name around my tongue. I liked the sound of it. His full name had a melodic feel to it. I wondered if he had any middle names and how they’d fit. I’d have to ask him tonight. And then my sensible gene reared its prudent, forthright self.
For goodness’ sake, Claire, what is the matter with you? He’s a player. You challenged him. He waited a whole day to respond to your text. This is a game. You might have won that round insisting on Saturday instead of Friday but he wants round two. That’s all.
But less-sensible me, who seemed to be determined by my hormones, suggested that maybe he had also felt that sexual frisson and was keen to explore it too.
Armed with his name, I’d done a little bit of research. No more than you’d do before meeting a new business colleague. Not full-on stalking. A bit of LinkedIn, a quick trawl of Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Okay, I might have done a search on Google images. Just to remind myself what he looked like, in case after intensively staring at his face for those fifteen minutes I’d forgotten some aspect of his features. He cropped up in all his gorgeousness a couple of times, always in a suit shaking the hand of some important guy. LinkedIn had given me plenty of information. Graduate from Leeds with a first in Mechanical Engineering. Two years with First Direct and then a move to London and stellar promotions ever since and then back north. Clearly, he was a smart cookie.
Why, oh why, had I chosen The Beech House? Intimate, quiet, with perfect ambient lighting. Ideal for a romantic date. I should have selected somewhere swankier, more contemporary and more show off-y where the staff squinted at you as if you were beneath contempt and everything was far too much trouble for them.
The fussy, friendly maître d’ greeted me with a smile of pleasure, briefly dousing my shimmering nerves, which had been making themselves felt ever since I raced into my flat from my sister Alice’s to get ready. I’d managed to fob her off last Saturday but couldn’t avoid it today. An afternoon’s hedge trimming had left me a sweaty, bug-infested mess and now the butterflies in my stomach were manically trying to beat their way out. Why was I so damn nervous?
‘I’ve booked a table for two.’ I paused, wiping my slightly damp palms on my favourite black trousers.
‘The name?’ he asked.
Playing it cool, I hadn’t responded to the last text when he’d asked for my name. Ashwin Laghari only knew me as Coffee Girl. I said it, maintaining eye contact with the man as if this was a perfectly acceptable name and there was nothing out of the ordinary with it.
‘Certainly, madam.’ He didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Allow me. The gentleman has already arrived.’
I followed him, weaving through cosy candlelit tables, towards the back of the restaurant, wishing he’d slow down a little. My legs felt a little unsteady and my tongue had already glued itself to the roof of my mouth. This was ridiculous. I’d met and conversed easily with people from all over the world, talked to conference audiences over a thousand strong and presented to chief executives and board directors all the time and never betrayed a flicker of what I was feeling.
Stiffening my spine and tilting my chin, I sucked in a breath and two seconds later I was at the table and the waiter melted away.
Ashwin Laghari was every bit as gorgeous as I remembered and so was the slightly mocking smile. He stood up.
‘You came,’ he said, his voice deeper and more mellow than I had recalled.
‘I did,’ I said, sliding onto the chair opposite him.
He suddenly grinned. ‘Busy on Friday, were you?’
‘No,’ I paused for a minute before giving him a catlike smile; he didn’t need to know that I’d been at work until nine, ‘but I wanted to put you in your place.’
‘Why didn’t I guess as much?’ Those fascinating eyes twinkled at me. ‘Am I allowed to know your name?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure it’s been worth waiting for. Do you have any middle names, Ashwin Laghari?’
‘I’m always Ash to my friends.’ His eyes dipped to my mouth. ‘Although I like the way you say my name.’
‘I like it too,’ I said, feeling flirtatious and mysterious but not quite enough to dare to say it again.
‘No middle names.’
‘Good,’ I said. I didn’t like the thought of them disturbing the melodic symmetry of his name.
‘When you search for Coffee Girl on LinkedIn, it’s not that informative.’
‘Leeds. First. Mechanical Engineering. Currently at Beechwood Harrington,’ I quipped.
‘Unfair advantage.’
‘Claire Harrison. Manchester. First. Currently at Cunningham, Wilding and Taylor.’ I paused and, unable to help myself, gave him a direct, sultry look and lowered my voice to say, ‘Now we’re equal.’
If only that were true. He was clearly self-possessed and brilliant whereas for the last couple of weeks, no matter how hard I worked, I felt like I was sinking into quicksand. There never seemed to be enough time in the day to do anything.
He smiled back, his voice laden with darkness and said, ‘I don’t think we’re ever going to be equal.’ The knowing look did something to my pulse. ‘I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine.’ He gave me another look.
‘What, no champagne?’ I said as he lifted the bottle of very, very expensive red wine.
‘You don’t strike me as a champagne girl. That would be too much of a cliché. I chose something deeper, darker, and smoother.’
I raised an eyebrow at this blatant smooth-talking bollocks.
His face creased into a grin. ‘And it’s a bloody nice wine. Usually the champagne they have in these places isn’t the best. Would you like to try some? I gambled on you drinking red, but if you don’t, I can order something else.’
‘Lucky punt,’ I said, lifting my glass and letting him pour a mouthful for me to try. I lifted the glass, swirled, sniffed, and sipped. ‘Nice, very nice.’
‘Of course,’ he said with a lift of one eyebrow.
God, he was one cocky git but I couldn’t help liking his sheer arrogant confidence. Somehow it was reassuring that he was so in command of himself and – I couldn’t believe I was thinking it – quite sexy.
We lifted our glasses in a toast. ‘Cheers,’ I said.
‘To ill-advised meetings,’ he said.
I stared at the rich ruby colour, suddenly a little shy. That almost sounded like… as if he were taking this seriously. I wasn’t expecting this to go anywhere. Gorgeous as he was, I’d pigeon-holed him in the laddish box. For him, this whole date was a challenge. Yes, there’d been sexual chemistry and I suspected he might use it to try and talk me into bed, but he was a work-hard, play-hard city-type. I didn’t expect to see him again after tonight and, to be honest, did I even have the time?
‘How did your meeting go? With the board and the CEO from London.’
I glanced up at him, surprised he’d remembered. He actually appeared interested. Okay, now that was smooth.
‘It went well, thanks.’ In fact, it was ancient history. I was already preparing for the next big meeting. ‘How about yours?’
‘Given that I was wearing a Marks & Spencer suit, very well. Good tip by the way. Thank you. I got my PA to postpone the meeting for half an hour and I was the first customer into the store that morning. Fastest purchase ever, I reckon.’
‘I’m impressed… that you followed my advice.’
‘I think I might have thought of it myself.’
‘Yes,’