partner?

‘Nan and Pops,’ she explained. ‘My paternal grandparents. Except I used to call my grandfather “Poppy” when I was about two and it kind of stuck.’

Cute. Irresistibly cute. Quinn could just imagine Carissa as a toddler.

And that scared him even more. He wasn’t interested in kids. Never had been. He’d never wanted them. So why was he suddenly thinking about toddlers and wondering what Carissa’s children would look like?

He needed to change the subject. Fast. Before his head got
really
carried away with the fantasy of Carissa and children.

So her dad’s family had a market stall. ‘Didn’t they expect your dad to go into the family business?’

‘No. Dad was the youngest of four, and all he ever did was sing. He picked up his teacher’s guitar at infant school and taught himself to play. She realised he was a born musician and Nan and Poppy always supported him.’ She smiled. ‘They told him to follow his dreams—and if he didn’t make it, they’d still be there.’

What would it be like to have that kind of family? Close-knit, supportive?

His own family had been dismissive of his endless messing about with computers, convinced there was no future in it—and even pointing out the success of giants such as Bill Gates and Steve Jobs hadn’t convinced them that Quinn would have a much better and more lucrative career in software development than in working seven days a week in a corner shop. And they hadn’t quite forgiven him for being right. Particularly during the recession. He’d tried to do the right thing and it had gone badly, badly wrong.

And he’d
really
picked the wrong topic of conversation here.

‘That’s nice,’ he said neutrally.

‘So can I borrow your biceps?’

‘In exchange for cake that I’ve already eaten?’

She wrinkled her nose, and she looked so cute that he really had to rein himself back. ‘That sounds a bit bad. You
can
say no.’

‘What, and leave you to lug a tree about on your own?’

‘I won’t be on my own. Someone’ll give me a hand. We look after our own in the East End.’

A Cockney girl with a posh voice. Quinn still couldn’t quite get his head around that.

And he also wasn’t that keen on the idea of some other guy impressing her with his biceps.

‘Let’s go and get your tree,’ he said.

CHAPTER SIX

C
ARISSA
’
S
CAR
TURNED
out to be an estate car in soft gunmetal grey. It was a prestige marque, and bore a discreet personalised number plate; though it surprised Quinn, as he’d expected her to drive a little red sports car with a soft top.

‘What, one you can’t fit anything in and you can only ever have one passenger? Totally impractical,’ Carissa scoffed, when he said as much.

True. But Carissa was wealthy. Wouldn’t she have a car like that just for fun and sunny days? ‘You don’t have a second car?’ he asked.

‘No. A car’s just a means of getting somewhere.’ She shrugged. ‘I really don’t get why men think cars are so special.’

‘It’s Y-chromosome stuff,’ Quinn said, and shut up.

Luckily Carissa was a confident driver, so he could relax in the passenger seat. And she’d clearly driven this route often enough to know exactly where she was going, not needing to use a GPS system. She was also confident in parking, he noticed—though she’d also parked in a restricted area. ‘Aren’t you supposed to have a permit to park here?’ he asked.

‘Yes. And I’ll have a visitor’s permit in a couple of minutes,’ she said.

‘Visitor’s permit?’

‘Nan and Poppy live right there.’ She pointed to an ordinary terraced house. ‘Dad would’ve bought them somewhere bigger, but they refused to move from the house where he was born, so he gave in and bought it for them.’ She smiled. ‘And a little cottage by the sea. Which is why in the summer I got to make sandcastles every single day when I was little.’

He was surprised at how normal Carissa’s upbringing had been, give that she was a pop star’s daughter. And he was also envious. Living in the Midlands, he’d been miles from the sea. And holidays had been pretty much out of the question, given the shop’s schedule. He’d been almost ten the first time he’d been to the seaside.

She climbed out of the car. ‘Coming?’

And now she was planning to introduce him to her family? Oh, help. He’d been here before and it had been a disaster. ‘Won’t I be in the way?’ he asked, hoping the panic didn’t show in his voice.

‘How, when you’re my hired muscle?’ She paused. ‘By the way, Nan’s brownies are better than mine.’

He was out of the car two seconds later, and she laughed. ‘You are
so
easily bought.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, rolling his eyes, and followed her down the path.

Carissa was greeted with a hug by an older woman who bore a strong resemblance to her. They were joined by a man waving a piece of paper at her—clearly the parking permit, because she said, ‘I’ll just put this in the windscreen. I’ll be back in a tick.’ Though to Quinn’s relief she introduced them before she went. ‘Nan, Poppy, this is Quinn O’Neill, my neighbour. I’m borrowing his biceps to lug my tree around. Quinn, these are my grandparents, Tom and Mary Wylde.’

‘Come in,’ Mary said.

Quinn followed her into the kitchen—which smelled as gloriously of baking as Carissa’s—and took up her offer of a seat at the table. As Carissa’s grandmother put the kettle on, he could feel her grandparents sizing him up.

‘So you live in Grove End?’ Tom asked.

He nodded. ‘I moved in a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Work in the City, do you?’ Tom asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Quinn could guess where this was going. ‘No. I work in computers,’ he said. Which was true—just not the whole truth.

Tom Wylde looked visibly relieved at the fact he wasn’t a City high flyer.

Although Quinn was pretty sure that Carissa hadn’t told her family exactly what had happened with Justin, he also guessed that the Wyldes had been suspicious of the man. And with good reason.

‘I’m not dating Carissa,’ he said, to reassure them. Also true, though it was skating a bit on the borders of the truth. The couple of times he and Carissa had gone out together had been purely to do with their wager; and yet they’d ended up kissing at the skating rink. ‘But I am working with her on a project,’ he added.

He’d used the word deliberately, and he saw the Wyldes relax even more. ‘What kind of project?’ Mary asked, clearly trying to sound casual.

‘I believe she has a confidentiality clause,’ he said, ‘so I’ll just say “fairy dust” and leave it at that, if I may.’

They nodded approvingly at him.

Carissa strolled into the kitchen at that point. ‘Nan, Poppy, I hope you’re not giving Quinn a hard time. He’s being very kind and helping me.’

‘Not
that
kind. She’s paying me in brownies,’ Quinn said.

Carissa rolled her eyes. ‘I knew you’d bring that up. Nan, I told him you make better brownies than I do.’

‘Hmm.’ But Mary Wylde took a tin from a cupboard, put brownies on a plate, and offered them to Quinn along with the strongest cup of tea he’d ever had in his life.

She waited for his verdict.

‘Am I allowed to say it’s a tie?’ Quinn asked, when he’d eaten the first one.

‘No,’ Carissa said, not letting him off the hook.

‘That isn’t very fair. If I say your grandmother’s are better, then I’m insulting you. If I say yours are better, then I’m insulting your grandmother,’ Quinn pointed out. ‘Either way, I lose.’

There was amusement in Tom’s face.

Carissa folded her arms, leaned against the worktop and stared at him.

And she looked right at home here, Quinn thought. Where she belonged.

He suppressed his envy. He’d never really felt that he belonged anywhere. Yet Carissa was clearly as relaxed and comfortable in a modest terraced house as she was in a posh mews house in Belgravia. She could fit in anywhere, whereas he was just a fake. ‘Right. Yours are squidgier in the middle, Carissa, and yours are crisper on the outside, Mrs Wylde. They’re different, but equal.’

‘Good answer, son,’ Tom said, and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Have you had a word with Big Jake about your tree, Carissa?’

‘Last week,’ she confirmed. ‘He’s got me a seven-footer.’

‘He’ll see you right,’ Tom said with a smile. He looked at Quinn. ‘Big Jake’s dad started the stall not long after I took over ours. They’re three down from us—bedding plants in the summer, Christmas trees in the winter, and a few shrubs in between.’

And Quinn would just bet that they helped each other out at busy times. There was definite camaraderie there. The kind of camaraderie that hadn’t really existed between his uncle and aunt and their fellow shopkeepers.

When they’d finished their mugs of tea, they said their goodbyes to Carissa’s grandparents and headed for the market. Half the stallholders seemed to know her and greet her with a smile. As they reached the Wyldes’ fruit stall, Carissa was enveloped in a bear hug by her uncle George and her cousin Little George; the name was clearly just to distinguish him from his father, because Little George was over six feet tall.

‘So you’re helping our girl?’ George asked.

‘Neighbour. Tree-carrying duties,’ Quinn said economically.

George clapped him on the back. ‘Good lad.’

Three stalls down, Carissa looked at her tree and haggled with Big Jake—who lived up to his name, because he was taller than Little George and twice as broad. Clearly it was all banter and they were both enjoying themselves, Quinn thought, and this was another side to Carissa. A side he liked very much.

Once they’d come to an agreement and had finalised it with a hug, it was Quinn’s job to carry the tree back to the car. The scent of pine was strong in his nostrils, sharp and clean.

She’d put the back seat down before driving here so it was easier to load, and he noticed that she’d laid a blanket down so the needles wouldn’t spill everywhere in the back of her car. He had to hide a smile; Carissa was so good at organisation and planning that she would’ve been great working for some of his clients.

‘You’re quiet,’ she said, on the way back.

‘Thinking about work,’ he fibbed.

She grimaced. ‘Sorry, I’ve taken up too much of your time this morning.’

‘No, it’s fine. Sometimes it’s good to walk away from my desk and let things brew in the back of my mind,’ he said. He paused. ‘Your uncle and cousin seemed really pleased to see you.’

‘Yes—and it was lovely to see them.’ She smiled. ‘We really need to sort out a family get-together soon. I guess we’re all a bit busy at this time of year.’

Mmm, and didn’t Quinn know it. Late November onwards was when the corner shop had been full of tins of biscuits and chocolates, and stock had sometimes ended up spilling over into the house when his uncle had been to the cash and carry. Stock that he’d once made the mistake of opening. He hadn’t been able to resist the chocolate tree decorations in their shiny paper, and his uncle had been furious.

He pushed the thought away. Not now. He didn’t want to think about his family. Or how long it had been since he’d seen them.

‘They’ll all be there for the Wylde Ward opening, though,’ she continued. ‘Both sides of my family.

‘I guess they remember you being in hospital.’

She nodded. ‘My uncles and aunts visited every single day. They took it in turns to do a shift so my mum and dad weren’t on their own, and made sure they had something to eat because they knew my parents were so worried about me and wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.’

‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Supportive.’ Not all families were like that. Not many, in his experience. Carissa Wylde had really lucked out.

‘Dad always remembered how good they were. The band hadn’t made it big at that point, and just before I was born he had been planning to give up the band and get a job—probably teaching music. But his brothers and sisters wouldn’t let him. They told him to give it another year and they’d help him out if he was short of money.’

She smiled. ‘He never forgot that. So when the Santa song hit number one, he knew what he was going to do with the money as well as setting up the trust fund—he paid off their mortgages and set up college funds for my cousins. He said if they didn’t go to college, then they’d have the deposit for a flat and a bit of support for their career.’

The same as he had done, when he’d developed the app that had made his fortune. In the middle of the recession, when the shop had been in trouble, he’d bailed out his aunt and uncle. He’d paid off their overdraft and their mortgage, as well those of his cousins. But unlike Carissa’s father he hadn’t really done it out of love. He’d done it so he could make sure he’d paid back every single penny they’d ever spent on him and he didn’t feel in their debt any more.

In turn, he knew they resented him for doing it because he’d done it quietly, without telling them or making a fuss. He knew he’d made them feel guilty for the way they’d begrudged him as a child. And guilt wasn’t a good thing where family was concerned. Sometimes it was easier to sulk in silence than to apologise for past hurts.

Carissa didn’t seem to notice that he’d gone quiet again.

‘The thing is, if any of them had won the lottery or made it big in business, they would all have done the same as he did—looked after their family, because they all love each other.’

Would his cousins have done that for him? Quinn didn’t think so—and he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen them. Which in turn made him feel uncomfortable and guilty. Maybe he should make more of an effort. Didn’t they say that blood was thicker than water? Then again, it worked both ways, and his family didn’t make the effort either.

‘Your dad,’ he said, ‘sounds special.’

‘The whole family is—on both sides.’

At least she seemed to realise how lucky she was.

‘Dad was one of the good guys of rock,’ she said. ‘He never bothered with the bad-boy stuff of sex and drugs and rock and roll—well, except the music bit,’ she added with a grin. ‘He was always faithful to my mum. He liked a beer with his mates, but there was never any of this getting totally wrecked and smashing up hotel rooms on tour. It was a kind of a joke that they were called the Wylde Boys but they weren’t in the slightest bit wild.’

‘Ironic,’ he agreed.

Finally they were back at Grove End Mews. Quinn hauled the tree out of her car and carried it up the stairs. ‘Where do you want me to take it?’ he asked.

‘The living room, please.’

Again, trust Carissa to be organised. She had a tub ready and earth to cover the tree’s roots. He helped her put the tree in the tub and really hoped that she wasn’t going to ask him to help decorate it. Right now he was pretty much Christmassed out.

‘The least I can do is to make you some lunch, if you have time,’ Carissa said.

Time. That was his perfect excuse.

But again his mouth wasn’t playing ball. ‘Thanks. I’d like that.’

She made a plate of sandwiches—the softest sourdough bread, filled with sharp cheddar cheese and paired with sweet chilli chutney. Being Carissa, she served it with salad.

‘Making sure we get our five a day?’ he teased

‘Considering you’d try and tell me pizza’s a food group,’ she teased back.

‘That’s because it is,’ he deadpanned.

‘Thanks for coming with me today, Quinn.’

‘Pleasure,’ he said politely. Even though it had unsettled him slightly.

‘I love this bit of Christmas. The scent of a proper tree, then trimming it.’

He’d always hated that bit. They’d had an artificial tree, with thin tinsel that never really sparkled. He could still remember being shouted at when he’d dropped a couple of the glass baubles—they’d shattered, and one of his cousins had stepped on a thin shard of glass and ended up in the emergency department to have it removed. Christmas that year had been one of deep contrition.

She looked at him and sighed. ‘You hate all that, don’t you?’

‘Bah, humbug,’ he said, not wanting to tell her any more.

‘I won’t ask you to help me, then,’ she said.

‘And please don’t present me with a mini decorated tree.’ Because it would be just like her to do that.

‘You bought me Christmassy fairy lights for my laptop,’ she reminded him.

‘That’s different. Actually, now you’ve made me think of Project Sparkle,’ he said, relieved to change the subject. ‘I was going to ask you, how do you choose the projects you get involved with?’