Falling for Mr. December (10 page)

* * *

The following evening, Sammy met her best friends at Claire's shop for the dress fitting. She put on the high heels she planned to wear with the dress, and Claire adjusted the hem.

‘You look a million dollars,' Ashleigh said, and looped the black pearls round Sammy's neck.

‘Totally stunning,' Claire agreed. ‘Your barrister isn't going to know what hit him.'

And there wasn't a single inch of leg displayed above Sammy's ankle. The dress was floaty, feminine and gorgeous, and Sammy didn't quite recognise herself in the mirror.

‘Thank you. Both of you.' The lump in her throat made her voice all croaky.

‘Hey. We want to see you as happy as we are,' Ashleigh said softly. ‘Which doesn't mean we're trying to marry you off—you don't have to be married to be happy. But I know you've been lonely since Bryn.'

‘Hey. I have a brilliant family and the best friends I could ask for,' Sammy said. ‘Asking for more is greedy.'

‘No, it's not,' Claire said. ‘You deserve it. Enjoy your date.'

* * *

So what would his mysterious Woman in Black be wearing today? Nick wondered. Something dressy, given their surroundings. But he was pretty sure it would be black.

As he became aware of someone entering the room, he looked up from checking the emails on his phone and did a double take.

Not black, then.

And very,
very
dressy.

He'd never have believed that Sammy scrubbed up so well. She took his breath away. She was wearing only the lightest make-up, but that dress...

He stood up when she walked over to their table. ‘You look amazing,' he said.

She blushed. ‘Thank you.'

‘Really amazing,' he said, sitting down again after the waiter had seated her.

‘And note that I'm not wearing black,' she said with a self-deprecating smile.

He smiled. ‘I'd guessed that you'd wear a little black dress. I'm glad I was wrong.'

‘I did tell you that my best friend's a dress designer. And she's amazingly talented.'

‘I'll second that,' he said.

The waiter ran through the list of teas. ‘I'd recommend one of the black or green teas with the sandwiches and savouries,' he said, ‘and then a fruit infusion with the sweet selection.'

‘That sounds perfect,' Sammy said. ‘Could I have Earl Grey, please?'

‘And for me, too,' Nick said.

‘I've never been here,' she said when the waiter had gone. ‘Claire and Ash—my best friends—would love this. It's like a proper Regency drawing room. And there's even a pianist.'

Nick raised an eyebrow. ‘He could be playing this one especially for you right now.'

‘Debussy's “Girl with the Flaxen Hair”.' She smiled back. ‘Maybe.'

‘Not a fan of Debussy?' he asked.

‘Beethoven all the way for me,' Sammy said.

Romantic. Why didn't that surprise him?

The waiter brought over their tea in a silver pot, and a sage-and-cream striped porcelain tray to match their cups, saucers and tea plates, filled with a selection of sandwiches and savouries.

‘I'm really glad I skipped lunch,' Sammy said. ‘I don't know where to start. The sandwiches—smoked salmon, roast beef, ham, or cucumber and cream cheese?'

‘I'd say the Welsh rarebit first, as it's hot,' Nick suggested. ‘Then maybe we should start at one end of the tray of sandwiches and work our way through.'

‘Great idea. This is such a treat. Thank you so much for inviting me.'

‘I can't think of anyone I'd rather share this with,' Nick said. And he realised how true it was. He enjoyed Sammy's company hugely. Strange that this was only their third official date. It felt as if he'd known her for years and years. He was comfortable with her, felt that he could be himself—and that was such a rare feeling. Something that made him want to take things a lot further between them. Because maybe Sammy was the one he could learn to trust. The one who'd help to mend his heart again.

Once they'd finished the savoury platter, he excused himself and had a quiet word with the pianist.

When the waiter brought the fruit teas—lemon verbena for him and strawberry and rhubarb for Sammy—with the three-tiered cake stand containing the sweet selection, Sammy looked at Nick with slightly narrowed eyes. ‘Did you just say something to the pianist?'

‘I might've done,' he said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.

‘The Moonlight Sonata is my favourite piece of music in the world,' she said softly. ‘And it's perfect right now. Perfect music, perfect food—and perfect company.'

His thoughts entirely. He gave her a tiny bow. ‘Why, thank you, ma'am.'

They made short work of the scones with clotted cream and jam, the lavender shortbread and the tiny rich selection of pastries.

‘Oh, yes—a verrine,' Sammy said, looking at the shot glass filled with panna cotta. ‘I love it when I get a commission in Paris. It means I get the chance to go to a certain patisserie and have one of their deconstructed desserts.'

‘Want to swap mine for your super-chocolatey brownie?' he asked.

She blinked. ‘You remembered that I don't like chocolate cake?'

‘Of course.' Why was she so surprised? Or maybe she'd just dated the wrong kind of man in the past. Someone who was selfish and never put her first. That would explain why she was single: dating someone selfish would definitely put you off relationships. Naomi had put him off relationships just as badly.

‘I've really enjoyed this,' she said when they'd finished. ‘Though I don't think I'm going to eat again for a week!'

‘Agreed. Though could I tempt you to a glass of wine back at my place?' he asked.

She smiled. ‘I'd like that.'

He ordered a taxi to take them back to his flat.

Nick already had half a dozen bottles of his favourite white wines chilling in his wine cooler; he swiftly opened one and poured them both a glass.

‘This is lovely,' Sammy said when she'd taken a sip. ‘What is it?'

‘Montrachet,' he explained. ‘It's one of the grand cru chardonnays.'

‘It's gorgeous. Really smooth.'

He hooked up his phone to his stereo system, and set some Beethoven piano music playing. And when Sammy put her wine glass on the low coffee table, she ended up curled against him on the sofa, with her head resting on his shoulder.

They didn't even have to talk; and it felt so good, just being together. She felt more relaxed with Nick than she ever had with anyone else—even in the early days with Bryn, before he'd killed her love stone dead and broken her heart.

She knew she ought to tell Nick about her past and explain about her leg; but she just couldn't find the right words, and she didn't want to spoil what had been such a perfect afternoon.

She reached up to trace the curve of his mouth with a forefinger. ‘I really enjoyed today.'

‘Me, too,' he said.

Even though she knew it was being greedy, wanting something she couldn't have, she couldn't resist stealing a kiss. He responded instantly, wrapping his arms tightly round her and kissing her back.

Everything about this man felt right.

But the fear was still there. Would she repulse him? When push came to shove, would he too think she wasn't enough of a woman for him?

‘Nick, I really have to go,' she said softly. ‘I've got a train to Edinburgh at the crack of dawn tomorrow, and it's a four-and-a-half-hour journey.'

‘Can I drive you home? I've only had one glass of wine, so I'm below the limit for driving. And yes, I know you're perfectly capable of taking the Tube,' he added swiftly, ‘but you're wearing high heels and that gorgeous dress and it won't be much fun keeping the hem out of the way on the escalators.'

True. And she liked the way he was thinking of her. ‘Thank you. That would be nice,' she said. Plus it meant she got to spend just a little bit more time with him.

‘So what are you doing in Edinburgh?' he asked as he drove her home.

‘I'm taking a portrait of a sculptor for one of the Sunday magazines. Actually, it's someone whose work I've admired for a while, so I'm really looking forward to meeting him,' she said. ‘What about you?'

‘Preparing for a trial which starts next week and might go on for a fortnight or so. How long are you away for?'

‘Three days,' she said. ‘Shall I call you when I get back?' And maybe on that long train journey she'd find the right words to tell him about her leg. And, if they managed to negotiate that and come out the other side in one piece, maybe they could do Date Four. Take another step towards a real relationship.

‘I'd like that,' he said. He parked outside her flat. ‘And I'm guessing you have to pack, check over your equipment and charge up various batteries.'

‘Something like that,' she said.

‘Then I won't ask to come in for coffee.' He cupped her face in his hand and kissed her goodnight so sweetly that she felt the tears prick her eyelids. ‘Sleep well,' he said softly.

‘You too,' she said, and stole a last kiss before climbing out of his car.

There was a message on her phone when she got up the next morning. Short, sweet and to the point:
Safe journey.

Have a good day in chambers,
she typed back.

She could really get used to dating Nick Kennedy.

But before she got too comfortable she really had to tell him the truth about herself...

CHAPTER SEVEN

W
HILE
S
AMMY
WAS
in Edinburgh, she had a chance to explore some of the shoreline of the Firth of Forth; the sculptor whose photograph she was taking was inspired by it, and took her and Ben, the journalist, for a short drive from the city down to Yellowcraigs. They headed off the beaten track, down through a pretty village to the parking area, and then walked out to the beach.

The long, sweeping cove was beautiful. ‘I love this sky. I could take your picture here,' Sammy suggested.

‘Or on Fidra.' Jimmy McBain pointed to the island. ‘I thought we could get a boat over there this morning.'

‘Sounds good to me.' Sammy smiled at the journalist. ‘OK with you, Ben?'

‘I'm not the world's best sailor,' the journalist admitted, ‘but I'll give it a go.'

‘Just as well I told you to bring your walking boots in a plastic bag,' Jimmy said with a grin. ‘And we'll cheer you up when we get back with a wee dram.'

Sammy took a few shots of Jimmy on the beach while he chatted to them about the area.

‘So why is the name Fidra familiar?' Ben asked.

Sammy knew the answer to that one. ‘Robert Louis Stevenson spent his holidays there as a boy.' When Ben still looked puzzled, she said, ‘Pieces of eight? Long John Silver?'

‘Oh—
Treasure Island
.'

‘That's the one,' Jimmy said, looking pleased. Sammy took a few more shots of the cove while Jimmy was talking to the skipper of a boat, and she thought of Nick and his misty shoreline painting. He'd love it here, she was sure. On impulse, she took a snap of the island on her phone and sent it to him.

Guess where I am?

Clearly he was in chambers rather than in court, because he answered straight away.

I thought you said you were going to Edinburgh?

I did. We're half an hour or so's drive away. This is the island of Fidra.

Fidra?

She smiled
.

Tsk. You must've read Treasure Island when you were a kid?

*That's* Treasure Island?

Jimmy the Sculptor says that's what inspired Robert Louis Stevenson. I think you'd like it here. Ice creams, cafes, miles of sand, and apparently just down the road is biggest colony of puffins on the east coast.

Sounds great,
was the response.

Had they been dating long enough to think about going away together? She typed,
Wish you were here
, then stopped herself. She did wish that she were sharing this with Nick, but was telling him a step too far? She went to delete the message but accidentally pressed the wrong button and sent it instead.

Oh, no.

This time, there was no reply.

Well, it served her right for being way too forward. Of course it was too soon to think about going away together. How ridiculous of her to think otherwise.

Thankfully right then they had to get on the boat, and after that her time was caught up taking photographs, so it stopped her brooding about the situation.

Then her phone beeped on their way back to the city.

Sorry about earlier. I was called back to court so my phone was off. Wish I was there, too.

It made Sammy feel all warm inside.

And it clearly showed on her face, because Jimmy patted her arm. ‘Message from your man, was it?'

‘Yes.'

‘He's a lucky lad. You'd have plenty of admirers up here, even though your haircut's...well.' He rolled his eyes. ‘You'd be a bonnier lass if you'd let it grow.'

She smiled back. ‘It's short right now because I donate my hair to make wigs for children who've had cancer.'

Jimmy whistled. ‘So you've a good heart, too. That's rare. Bonny, and with a good heart.'

‘And it'd make a great story,' Ben said, looking interested.

‘Agreed. I can get you some people to interview, if you like,' Sammy said. ‘Especially as I happened to shoot a calendar which is going to raise money for the cancer ward. You could maybe do an article on that. Hot men stripping off to raise money.'

‘It'd be a good human interest story.' Ben held her gaze. ‘And I can start by interviewing you.'

She shook her head. ‘I'd rather stay behind the lens.'

He could see that she meant it and he left it there rather than nagging, but Sammy found herself thinking about it on the way back to London, the next morning. Maybe if she went public about her experience, it would help someone else to get through their own situation. And talking to Ben about it might be a good test run, something that would give her the courage to talk to Nick.

‘Ben—did you mean it about that interview?' she asked.

‘Which one?' He groaned. ‘Sorry. My brain is totally scrambled. Never let me agree to drink with a Scots guy again.'

‘Or a cider producer in Somerset—I'm sure you had a hangover after that interview, too,' she said with a grin. ‘I mean the article about the charity calendar and why I donate my hair.'

‘Yes, I meant it. Though give me a while for my brain to unscramble so I can work up some decent questions.'

‘Sure. I'll get you a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich from the buffet.' And she'd better hope that her courage didn't fail her in the time between now and when her colleague had recovered from his hangover.

It didn't. And Ben was incredibly kind with his questions.

‘I had no idea that you'd been through all that,' he said when he'd finished the interview.

‘I don't talk about it because I don't want cancer to define me,' she said simply.

He nodded. ‘I admired you before, because you're always so professional and you deliver every single time. But knowing you had to cope with all that as well—you're really amazing, Sammy.'

‘That isn't why I told you. It's not about my ego. I want to give other people some hope so they know you really can come out the other side of the experience and it'll be OK,' she said. ‘Though is there any way you can do the piece without actually revealing who I am?'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You think people might not want to hire you because you're a cancer survivor?'

‘Some people don't react so well,' she said. Personally as well as professionally. Not that she wanted to explain that.

Ben gave her a pithy response about precisely what that kind of people could do.

‘I still have to earn my living,' she said.

‘I'll talk to my editor and see if we can find a way round it,' he said. ‘But thank you. Now I know your story—well, I'm really proud to call myself your colleague.'

‘And friend,' she said. ‘Now shut up before I start being wet.'

He grinned. ‘That's the last word I'd ever use to describe you.'

* * *

Talking to Ben had been so easy.

But was that simply because he was a journalist, used to asking questions and teasing the real story out of reluctant interviewees? Would it be as easy, talking to Nick?

Ben was her colleague. Her friend. She'd known him for years. There was no way that her past could change their relationship.

Whereas Nick was...

Help.

Not her lover. Not yet. Though she wanted him to be. ‘Boyfriend' sounded twee. Partner? They hadn't been together that long. But she really felt she'd clicked with him. While she'd been away in Edinburgh, she'd really missed him, and it had shocked her how much she'd wanted to share all her new experiences with him. Had he missed her? Or had he been so busy that he'd barely registered her absence?

She was probably over-thinking things again.

Why couldn't she be like she was in every other area of her life? Why couldn't she just step up and do it? Tell him?

‘You are such a coward, Samantha Jane Thompson,' she told herself grimly.

Back at her flat, she found a rectangular parcel waiting for her. It had fitted perfectly through her letterbox, and she recognised the box as one from a very exclusive chocolatier.

There was a note with it in bold script that was clearly from a fountain pen:

Welcome home. Missed you
.

So he
had
missed her as much as she'd missed him. And what a welcome home. She hardly knew where to start when she opened the box; they were glorious, and each one was a treat. Best of all was the dark chocolate violet crème.

She glanced at her watch. It was a Saturday, but Nick had said that he was preparing for a trial. He was probably knee-deep in paperwork. Better not to disturb him, then. She texted him instead of calling.

Thank you so much for the chocolates. They're sublime. Might not be any left by the time I see you! *insert guilty smiley*

When he didn't reply, she knew that her guess about him being really busy was right. But, to her surprise, he called her at half past five.

‘Hey. So did you find any treasure on your island?'

‘I took some good shots, if that counts.' She laughed. ‘And thank you for the chocolates. They're amazing. Though, um, there aren't many left to share with you.'

‘My pleasure. Besides, they're meant for you, not for sharing.' His voice was full of warmth. ‘I just wanted to welcome you back.'

And how. Which gave her the courage to suggest Date Four. Something she hadn't done in a long, long time. ‘Are you busy tonight, or do you want to do something?'

‘Aren't you tired after that long train journey?' he asked.

‘A bit,' she admitted, ‘but if you're not busy maybe we could have a quick drink or something.'

‘I really missed you,' he said softly. ‘How about we compromise and I'll come over to you with a takeaway?'

She'd been away for three days so she hadn't had a chance to restock her fridge, apart from the carton of milk she'd grabbed at the train station. She padded over to it and glanced inside. ‘It seems I have a bottle of Prosecco in the fridge,' she said. She opened the freezer door. ‘And some posh ice cream.'

‘Perfect. I'll order something to be delivered to yours and be with you at seven.'

‘Sounds good to me.'

At precisely seven, her doorbell rang. She opened the door and greeted Nick with a hug. ‘Hey.' Then she stepped back and took in his appearance; he was wearing an expensively cut wool suit, a handmade white shirt and an understated silk tie.

‘I feel very scruffy compared with you,' she said. ‘I wish now I'd changed.'

‘Instead of working?' He smiled. ‘You had a long journey and it was sensible to dress for comfort.'

‘I can change now.'

‘Too late. Dinner's just arrived,' he said, indicating the white van emblazoned with the name of a Thai restaurant that had pulled up outside her flat. ‘Perfect timing, too.'

Over dinner, she showed him some of the shots of Fidra.

‘That beach looks amazing,' he said.

‘It's gorgeous. That sweeping cove...'

‘Maybe,' he said, ‘we could go there together sometime.'

Maybe. If he still wanted to know her, once she'd told him about her past.

But for a workaholic like Nick to suggest taking some time away... ‘I'd like that,' she said.

They ended up stretched out on her sofa, all warm and smoochy. Sammy's legs were entangled with his, his hands were flat against her back underneath her T-shirt—and how good his skin felt against hers—and her arms were wrapped round his neck.

It would be oh, so easy to suggest that they moved from her sofa to her bed, where they could shut the world away. Where they could take the time to explore each other, discover where each other liked being touched and kissed.

Except...she still hadn't told him.

And letting him find out by seeing her scar—or, worse, touching it by accident—would be totally wrong.

‘Sammy? Is everything OK?'

Clearly he'd picked up on her tension.

‘Just tired,' she fibbed. ‘It's been a long few days with a lot of travelling.'

Nick kissed her gently. ‘I'd better go and let you get some sleep.'

Now. Tell him now. Don't be such a coward. He's not going to run for the hills. He's not going to react the way Bryn and the others did.

‘Sorry,' she said, chickening out.

‘It's fine. I'll call you tomorrow.' He gave her a last lingering kiss. ‘I'll see myself out. Sweet dreams.'

And, even though she was tired, she couldn't sleep. She lay there in the dark, regretting her cowardice. Why was it so hard to tell him the truth?

* * *

Over the next couple of weeks, Sammy and Nick spent as much time together as they could. The more she got to know him, the more she liked him, and she hoped it might be the same for him. They had similar tastes in music; they both liked complicated whodunnit dramas—though he always made some comment about the legal bits being wrong—and they both liked outrageous stand-up comedy and long walks on the beach and browsing through little art galleries.

This could be perfect. With Nick, she felt as if she really fitted.

All she had to do was tell him.

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

How hard could it be?

She even practised it in front of the mirror.
Nick, there's something I need to tell you. I'll understand if you want to call the whole thing off, but fourteen years ago I had...

Six letters.

Two syllables.

A word that could explode someone's whole world and leave nothing but rubble.

Three dates on the trot, she tried to tell him—and failed.

Then he said to her, ‘On Saturday, Mandy's going on a spa day with a couple of her friends—it's a birthday present from them. I promised her I'd look after the boys for her.' He paused. ‘I was wondering, would you like to spend the day with us?'

He wanted her to meet his family?