I’ve got one more question.
Fire away.
You’re trapped on a desert island, which one book would you want with you?
Raft Building for Beginners.
Hahahahahahaha Nite nite xx
Sleep tight xx
* * *
—
On Friday afternoon another text came through from John.
Fancy joining me for dinner at the Captain’s Bounty tonight? My treat. It’s Mexican night.
“Is it a date?” Gemma was practically hopping on the spot, grinning wildly. The Boden-walking mummies on the middle table pricked up their collective ears.
“I don’t think so. I think we both know that would just complicate things.”
“What are you going to wear?”
Annie bit her lip. “Not sure yet,” she replied as nonchalantly as she could muster. Should she dress up or be casual? Maybe she’d try a casual dress-up.
“Exciting, though,” Gemma squeaked.
“I’m looking forward to dinner. Aiden’s a good cook, and I haven’t had Mexican food for ages.”
“Not the food! The company . . . the date.”
“It’s not a date.”
Gemma looked around at the walking mummies and mouthed, It is a date! and received several conspiratorial winks in return. Annie sighed loudly and started grinding coffee for the next order, but she couldn’t suppress her smile.
* * *
—
Later that evening, while being eyed suspiciously by Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, Annie got ready for her date-not-a-date with John. She had settled on a tie-waisted shirtdress in baby-wale cord: navy blue with a ditsy print of little red flowers with yellow middles over it. She teamed it with dark red knitted tights and brown knee-high boots. She noticed, as she applied makeup in the bathroom mirror, that her roots needed doing; little twists of gray stood out in relief against her conker-brown hair. She brushed her hair and it shone in the light, grays and all, and bounced and kinked at the sides. With a steady hand, Annie painted a swish of liquid eyeliner and managed to achieve a near-perfect flick thanks to a helpful tutorial on YouTube. Her hand hovered, holding the lipstick while she debated whether to go the whole hog, and then, spurred on by Tiggs’s disapproving glare, she applied a coat of bright red lip stain called Cherry Passion and smacked her lips together, pouting in the mirror. Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle left the bathroom in disgust with her nose and tail in the air.
* * *
—
It wasn’t overly busy in the bar area of the Captain’s Bounty, but the restaurant end was full. Annie was acutely aware that this was her second time having dinner with a man in this pub. She wouldn’t like people to think she was sampling the local men as well as the produce. Then she reminded herself that this wasn’t a date. They were just two friends—they were friends now?—having dinner together. If you took into consideration that Annie was a potential buyer for his aunt’s property, you could even describe it as a business meal—she wondered briefly if she could offset it against her tax bill as expenses; he’d said it was his treat but she didn’t like to take these things for granted.
The air was heavily scented with garlic, sizzling meats, fresh coriander, and the ever-present undercurrent of woodsmoke. Annie’s stomach growled. She found John at a table for two near a deep-set leaded window. John smiled when he saw her and stood as she drew near. There was an awkward moment when both of them hovered, clearly wondering if they were in kissing-cheek-on-arrival territory or not. They decided yes, and Annie took full advantage, breathing in the smell of his cologne against his warm skin before sitting down, Annie taking the chair opposite him. John closed his book—a ragged, yellowing copy of A Scandal in Bohemia—and set it to one side. Annie nodded toward it.
“You’re a Sherlock Holmes fan?”
“Not particularly. Just this one really. It’s my go-to comfort book when I’m stressed.” He picked it up and turned it over in all its dog-eared glory. “It was my dad’s. He read it to me when I was a kid; I didn’t understand half of it, but I liked him reading it to me.”
“I didn’t have you down for a classics fan. I thought you’d be more of a James Herbert man.”
John looked impressed. “How very astute of you, Ms. Sharpe. As a matter of fact, I am a fan of James Herbert. But I like the classics too.”
“You should join our book club.”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” said John, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ve seen what goes on at your book clubs.”