potential friends,’ he said.
She looked at him for a long, long moment. ‘Not a date.’
‘Not a date,’ he confirmed. ‘And you can choose where we go.’
‘All right. Thank you. Do you want to go straight after work?’
‘After,’ he said, ‘you’ve done your story.’
Her smile was the sweetest reward he could have asked for. ‘I’ll come and collect you, then. See you later.’
‘See you later,’ he said softly.
CHAPTER THREE
THIS wasn’t a date, Katrina reminded herself as she walked from the playroom to Rhys’s office. It was the beginning of a working relationship. And, as she’d told Madison, she was perfectly happy with her life the way it was.
She rapped on Rhys’s open door and leaned against the doorjamb. ‘Ready?’
He looked up from his computer. ‘Can you give me three minutes while I save this file and switch off the computer?’
He was as good as his word, saving the file immediately, logging off then and switching off the machine. ‘So where are we going?’ he asked as he stood up.
‘Do you like Moroccan food?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. There’s a really fabulous Moroccan restaurant a couple of streets from here called Mezze—Maddie and I go there a lot.’
‘Maddie? Ah, now I know why you looked familiar when I first met you. Madison Gregory in Maternity—she’s your sister?’
‘As good as, yes,’ Katrina said. ‘Technically, she’s my cousin, but our dads have a family business and our mums are best friends, so we grew up together.’ She laughed. ‘Because she’s two years older than I am, Maddie likes to point out that she’s the big sister. Even though she’s still shorter than I am when she’s wearing spike heels and I’m barefoot, bless her.’ She paused. ‘What about you—do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘I’m an only child.’
His voice was neutral, but Katrina was used to watching faces and picking up visual clues to compensate for years of not quite being able to hear someone’s tone. She was sure that Rhys was masking something. Though as they were still getting to know each other, now wasn’t the time to push him to talk to her, the way she would have pushed Will or Tim or any of the nursing staff on the ward.
She kept the conversation light until they reached Mezze. As they walked in, Rhys took in their surroundings—the rich saffron walls, the ruby and terracotta silk cushions, the tealight candles in stained-glass holders in the centre of the glass- topped tables. Katrina thought he looked as impressed as she’d felt when she and Madison had first discovered the restaurant.
‘Good evening, Katrina. Your usual table?’ the waiter asked.
‘Thanks, Hassan. That’d be lovely.’
When they were settled at a table with menus and had ordered a sparkling mineral water, Rhys raised an eyebrow. ‘I know you said you come here a lot…but the staff here actually know you by name?’
‘I love Moroccan food,’ she said simply. ‘Maddie hates cooking, so we tend to come here most weeks. Either here, or there’s a really fabulous pizzeria in the next street.’
‘So you know the menu well.’ His eyes took on a teasing glint. ‘Or are you boring and pick the same thing each week?’
‘I tend to choose the same pudding, I admit,’ she said with a smile, ‘but I’ve tried everything on the menu.’ And there was a long, long list of dishes.
‘So what do you recommend?’
Katrina leaned back against her chair. ‘We could be boring, and order a starter each and a main course. Or…’ She paused. ‘We could order a huge pile of starters and share it like a mezze.’
He laughed. ‘I can guess which you’d prefer. A huge pile of starters it is.’
She talked him through the menu and when Hassan brought their drinks over they were ready to order a selection.
‘So tell me about yourself,’ Katrina said when Hassan had gone.
Rhys shrugged. ‘There’s not much to tell. I’m Welsh—well, with a name like Rhys Morgan and my accent, that’s pretty obvious. I grew up in South Wales, I trained in Cardiff and I moved to London just over three weeks ago.’
That didn’t tell her much about him at all—his dreams, his passions in life—but before she had the chance to ask anything else, he said, ‘Your turn.’
‘I’m English, I grew up in Suffolk and I trained in London.’ The same bare facts that he’d given her. Although maybe telling him more might encourage him to open up to her, she decided. ‘I never wear pink—my cousin Maddie has the girly gene in the family—and I loathe the romantic comedies she insists on dragging me to.’ She smiled wryly. ‘She hates the kind of films I like. And going to an arthouse cinema on my own feels a bit…’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, I prefer to go with someone so I can talk about the film afterwards. That’s half the fun of a cinema trip.’
‘What would you define as arthouse films?’ he queried.
‘This is where you can officially label me weird,’ she said. ‘Not modern ones—really old ones. Films like Citizen Kane and Vertigo. I have a bit of a soft spot for film noir.’
‘Good choice,’ he said. ‘I really like the ones written by Cornell Woolrich as well as the Raymond Chandler films.’
She blinked, then fiddled with her hearing aid. ‘Nope, it’s working,’ she said. ‘Tell me—did I imagine it or did you really just say “Cornell Woolrich”?’
‘I did.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve got all his short stories, too. I discovered them when I was a teenager and loved them—mind you, after one particular story it took me two years before I could order lamb again. And in a Welsh pub that’s a bit difficult.’
She laughed, knowing exactly which story he meant—a tale with a twist that had had exactly the same effect on her. ‘I think,’ Katrina said, ‘you and I are going to get on very well together.’
He lifted his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Her fingers brushed against his as they clinked glasses, and that same weird awareness she’d felt when she’d first shaken his hand seemed to fizz through her body.
An awareness she wasn’t going to act on. She already knew first-hand what happened when you dated a colleague and it went wrong. The awkwardness of having to work together afterwards, trying not to think about just how intimately you knew each other. The embarrassment of everyone knowing what a failure your relationship was, thanks to the hospital grapevine. And, worse still, in a break-up as messy as hers had been with Pete, your colleagues on the ward feeling forced to take sides… No. She wasn’t risking that happening ever again. Her relationship with Rhys was going to be a friendship—and nothing more.
Their food arrived, a huge platter containing little dishes and a heap of rustic bread.
‘Lamb.’ She gestured to the skewers of meat rubbed with spices and then chargrilled.
He laughed. ‘That’s a barefaced attempt to get me to leave it all for you to scoff.’
‘Rats. My dastardly plan has been foiled,’ she said, laughing and breaking off a piece of bread so she could scoop up some of the roast aubergine purée. ‘Mmm. This is good.’
He tried the tabbouleh. ‘So’s this. Is that cinnamon I taste?’
‘And watercress.’ She paused. ‘Is your palate honed that well by eating out a