The Proposal Plan. Charlotte Phillips
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‘I’ve had it up to here!’ She indicated a level somewhere above her head. ‘I obviously attract commitment-phobic men. And that’s why I’ve come to get your help.’
He stopped in his tracks, halfway to the door, and looked back at her dubiously. ‘What do you mean, my help? What can I do?’
‘You have loads of girlfriends, right? And you’re the most commitment-shy person I know.’
‘Well, yes… I mean no.’ He tried to work out if there was a compliment or an insult in there and decided there was probably both. ‘How is this relevant?’
‘I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s no point hanging around waiting for Ed to get his act together. You can advise me on all this kind of thing.’
He raised his eyebrows at her quizzically.
‘Where I’m going wrong, of course. Why he isn’t falling over himself to get a ring on my finger.’ She warmed to her subject. ‘You must have a wealth of experience just waiting to be tapped. You can show me how to be totally irresistible to him.’
He thought for a moment she might actually be going mad. Hangover forgotten, he barged into the kitchen behind her. She’d had some crazy ideas in her time, but this…
‘No. Absolutely no way.’
About Charlotte Phillips
CHARLOTTE PHILLIPS has been reading romantic fiction since her teens, and she adores upbeat stories with happy endings. Writing them for Mills & Boon® is her dream job.
She combines writing with looking after her fabulous husband, two teenagers, a four-year-old and a dachshund. When something has to give, it’s usually housework.
She lives in Wiltshire.
The Proposal Plan
Charlotte Phillips
MILLS & BOON
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This book is for Nick, who made me finish it.
With all my love always.
Table of Contents
‘WILL YOU…?’
Lucy Telford leaned forward expectantly, mouth slightly open, sea-green eyes wide. So certain was she of how this sentence would end that for a moment she actually thought she’d heard the words ‘marry me’. But by the time her brain caught up and performed a reality check, Ed had moved on to describing the cottage for sale on the outskirts of Bath—on which he hoped she would supply the deposit. And it dawned on her to her utter disbelief: it had happened again.
She drove grimly through the quiet streets of the city early the following morning. Apparently the strength of cliché and female experience on her side meant nothing in the face of the male inability to take a hint. It was Valentine’s Day, check. She was out with her boyfriend of two years, relationship good, check. He’d booked her favourite restaurant, bought her favourite flowers and told her he had something special to ask her that evening. Check, check, check. What girl wouldn’t have expected a marriage proposal given a situation like that? Add in the heavy hints she’d been dropping for at least the last six months. Surely the odds were somewhere approaching dead cert?
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her face set, her dark curls even more defiantly springy than usual, reflecting the way she felt. The rest of the evening had passed in an angry red blur. The night hadn’t been much better. She’d tossed and turned, alternately hot and throwing the covers off, then freezing cold. Then somewhere around two a solution of sorts had come to her. A way of taking control.
She pulled the car into a roadside space in one of Bath’s lovely streets, the golden stone of the Georgian terrace picked out by the winter sunshine. It was a perfect February morning, icy cold but bright. Running her own bakery business had made her accustomed to extremely early starts and she adored the way the city looked when it was still half asleep. It did nothing to distract her today.
Killing the engine, she stalked, as well as she could in trainers, across the pavement and up the stone steps to the three-storey town house of the one person she could moan at unreservedly. The one person who would let her vent her anger, calm her down and give her an objective opinion on what she should