Snowflakes at Lavender Bay. Sarah Bennett
rubbish. Those days were gone now, and he wouldn’t stint himself, or anyone he spent time with. ‘Why don’t you order us some champagne, while I finish this up?’
Eyes sparkling, Claire waved their waiter over. Owen let her grand production of perusing the wine list amuse him for a moment before turning back to his phone. He’d done enough to seal one deal for the evening, time to put the other one to bed, so to speak. Thumbs poised over the automatic keyboard on his phone, he considered the best way to phrase his response. Taylors had enough money to buy Owen a thousand times over and still wanted to bleed him dry. The fifteen per cent they were demanding would mean less than nothing to a business as large as them, but would cover decent year-end bonuses for Owen’s staff or help to replace a couple of their older company vans. And what if all the other companies he was hoping to attract through this new contract were just as tight? Kudos wouldn’t pay the bills.
What was he doing risking the company he’d built from scratch? Was his ego so bloody fragile he’d throw away everything he’d worked so hard to build for the chance to link his name to people who wouldn’t give him the time of day if they knew his background? There were better jobs to chase than Taylors. Jobs which would bring a decent profit margin and be a damn sight less stressful for all concerned.
Mind made up, Owen tapped a quick reply. Tell them, thanks but no thanks. We’ve offered a damned good package and if they can’t see that there are plenty of others who will. Send the email then GO HOME! Debrief at 8 a.m.
The waiter returned just as he was putting his phone away. ‘Your champagne, sir. An excellent vintage, and if I may suggest the perfect accompaniment to the chef’s dish of the day. The salmon is truly exquisite.’
Owen’s eyes travelled from the distinctive shield-shaped label on the bottle to the slight smirk on the waiter’s face. He might well look pleased with himself considering Claire had ordered the most expensive offering on the menu. The commission on a bottle like that would be a nice boost in the waiter’s pocket. Well, it served Owen right for being an arse and ignoring her, he supposed. Some days, being the boss sucked, but he’d take the hit to his wallet. ‘Ladies first.’ He gestured the waiter towards Claire and watched her simper and fuss over tasting the straw-coloured wine like she knew the difference between a two-hundred-pound bottle of Dom Perignon and a supermarket prosecco. The champagne matched her hair, nails and dress to perfection. Fifty shades of beige.
Out of nowhere, the image of the black-clad, wild-haired pixie from Lavender Bay popped into his head. He bet she’d never set foot in a place like Fabiano’s, and likely wouldn’t give two hoots about it. No sexy high heels and skin-tight dresses for her. He couldn’t imagine her sulking over his need to deal with a work problem if they’d been out on a date. She’d have either understood and let it go or turned on her heel and walked away. A wry grin teased the corner of his mouth. She’d already done the second, so a date with her was never going to get beyond the hypothetical. Not that she was his type.
Resting his chin on the tips of his fingers, Owen studied the woman opposite him. He could admit to a grudging admiration for the audacity she’d shown in ordering the top-priced champagne the waiter was currently pouring with a flourish. It was all just business at the end of the day. Owen had let his guard down and she’d taken advantage. Score one for Claire. It was what people did. What she hadn’t realised yet, was that he would only let someone get away with it once.
His gaze roamed around the room, more than half a mind still on the pretty, spiky girl who’d marched away from him clutching an ice bucket. She’d bought champagne that night, too, and likely enjoyed it as much if not more because her eyes hadn’t watered at the cost of it. The sleek lines and discreet lighting of Fabiano’s were a world away from the cosy, slightly shabby taproom at The Siren, and a deep desire to be standing at the bar with Mrs Barnes smiling up at him filled his heart. A bone-deep weariness crept over him as the disappointment over the failed Taylors deal struck home. Whilst he didn’t regret saying no, there was still a big hole in their projected work schedule which needed to be filled. He should be at home with a takeaway, a cold beer and his laptop, not trying to prove his success by being seen at the right place with the right kind of woman.
Owen gave himself a shake. This was why digging around in the past had been a bad idea. He wasn’t one for self-doubt and deep introspection. He’d built this life for himself, and it was a damn good one. A night off with a beautiful woman would do him good. All work and no play makes Owen a dull boy, and all that. Accepting a crystal flute from the waiter, he raised it in toast to Claire. ‘What shall we drink to?’
Mirroring his pose, she fluttered her eyelashes. ‘How about to the future?’
‘Perfect.’ Owen drained the sparkling liquid from his glass and tried to ignore the ping of his phone. Claire’s mouth tightened as he reached for it. With a swipe of his thumb he turned it off then tucked it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Work could wait for a couple of hours. He’d been the one to suggest their date, the least he could do was give her a nice evening. Reaching across the table, he took her hand. ‘I’m all yours. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to lately?’
The rest of the evening went well. Once she’d got over her initial mood, Claire proved to be as interesting and knowledgeable as he’d originally hoped. Beneath the labels and the perfect spray tan sat a sharp mind and a level of ambition to match his own. As they lingered over coffee, the spectre of the lost deal with Taylors came back to haunt him. Regardless of his gut instinct that turning down the deal was the right thing to do, he hated losing something he’d worked so hard for.
Fingers touched his. ‘Earth to Owen.’
Shaking his head, he pushed his work worries to one side and offered Claire a smile. ‘Let’s get out of here, shall we?’
Her lashes flicked down then up. ‘I’d like that.’
The taxi stopped outside a neat block of flats and he ducked his head to study them through the window. Not the best part of the area, but by no means the worst and he knew the local council were working with investors on several regeneration projects. Give it a few more years and the place would be worth considerably more than current market value.
‘Are you coming up for coffee?’ Ah. The universal code for extending the evening. On autopilot, he paid the cab fare and slid out after Claire. As she fumbled around in her oversized handbag, an image of the two of them a few years down the line formed in his mind. They were sitting at a long dining table in an immaculate flat full of chrome and granite and all the latest gadgets. To his left and right sat two rows of shiny, well-to-do couples in grey suits and neutral body-con dresses chattering about their latest holidays to somewhere exotic. The right place, the right wife, the right friends, it was exactly the kind of thing he’d dreamed of as a kid scuffing along streets like this in a too-thin coat picked up from the local charity shop for a couple of quid. Now, though, it seemed cold and lifeless, more nightmare than fantasy. A shudder rippled down his spine and he took a step backwards.
‘There it is!’ Claire gave a little laugh of relief as she slid the errant key into the lock and pushed open the door. She’d made it a couple of steps inside before she realised he’d made no move to follow. ‘Owen?’
His feet were glued to the pavement. His future was right there in front of him, but all he wanted to do was run. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me, Claire. I’ve got a bit of a headache, so I’m going to pass on that coffee.’ And anything else that might come after it.
‘Oh.’ Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. ‘Well, if you’re sure?’
If he crossed her threshold, she’d want something more from him than one night and she deserved it—just not from him. Owen nodded. ‘Goodnight, Claire.’ Tucking his hands in his trouser pockets, he forced himself to stroll down the front steps—rather than sprint as his brain was urging him to—and turned randomly to his left, desperate to get away from the eyes he could feel boring into his back. At least he’d done the right thing and walked away now before things got any further down the road between them. The thought didn’t make him feel any better.
He