like the kind of thing you saw on cop shows twenty years ago, where someone had a microphone taped to his chest and attached to a recording device worn round his waist. I mean having an app on the tablet and doing the “wire” through software. The audio quality’s better than an old-fashioned wire or a headset.’
She blinked. ‘You can do that?’
‘It’s not new technology,’ he informed her. ‘And it’s not as if we need to miniaturise anything or hide it in something tiny in a way that means it’ll get past any detection equipment.’
Which sounded as if he did that sort of thing all the time.
‘You’re carrying a tablet so the kids can see Santa and talk to him. The app runs unobtrusively in the background.’
‘I feel a bit stupid,’ she admitted.
‘Unless you work in the area, how are you meant to know the technology exists?’ he asked.
Carissa mentally added ‘kind’ to Quinn’s list of attributes. And tried very hard not to think about ‘Smart Is the New Sexy’. Justin had been sexy, too. Smart. And he’d been the biggest mistake of her life. She couldn’t risk getting things wrong like that again.
‘So. The app broadcasts the audio—not just to Santa, but through headphones to the support team. You tell us the patient’s name just before you take the tablet over to the child, so Santa can get the name right and do the “magic” bit by greeting the kid by name.
‘The team picks up what the child wants as a gift and organises it with your supplier on another line—they’ll be able to hear you clearly, but you won’t be able to hear anyone except Santa on the tablet. And your team will work on collaborative software with a database so they all know who’s ordered what and from where—that way, nothing gets missed or duplicated.’
‘And you have this collaborative software?’ she asked.
‘Yes, and I can tweak it to suit your needs. I can train your team on it so they’ll be perfect within about half an hour.’
She looked at him. ‘I don’t know what to say. Except I’m impressed.’
‘It’s really not rocket science,’ he said again. ‘It’s just putting a couple of systems together.’
‘Have you actually worked in rocket science, then?’ The question came out before she could stop it.
Quinn wrinkled his nose, and Carissa had to tell herself not to notice how cute it made him look. ‘I can’t answer that,’ he said.
She blew out a breath. ‘OK. Timings and costings?’
‘When’s the opening day?’
‘Four weeks tomorrow.’ The anniversary of her parents’ plane crash. So she’d have something good to look forward to on that day, to take the sting out of it. And it had felt fitting to do something in their memory on that day.
‘You can have the software to play with at any time in the next week. And I’ll give you the paperwork tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘Do you need virtual reindeer?’
‘No. I have real ones.’
‘OK. Then we’re done.’ He paused. ‘Unless you want to stay for dinner.’
Dinner with Quinn O’Neill.
Of course he didn’t mean candlelight, roses and vintage champagne. Or somewhere under the stars on a roof garden. Particularly in November. Just why were these ridiculous ideas seeping into her head? The man was a neighbour. A work colleague, of sorts. Not a potential date. And she didn’t do dates anyway. This was a business meeting and it was about the time that most people ate in the evening. They both had to eat, so they might as well eat together. It didn’t mean anything deeper than that.
He was waving a piece of paper at her. A menu.
‘Takeaway pizza?’ she asked.
‘Works for me.’
Now she had a better idea why his kitchen hadn’t had a cook’s vibe about it. She’d just bet his fridge was bare, too, except for milk and maybe some cheese. She had a feeling that Quinn O’Neill was the kind of man who forgot to eat when he was busy, or lived on takeaway food and didn’t notice what he was eating—it was fuel, and nothing more than that.
‘Pizza,’ she said.
He gave her a pointed look. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t eat carbs. Not when you make brownies as good as those.’
‘No. Of course I eat carbs. But...takeaway pizza. The stuff with a thick crust. Ick.’ She liked the thin, crispy type. She grimaced and shook her head. ‘Look, I have fresh tuna and some stir-fry veg in my fridge. Why don’t we have dinner at mine?’
‘Healthy food. Fish and vegetables.’ He looked slightly disgusted.
She hid a smile. Just as she’d thought: he lived on junk. She could offer a compromise there. ‘And polenta fries.’
He looked thoughtful. ‘Are they as good as your brownies?’
‘According to my best friend, yes.’
‘Done,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring wine.’
‘Are you quite sure you don’t want a wheatgrass shot?’
‘I’m going to pretend,’ he said, ‘that you’re teasing, because I have a nasty feeling you might actually be serious—and there’s no way I’m drinking a glass of green gloop.’
‘I was teasing. Though I could source it.’
He grimaced and shook his head. ‘No need. How long does it take to make polenta fries?’
‘About forty minutes.’
‘Which gives me time to go and find some wine.’
Of course he wouldn’t have wine, especially if his fridge was practically bare. Plus he’d only just moved in. ‘You really don’t have to bring wine,’ she said.
‘I do. And pudding,’ he said. ‘Because you’re not getting these brownies back. This is business, so we’ll both bring something to the table.’
Business. She was glad he’d said that. Because it stopped her fantasising about something truly stupid. Such as what it would be like to have a proper date with Quinn O’Neill. She wasn’t ready for dating again. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be ready. But business she could do.
‘OK. Deal. See you in thirty minutes or so,’ she said.
* * *
Quinn hit pure gold in the wine shop: they had a deli section, with a display of French macarons in pretty colours.
Pistachio, vanilla, coffee. And then some more unusual flavours: violet and blueberry, white chocolate and pomegranate, crème brûlée, salted caramel. The perfect gift for a foodie like Carissa, he thought.
He bought a boxful, plus a bottle of flinty Chablis.
Back at the mews, he rang Carissa’s doorbell.
She answered the door wearing a cotton apron covered in hearts over her skirt and shirt; it made her look younger and much more approachable than she’d seemed the first time he’d met her.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Dinner’s almost ready.’
He handed her the bottle and the box. ‘The box needs to go in the fridge,’ he said. ‘The wine’s already chilled.’
‘Thank you—though you really didn’t need to bring anything. Come up.’
He closed the door behind them and followed her up the stairs to her kitchen. She’d laid her kitchen table, he noticed, with a white damask tablecloth, solid silver cutlery, very elegant fine glassware and a white porcelain vase containing deep purple