decided to try her hand at making Piedmontese cookies – old-fashioned Italian petits fours – which, if successful, she might take along to the cookery club next week.
Having weighed out all the ingredients using Anna’s trendy retro food mixer, she creamed together butter and sugar, beat in an egg yolk, added almond essence, ground almonds and plain flour, then placed the mixture in the fridge for half an hour while she returned to her laptop and attempted to find something remotely “fascinating” in the contents of her latest assignment. Failing miserably, and the allotted chilling time having passed, she subsequently removed the mixture from the fridge, rolled it, cut out the biscuits, placed them on a baking sheet, and popped them in the oven until they turned golden brown. As they cooled on a wire rack, she’d begun melting the chocolate to sandwich them together, when Liam appeared in the doorway.
‘Just nipping out to grab a sarnie,’ he announced. Then, evidently catching a whiff of baking, ‘Phwoar. They smell good.’ He strode towards her, gaze on the cookies. ‘What are they?’
‘Italian biscuits. Want to try one?’
‘Rude not to,’ he chortled, sliding onto a stool. ‘And please tell me you’re not about to smother them in chocolate.’
‘I am actually.’ Connie removed the bowl from the pan of boiling water and set it down in front of him. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate.’
‘Who in their right mind doesn’t like chocolate? I could live off it. Want a hand?’ he asked, as she took up a spoon, smeared one side of a biscuit with the gooey mixture, then sandwiched another to it.
‘Go on then. But wash your hands first.’
‘Yes, miss,’ he chuckled.
To which Connie stuck out her tongue.
Liam, having thoroughly washed and dried his hands – and held them out for inspection, at which point Connie told him to sod off – took up another spoon and copied her method of pairing up the cookies.
‘So, a hot babe who can cook,’ he said, stirring the remaining chocolate in the bowl and gazing at her through outrageously long lashes. ‘I’d say the boss moving me on to this job was a bit of a result.’
Connie did her best to stop a chuffed grin spreading onto her face. ‘Do you try and charm all your clients like this?’ she asked, making a concerted stab at nonchalance.
‘No. Why?’
‘Because working with all the Cotswolds supermodels must be manna from heaven for a good-looking lad like you.’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno about that. I can honestly say I’ve never fancied any other clients.’
At the inference that he fancied her, Connie’s half-coated chocolate biscuit tumbled to the floor, landing on her sandaled foot – chocolate side down.
Out for a stroll later that evening to stretch Eric’s legs, her soon-to-be-shaved legs, and to calm her mind, which insisted on spinning with Liam’s fancying her insinuation earlier, Connie dropped off a bag of biscuits at the newsagent’s, for which she received effusive thanks and congratulations, Eleanor having snaffled one immediately.
‘Just in case I forget to pass on my comments later,’ had been her excuse.
She was on her way back to the house when a black Porsche with red wheels and tinted windows drove by. This time putting her in mind of the large, shiny cockroach she’d once had the unfortunate privilege of sharing a bathroom with in Majorca.
The next day followed much the same pattern as the previous one – Connie trying desperately not to nod off over Five Hundred Un-Fascinating Facts. And trying even harder not to think about Liam and his rod. Her efforts were pitiful to say the least. Waking from an impromptu doze at the kitchen island at one-thirty, it occurred to her that she’d probably missed his “nipping out to grab a sarnie” announcement – and had most likely been snoring and dribbling over her laptop when he’d propelled his head round the door to inform her of this development.
Mortified to think he might have witnessed such uncomely behaviour – and even more mortified that he might be tempted to pass an “amusing” comment on it – she kept out of his way for the remainder of the afternoon, holding her breath as he entered the room at knocking-off time.
‘Um, I was wondering…’
He looked awkward but, as his gaze fused with hers, a smile touched his lips and that delicious glint of mischievousness twinkled in his eyes again.
Connie’s pulse quickened.
‘…if you fancied going out for a drink or something tonight?’
A peel of celebratory bells let rip in Connie’s head, accompanied by a burst of fireworks, a full choir chanting “Halleluya”, and the entire cast of Riverdance clomping their clogs. Battling the urge to rip off her bra and swing it round her head, she pursed her lips, pretending to award the proposition careful consideration. ‘Hmm. Tonight.’
‘About seven? I could nip home, have a shower, then come and pick you up.’
Oh God. He wanted to pick her up. Could he be any more adorable!
‘Okay,’ she eventually huffed.
He looked slightly deflated. ‘Only if you want to. I mean, if you’re busy you don’t have to.’
Crap! He was backtracking. She’d better show some enthusiasm. Quickly. ‘No. Tonight’s fine,’ she breezed, as the choir started up again. ‘See you at seven.’
No sooner had Liam left the house, Connie casually waving him off while her heart joined in the Riverdance routine, than she hurtled up to the bathroom for some serious pampering. Legs and underarms defuzzed, eyebrows plucked, toenails clipped and painted, she then moved on to the issue of what to wear – and found herself rummaging through her underwear drawer. Underwear! Oh no. That could only mean one thing. That she was considering…
But of course she wasn’t. She’d only known Liam five minutes. She couldn’t possibly sleep with someone she’d only known five minutes.
Could she?
Liam bowled up at two minutes to seven. In his Decadent Décor cherry-red van. Admittedly not the most romantic of vehicles. And not easy to climb into wearing a tight white halter-neck dress, as Connie soon discovered. Admitting defeat with her attempts at a sexy, slinky ascent, she resorted to hoisting up her dress to her knickers and scrambling in – silently fuming all the while. She’d bought the dress on a whim after seeing someone in a changing room trying it on. Admittedly, the girl had been two sizes smaller, and had had a definite bubble-butt thing going on. But, nevertheless, thinking it looked sophisticated, glamorous and… young, Connie had hared over and nabbed the last one on the rail. A manoeuvre she now regretted.
‘Don’t you dare look,’ she instructed an amused Liam as, dress almost round her waist, she clambered onto the passenger seat.
‘Spoilsport,’ he sniggered, eyes to the driver-side window.
Wriggling into the seat, and pulling her dress back into place, a swarm of doubts began nibbling at Connie’s innards. Was this really a good idea? Should thirty-four-year-olds wear tight white dresses? And should thirty-four-year-olds even be going on dates?
Liam’s next comment, though, obliterated every one of her doubts. ‘You look fantastic,’ he said, head having now executed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn in her direction.
Connie swivelled round to him, a dazzling smile now on her face. But at the sound of ripping fabric, the smile disappeared and her hand shot to her bottom.
‘Bugger,’ she cursed.
Liam didn’t reply. He was too busy laughing.
After a short interlude, during which Connie shot back into the house and re-emerged ten minutes later in cropped white trousers and an orange short-sleeved shirt, they headed