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  “No, nothing else, thank you.”

  “Right… right,” she repeated, unable to think of anything that could keep her staring at the man who lingered in her mind long after he’d left the café. And at night, when she couldn’t sleep in the hot small hours when she sipped her water, trying to cool her body and her mind. Water. She twisted mid step and picked up a carafe of water from the table. She turned back to him with a smile to top up his water. The smile faltered when she realized he hadn’t drunk any. She topped it up anyway. A drop spilled on the table. She wiped it away with a cloth and then noticed that he’d piled all the coriander to one side.

  “Don’t you like coriander?” She felt strangely hurt. You didn’t normally get coriander in a Caesar salad.

  “No. It takes like soap.”

  “Soap? No, it doesn’t. I wouldn’t have given it to you if it did!”

  His look softened slightly at her words. “It’s genetic. Coriander tastes like soap to some people. And, no, I dare say you wouldn’t. You don’t look the type.”

  “Type?” Amber shifted her weight from one of her hips to the other, the personal comment making her indignation disappear. “What type do I look?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment and she felt the burn of his eyes on every part of her as his gaze swept over her. “You look the helpful type.”

  The burn lessened instantly, deflating the sensuality that his gaze had made her feel. “Helpful? I look helpful?”

  “Yes.” He frowned. “Is there something wrong with that?”

  She felt her lips tighten and she gave the table another quick, unnecessary wipe and picked up his half-drunk coffee. “Of course not. Nothing wrong with that, I’m a waitress and waitresses should be helpful.”

  Then she felt his hand over hers and she drew in a sharp breath, their eyes hot on each other. “But you’re also an artist.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw your work in the gallery.”

  “How did you know it was mine?”

  “It had your name on it.”

  “You know my name,” she breathed.

  He nodded to her name tag. “Yes.”

  “Oh. Did you like them?”

  “Very much.”

  “Which ones did you like the best?”

  “The flowers. The small ones. They’re a series.”

  “Oh yes.” She grinned. “They’re all sold. The gallery owner said…” She trailed off.

  “Yes, I bought them.”

  “All?”

  “All.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t figure out if this was flattering or vaguely creepy. She tried to pull her hand, which held the coffee cup, away from his.

  “No,” he said firmly. She tried to stop her hand from trembling under the enveloping strength of his touch. From the way he glanced at her hand, she doubted she’d succeeded. “I haven’t finished my coffee yet,” he continued.

  She looked down at the half-full cup and relaxed her grip. “Of course.” She walked away, confused and aroused by the touch of his hand on hers, and the look in his eyes—as if she appealed to his taste buds infinitely more than coriander. He was all contradiction: one minute slightly grumpy and critical, the other, devouring her with his eyes and revealing that he liked her art. He liked her art, she repeated to herself. It meant more to her than anything. Flattering, nice, and definitely not creepy, she decided.

  She glanced back at him when she reached the counter. He was finishing his salad. When his phone beeped, he lifted it and, without answering it or even glancing at the screen, flicked it to silent and continued to eat his lunch. How did he do that? There was no way she would have been able to stop herself at least checking to see who was calling her. Such discipline. She shivered as her thoughts drifted and she tried to focus on the tasks at hand.

  Maddy raised her eyebrows and nodded toward Green Eyes. Gabe looked around, wondering what was going on. Amber did a silent squee and gave a thumbs-up to Maddy, followed by an anxious look at Green Eyes, but he was looking steadily out the window at the sea.

  Amber hummed to herself as she tidied the counter. Most of the lunch customers were beginning to leave—regulars, who she’d known all her life, and she chatted easily with them, catching up on the minutiae of their lives, which were as important to her as her own.

  Her stomach flipped as the elderly couple she’d been talking to moved away to reveal Green Eyes, unraveling himself to his full height and walking purposefully towards her. She had to raise her head to meet his gaze. He was unsmiling as he nodded to her and withdrew his wallet.

  She smiled. “I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”

  “I did, thank you.” His green eyes seemed to caress her. She wondered if they only caressed on a full stomach because when he’d entered the café he’d looked distinctly grumpy.

  He plucked out a crisp note and handed it to her. She took it between her fingers and for a brief moment they were both holding on to it. Then she tugged it and he looked momentarily surprised before he released it.

  She counted out the change as she took it from the till and counted it out again as she placed it in his hands. They weren’t worker’s hands, no calluses that she could see, but they were large and firm and strong. She sighed and looked up into a frown.

  “What? Did I get it wrong?” she asked. It was usually the case when she met a frown.

  “No. Nothing wrong. Certainly nothing wrong at all. It’s just… Just that I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

  She sucked in a small gasp. Not only was that nearly an admission that he was attracted to her, but it was also the longest sentence she’d ever heard him speak. That could only mean one thing—the moment had come. “How do you mean?”

  “The way you count out the money.”

  “Oh,” she said, her smile fading. She felt as if she were a yoyo, being swept up into a dramatic, intense grasp, only to be let fall again, plummeting to the ground. She cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m less likely to make a mistake that way. EFTPOS is easier. No counting, you see. No mental arithmetic to trip me up.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Well…” He sucked his teeth as if trying to work out how he could delay himself. “I’d best be going.” He turned and began to walk away, which sent a blast of panic shooting through her, against which neither dignity nor self-preservation stood a chance.

  She couldn’t take any more U-turns. He’d bought her paintings for goodness’ sake, and even she knew they weren’t her best work. He liked her—he had to like her, there could be no other explanation for his frequent lunches at the café, for their weird conversations—and she liked him, and it appeared that if she didn’t do something about it, nothing would happen.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me one evening?” she shouted at his back. The café went quiet.

  He came to an abrupt halt and twisted around. “What?”

  She blushed as she felt all eyes on her. She wished he’d come closer so she didn’t have to continue to make a fool of herself. But it seemed there was no moving him.

  “Dinner,” she said more loudly. “I wondered if you’d like some.”

  She heard a splutter from Maddy and an expletive from Gabe but refused to look their way, in case she lost her nerve.

  “I’ve just had lunch,” he said.

  “I’m not talking about lunch, I’m asking you to dinner.” She cleared her throat. “Tonight. At my place. Would you like to come to dinner?” Surely he understood now. She couldn’t make it any plainer unless she added what she’d like to do to him after dinner. But even she had her limits to what she said in public.

  “No,” he said.

  Her mouth fell open in shock; she felt as if she’d been stabbed, gutted, winded. “You said ‘no’?” She swayed and gripped the side of the bench for support.

  “Yes, I said ‘no’.”

  “Oh.” She tried to smile but her mouth wouldn’t work. She didn’t understand it. Had she really misread all t
hat body language? All those surreptitious glances? All the waves of attraction which had surged between them? “Oh,” she repeated faintly, as she took a few steps back. “Why… why not?” She had to know.

  “Because I don’t like eating at the houses of people I don’t know.”

  Her eyes widened. “But you… kind of know me…” She trailed off, realizing that he probably didn’t; that all the connection could, quite possibly, be in her head.

  “Amber!” Gabe called from just over her shoulder. She turned around to see Gabe looking daggers at Green-Eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “Dad’s just called and wanted to know if you’re still going to Belendroit.”

  “Of course I am. I told him I am.”

  “He wants you to call him back,” Gabe insisted, glancing between the two of them.

  Green Eyes was either ignoring, or oblivious to, Gabe’s glare. He pocketed his wallet, nodded at Amber, and walked out the door without a backward glance.

  Amber let a long, slow breath slide from her body, and looked around to find the few remaining lunch customers quickly looking back at their plates, except for Gabe, whose angry gaze was following Green Eyes out the door.

  Amber walked without thinking to Maddy and slid into the seat next to her.

  “Oh, Amber!” Maddy said, her beautiful face puckered into a frown.

  “Bastard,” muttered Gabe, taking his seat opposite Maddy.

  “No, he’s not,” said Amber automatically. She knew he wasn’t, or at least she thought she knew he wasn’t.

  “Yes, he is!” said an indignant Gabe. “Anyone who treats my sister like that is a total and utter bastard. And next time I see him, I’ll tell him.”

  “No!” said Amber.

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Maddy added.

  “Come on, he’s rude and obnoxious.”

  Amber opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t think of anything to counter Gabe’s claim. “I know he comes across like that, but I see something different in him.”

  Gabe scoffed. “What you see is an athletic body.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” asked Amber.

  “Nothing is wrong with that.” He sighed and took her hands. “All I’m saying is that I can see him for what he is. I’m not blinded by pheromones.”

  “Pheromones are important,” said Amber. “They are probably more truthful than words.”

  Gabe sighed and sat back in defeat.

  “And he bought my paintings.”

  Gabe’s eyes opened wide. “He…”

  “Bought my paintings. He told me he did.”

  Neither Gabe nor Maddy spoke.

  “Anyway.” Amber chewed her lip. “It was probably the coriander.”

  Maddy tilted her head to one side. “Coriander?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t like it.”

  “Nor do I,” said Gabe.

  “Yes, you do. I always give you some.”

  “And I eat it because I know you think you’re being generous. Anyway, what’s that to do with anything?”

  “I gave him some, too.”

  “And Green Eyes over there—” Gabe waved towards the man’s retreating figure through the window. “Did he eat it?”

  Amber pouted, rose and took their plates. “It doesn’t matter now.” She swallowed hard. “I’ve ruined it.”

  “Amber!” said Maddy and Gabe in unison, rising to follow Amber to the till.

  As Gabe paid, Maddy put her arm around Amber. “You’ve done nothing to ruin it. Green Eyes is obviously, well, a little different to most people.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” said Amber, her interest piqued once more. “I think that’s what I first noticed.” She shook her head as she glanced through the window at the retreating broad shoulders. He’d stopped for a few minutes to check his phone. “No, who am I kidding? Gabe was right.” She sighed. “Just look at him.”

  Both Maddy and Amber watched Green Eyes flick the lights of his sleek Jaguar and open the door, without glancing around.

  “He certainly looks as if he’s in his own world. Sort of single-minded, focused,” mused Maddy.

  “Um. And when he’s focused on you, it’s like…”

  Maddy’s gaze shifted and settled on Gabe. “It’s like the best thing in the world.”

  Amber smiled to herself to see Maddy and Gabe exchange looks. She loved love; it was that simple, particularly when it came to her family. And slowly her brothers and sisters were finding it. Lizzi, Rachel, Max and now Gabe—all married. That only left her two brothers, Rob and Cameron—neither of whom she could see settling down any time soon—and her. And her inability to spot a bastard looked like she’d end up the spinster aunt, doting on her nieces and nephews with only regrets and ‘what-ifs’ to fill her lonely evenings and nights.

  Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror, red hair escaping her plait in curls around her face, blue eyes bright, and she smiled at her reflection, her optimistic nature refusing to be suppressed. So what if Green Eyes had got away this time? There would be others. And she’d make sure next time that he wouldn’t get away so easily. There would be no repeat of the coriander incident.

  2

  “Amber!” called Jim Connelly from the back deck of Belendroit. “Someone to see you!” It wasn’t until the second call that she heard him. She rose from her cross-legged position, gave one last squint at her painting, and dabbed her paintbrush on the canvas.

  “Amber!”

  She tore herself from the painting of the iridescent shell, lodged in the rippling sand exposed by the receding tide, and turned to look up at the house. She waved. “Coming!”

  The cocker spaniels, Stanley and Boo, jumped up and ran around, Stanley barking nervously at the sudden movement. She fondled his velvety ears, calming him, before following Boo, who was already trotting up the beach to the house.

  “Someone here to see you!” repeated her father, louder, more strident this time.

  She frowned. Her father sounded unusually agitated. “I’m coming!”

  Who on earth could it be? No one rattled her father. Certainly none of her friends. They might infuriate him, or puzzle him, but not unnerve him. Besides, she’d be seeing them later at the pub, and it couldn’t be one of the family, otherwise he wouldn’t have sounded so formal.

  She stomped up the steps in her charity shop Doc Martens, careful not to trip on her undone laces, and kissed Jim on the cheek. “Who is it, Pop?”

  Jim shrugged, his bushy eyebrows beetling into the center. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “I have no idea. He didn’t say, and somehow”—he shrugged—“I didn’t like to ask him.”

  “Really?” It wasn’t like her father to be intimidated by anyone. And anyone who was likely to intimidate him was unlikely to be asking for her.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Jim asked in a tense voice that was trying to be quiet, but not succeeding.

  “No.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’ll just…” She began to walk into the house, but her father put a hand on her arm, stopping her abruptly.

  “Shall I come with you?”

  “If you think you must, but…” This was getting silly. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. I can look after myself.”

  Jim shot her a warning look full of meaning.

  “Pop, I was sixteen then. I’m older now.” She didn’t add ‘wiser’ because she wasn’t sure she was. She’d used to trust herself, now she rarely did.

  “Well, I’ll be here if you need me.”

  She nodded, trying to quash the nerves which were gathering in the pit of her stomach. “Okay.”

  “He’s in the parlor.”

  “The parlor?” she repeated. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d used the parlor. The nerves intensified, making her feel queasy. Had someone died?

  “It seemed best,” Jim said solemnly. “Are you okay?”

  “Pop, I’ll be fine.” Although she was feeling less fine by the minute. Her father’s hovering d
idn’t help. “Why don’t you put the kettle on? Make a pot of tea?”

  She watched him walk away and only after she’d heard the rush of water into the kettle did she walk to the parlor door. She paused outside the closed door and bit her lip. This was ridiculous. It was her and her father working each other up. The rest of her family always teased them about being over-dramatic. She took a deep breath and reached out for the brass handle, dented with age, and gripped it, her grip faltering as she heard a sound behind her. Her father stood at the end of the hallway, kettle in hand, watching her. She felt strangely comforted.

  She opened the door and the silhouette of a man, outlined by the bright winter sunlight, stood before the window. He was smartly dressed in a sharp suit which even Amber could see must have cost more than her monthly salary, probably her annual salary for all she knew. Then he turned and moved out of the stream of sunlight and her mouth dropped open. Those green eyes, she’d know them anywhere, even when they came along with a suit so sharp it could cut something.

  “Oh, it’s you!” she said, a blush blooming on her cheeks.

  “Miss Connelly.”

  She felt as if she’d walked into a costume drama. She’d have laughed at his response if she hadn’t been surprised that he knew her surname. She only ever signed her paintings with her first name, and her staff badge only had “Amber” printed on it.

  Jim stood behind her, and she could sense his confusion. “Is everything all right here?” he asked protectively.

  “Of course, Pop. This is a…” She couldn’t say ‘friend’ because he was a friend only in her imagination, and she couldn’t introduce him because she didn’t know his name. “This is someone I met at the café.”

  “David Tremayne, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, but I wasn’t sure how else to contact your daughter.”

  “Oh,” said Jim, looking from one to the other, his confusion intensifying. And Amber could hardly question it—she was as confused as he was. Besides, she couldn’t help repeating his name in her head. David Tremayne. It was a beautiful name, just like him. She glanced up into those green eyes, which were looking as assured as ever. They alighted on her and she took a sharp intake of breath, feeling the tingle of his gaze from her scalp to her toes.