Her nose unwrinkled. ‘Okay, if you go a little heavy on the salmon and a little light on the lettuce.’
He choked. ‘Am I designing that boot for you? No? Then just shut up and see if you can cut these grape tomatoes into quarters. They’re small, so be careful.’
She mumbled something derogatory about tomatoes, but made a swipe with the knife.
‘Quarter—not slice,’ Leo put in.
She nodded, wielded the knife again.
‘And not mash, for God’s sake,’ he begged.
Sunshine made an exasperated sound and tried again.
Leo turned his back—it was either that or wrench the knife from her—and concentrated on the salmon he’d packed as a failsafe, coating it in herbs, then laying it in a pan to fry.
Sunshine was onto the song about love biting you in the ass, throwing in the occasional excruciating lyric—and he wanted so badly to laugh it was almost painful.
Mid-song, however, she laughed. ‘Oops—that song is just too, too, too much, Hideous,’ she said.
Damn if he didn’t want to snatch her up and kiss her.
Instead he gave her some terse instructions on trimming the crunchy green beans to go into the salad, which she did abominably.
He put water on for the pasta, then turned back to the bench.
‘Next, we’ll—’ He stopped, hurriedly averting his eyes as Sunshine arranged the salad ingredients in a bowl. ‘We’ll just slide the salmon on top—’ shock stop as his eyes collided with the mangled contents ‘—and now I’ll get you to mix the dressing.’
He lined up a lemon, honey, seeded mustard, sugar, black pepper, and extra virgin olive oil.
Sunshine considered the ingredients with the utmost concentration. ‘So, I need to juice the lemon, right?’
‘Yes. You only need a tablespoon.’
‘How much is a tablespoon?’
Repressing the telltale tic, he opened the cutlery drawer and took out a tablespoon. ‘This is a tablespoon.’
‘Oh. How much of everything else?’
Limit reached. ‘Move out of the way. I’ll do it. I put a bottle of wine in the fridge. I think—no, I know—I need a nice big glass of it, if you can manage to pour that. Then go around to the other side of the counter, sit on that stool and watch. You’ve already thrown my kitchen rhythm off so things are woefully out of order.’
‘It seems very ordered to me.’
‘Well, it’s not.’
Sunshine shrugged, unconcerned. ‘You know, I feel like one of those contestants on your show.’
A thought too ghastly to contemplate!
Sunshine slid past him on her way to the fridge, brushing against his arm. God! God, God, God! Her brand of casual friendliness, with the kisses and the random touches, was something he was not used to. At all.
He didn’t like it.
Except that he kind of did.
* * *
Dinner resembled a physical battle: Sunshine leaning in; Leo leaning way out.
A less optimistic woman would have been daunted.
But Sunshine was almost always optimistic.
As they ate the pasta and salad they argued over assorted wedding details, from the choice of MC—‘What are you thinking to suggest anyone but yourself, Leo?’—to the need for speeches—Sunshine: yes; Leo: no!—to whether to use social media for sharing photos and videos of the function—over Leo’s dead body, apparently.
By the time the pannacotta gelato was on the table Sunshine was in ‘what the hell?’ mode. Seven weeks to go—they had to move things along.
‘So!’ she said. ‘Music!’
He went deer-in-the-headlights still. ‘Music.’
‘Yes. Music. I hear there’s no dancing, so we can scrap the DJ option.’
‘Correct.’
She pursed her lips. ‘So! I’ve located a heavy metal band. I also know a great piano accordionist—surprisingly soulful. And I’ve heard about an Irish trio. What about one of those options? Or maybe a big band—but did you know that a big band has fourteen instruments? And where would we put fourteen musicians? I mean, I know the restaurant is spacious, but—’
‘I know what you’re doing, Sunshine.’
She blinked at him, the picture of innocence—she knew because she’d practised in the mirror. ‘What do you mean, Leo?’
‘Suggesting horrific acts and thinking that by the time you get around to naming the option you really want I’ll be so relieved I’ll agree instantly.’
‘But that’s not true. Well...not strictly true. Because I have named what I really want. Natalie Clarke.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’
‘Because why?’
‘Caleb doesn’t want her there.’
‘Is that the only reason? Because I can talk to Caleb.’
‘It’s the only reason you’re going to get.’
Sunshine gave him a bemused look. ‘Is this because you used to date her? You know, I’m good friends with all my exes.’
‘I, however, am not.’
‘Why not?’
Leo scooped up a spoonful of gelato. Ate it. ‘I just don’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re just not that...that kind.’
‘Kind?’
‘Kind of person. People. Not the kind of people I’m friends with.’
She nodded wisely. ‘You’re choosing wrong.’
He took another mouthful of gelato. Said nothing.
‘Because you don’t want someone, really,’ she said. ‘You’re like me.’ Sunshine tapped her heart. ‘No room in here.’
Leo’s spoon clattered into his bowl. ‘I’ve got room. Plenty. But I want...’ He stopped, looking confused.
‘You want...?’
‘Someone...special.’
‘Special as in...?’
‘As in someone to throw myself off the cliff for, leap into the abyss with,’ he said, sounding goaded. ‘There! Are you happy?’
‘My happiness is not the issue here.’
He dragged a hand over his head. Gave a short, surprised laugh. ‘I want all or nothing.’
‘And Natalie didn’t?’
‘She wanted...the illusion. She wanted the illusion of it without the depth.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes—oh.’
‘Not that I think there’s anything wrong with not wanting the depth.’
‘Of course there’s something wrong with it,’ he said with asperity. ‘You’re wrong about the whole no-room, sex-not-love thing.’
‘Each to his or her own,’ Sunshine said. ‘And I still don’t see why Natalie can’t