Holiday With The Best Man

It was his turn to frown. ‘But Hugh said you cancelled the wedding three weeks beforehand. And I’ve seen by the way you’ve dealt with the flood that you’re organised. This doesn’t add up. Why didn’t you have a wedding dress that close to the big day?’

‘It’s a long and very boring story,’ she said.

‘I don’t have anything better to do—do you?’ he asked.

She blew out a breath. ‘Maybe, maybe not. And I guess if I’m going to stay with you, you probably need to know why my life’s a bit chaotic.’

‘Let’s talk over pizza,’ he said, ‘and maybe a glass of wine. We could open this bottle now.’

‘You just told me you didn’t drink.’

‘I also told you I don’t make everyone else around me stick to water.’

‘I don’t actually drink that much,’ she admitted.

He looked at her. ‘But the first time you met Hugh...’

Oh, no. Well, he was Hugh’s best friend. Of course he’d know about what happened. ‘I threw up over Hugh because I’d drunk three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach. Which is more than I would usually drink in a month.’ Shame flooded through her at the memory. ‘Does everyone know about that?’

‘Tarq and I do.’

‘Tarquin never mentioned it when he met me.’

He gave her a wry smile. ‘Probably because Tarq’s nicer than I am.’

‘I’m reserving the right to stay silent.’ Because Roland had come to her rescue, and he was offering her a place to stay. But she was still annoyed that he’d thought so badly of her without even waiting to hear her side of the story. Maybe she’d been right in her first impression of him, too, and he was firmly in the same box as Cynthia Sutton: cold, judgemental and obsessed by appearances.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t the rest of that speech along the lines that if you want to rely on something later in court, you have to speak now?’

‘Am I on trial?’ she asked.

‘Of course not.’ He shook his head. ‘Pizza it is, then. And mineral water.’

‘Provided I pay for the pizza. I don’t want you thinking I’m a freeloader as well as being the Runaway Bride and a lush to boot.’

The slight colour staining his cheeks told her that was exactly what he’d thought of her. Which was totally unfair—he’d jumped to conclusions without even knowing her. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d come to her rescue last night and been kind, right at that moment she would’ve disliked him even more than she had at the wedding.

‘I know now that you’re none of those things. And you insisted on paying last night, so this is on me,’ he said.

‘If you buy the pizza,’ she said, still cross that he thought she was one of life’s takers, ‘then I want an invoice for the use of your van yesterday.’

‘How about,’ he suggested, ‘we go halves on the pizza?’

She folded her arms. ‘I’d prefer to pay.’

He met her glare head-on. ‘Halves or starve. That’s the choice.’

And how tempted she was to choose the latter. On principle. Except she was really, really hungry and it was pointless spiting herself. ‘OK. Halves. But I do the washing up. And, tomorrow, I cook for us.’

‘You can cook?’ He looked taken aback.

She could guess why. ‘I love my little sister to bits,’ she said, ‘but Bella’s a bit of a disaster in the kitchen. If she’s cooked for you, then I understand why you’re surprised—but her culinary skills don’t run in the family.’

‘She hasn’t cooked for me. But Hugh told me how bad her stir-fry is,’ he admitted.

‘In her defence, she does make great pancakes and cupcakes.’

He smiled. ‘But you can’t live on pancakes and cupcakes alone.’

‘Exactly. Is there anything you don’t eat, or do you have any food intolerances or allergies?’

‘No—and you can use anything you like in the kitchen.’

‘I’m glad you said that, because your kitchen is gorgeous and it’ll be a pleasure to cook here.’ She gestured round. ‘So do I take it that you’re a cook, too, or is this just for show?’

* * *

Roland thought back to the times when he and Lynette had cooked together. Never in this kitchen—he’d still been renovating the place when the drunk driver had smashed into his wife’s car. And he hadn’t had the heart to cook since. Most of the time he lived on sandwiches, takeaways or microwaved supermarket meals; apart from when his family and his best friends insisted on seeing him, he filled the time with work, work and more work, so he didn’t have the space to think. ‘I don’t cook much nowadays,’ he said.

‘Fair enough.’ To his relief, she didn’t pry.

‘But if you can text me and let me know what time you want to eat tomorrow,’ she added, ‘that would be helpful.’

‘I’ll do that,’ he said. Though it felt weirdly domestic, and it made him antsy enough not to press Grace about the reason why she’d moved to Bella’s flat—just in case she expected him to share about his past, too. The last thing he wanted was for her to start pitying him—the poor widower who’d lost his wife tragically young. Especially because he didn’t deserve the pity. He hadn’t taken enough care of Lyn, and he’d never forgive himself for that.

Grace’s phone pinged. ‘I’m expecting something. Can I be rude and check my phone?’ she asked.

‘Be my guest.’

She glanced at the screen and smiled. ‘Oh, I like this. Today’s Bellagram is the Golden Gate Bridge,’ she said, showing him the photograph of Bella and Hugh posing with the iconic bridge behind them.

‘Bellagram?’ Roland asked, not quite understanding.

‘Postcard. Telegram—the modern version,’ Grace explained. ‘Bella likes puns.’

‘She texts you every day?’

Grace nodded. ‘We always text each other if we’re away, sending a photo of what we’ve been doing. Bella forgot about the time difference for the first one, so it woke me at three in the morning.’ She laughed. ‘But that’s Bella for you. It’s great to know they’re having a good time.’

‘Have you told her about...?’

‘The flood? No. I don’t want her worrying. I just text her back to say I’m glad she’s having fun and I love her,’ Grace said.

Which was pretty much what his own family had done when he and Lyn had sent a couple of brief texts from the rainforest on their honeymoon, purely to stop everyone at home worrying that they’d got lost or been eaten by piranhas. Another surge of guilt flooded through him. He’d taken care of Lyn then. Where had it all gone so wrong?

He was glad when Grace was tactful enough to switch the subject to something neutral and kept the conversation easy.

Though later that evening Roland still couldn’t get her out of his head. He lay awake, watching the sky through the glass ceiling of his bedroom—a ceiling that wasn’t overlooked by anyone or anything—and thinking of her.

What was it about Grace Faraday?

He’d misjudged her completely. Far from being a spoiled, princessy drunk, Grace was a capable and quietly organised woman with good manners. She was a little bit shy, very independent, and nice. Easy to be with.

Which was why he probably ought to find somewhere else for her to stay. Grace Faraday was dangerous to his peace of mind. She was the first woman in a long time to intrigue him. Or attract him. And for someone like her to call off a wedding only three weeks before the ceremony... Something had to have been very wrong indeed. Even though it was none of his business, he couldn’t help wondering. Had she discovered some really serious character flaw in her husband-to-be?

She’d been going to tell him about it, and then they’d been sidetracked. Maybe she’d tell him tomorrow.

And maybe that would be the thing to keep his common sense in place and stop him doing something stupid.

Like acting on the strong pull he felt towards her and actually kissing her.

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