Confessions of a Serial Dater (3 page)

“Come on, we can rescue the situation,” he says, reaching for my arm. “Let’s get in there before Cynthia and Graham end up with all the credit. I don’t know—er, you slide off his shoe and check out his toe or something. Look, there’s the mistletoe—you could, you know, kiss it better.”

“What? No way am I kissing his toe, or any other part of him.” I mean, really!

“But that would show that it was just a clumsy accident—I’m sure he won’t hold a grudge against you.”

“What about
me
holding a grudge against
him
?” I squeak. Jonathan
must
understand. “Can’t we just, you know, leave quietly and let the fuss die down?”

“Are you mad? Of course I can’t leave. Graham will poison him against me if we do that. What grudge?”

“He tried to kiss me. And not a peck-on-the-cheek, innocent kind of kiss. And I’m not mad—I’m furious.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a little bit?”

“Don’t you think you’re
underreacting
just a little bit?”

“What are you talking about?”

“On several occasions he has attempted to manhandle me, and I have overlooked them for your sake,” I tell him, my temper flaring. “But this is just too much.” How can Jonathan be more worried about his boss than me?

“Now, Rosie, I think you should just calm down a little—”

“Calm down?” I raise my voice, really seeing red. “I should be uncalming up, not calming down. And you should be supporting me.”

“But I do support you,” Jonathan says reasonably. “Maybe you shouldn’t have worn such a—a tight-fitting dress,” he adds, and I want to scream. It is the last straw.

“My dress,” I clearly enunciate each word, “is not an issue.
Your boss is the issue. He is a lecherous, overbearing ass, and quite frankly, I can’t understand why he’s never been sued for sexual harassment.”

As I deliver that last sentence, I realize that the music has stopped for the master of ceremonies to take center stage, and everyone in the immediate vicinity heard my last remark. And are all looking at me. Including Sidney, Graham and Cynthia.

Graham and Cynthia are wearing cat-who-got-the-cream expressions, whereas Sidney resembles a storm cloud.

“Er, yes, I think you’re right, Rosie. I think you definitely
should
tell your cousin to sue,” Jonathan, ever quick on the recovery front, ad-libs for our audience at large. “Don’t worry,” Jonathan says as an aside to me as the MC announces the winner of the raffle. “I can fix this. I think you’d better slip out and go home before you can do any more damage. I’ll sort this out. I’ll follow you as soon as I can.”

“Don’t bother,” I say, because at this moment I don’t care if he can fix it or not. In fact, I don’t care about Jonathan coming home with me, either. And as I hobble forlornly across the room, I stop and take off my pinchy shoes.

Time for Cinderella to leave the ball without the prince…

“Marvelous exit,” Dr. Love says in my ear as he takes my coat from the cloakroom attendant, which is a surprise, because I was expecting her to put the coat in
my
outstretched hand. Plus, I wasn’t expecting Dr. Love to follow me, either.

“Here, let me help you with this,” he says, giving me a lopsided smile.

I know I shouldn’t be glad to see him. But I can’t help it. As soon as I hear his voice I feel just a bit better. It’s just because he’s being friendly, that’s all—and right now, friendliness is something I’m sorely in need of.

“Well, I thought I’d make it something memorable,” I tell him, trying not to cry as he holds my coat and I slide in one arm. “Something to really crown my miserable day. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be ministering to Sidney’s broken toe?”

“The toe is fine. Sidney will have forgotten all about it by tomorrow. Here,” he says, pausing to reach into his pocket for a tissue.

“Thank you,” I say, dabbing my eyes. “I’m fine now. You should go back to your date.”

“Trust me when I say that I won’t be sorely missed,” he tells me, which is very interesting, because I cannot imagine anyone not sorely missing him. “You look like you could do with some coffee. Let me take you for coffee, and you can laugh at my sardonic eyebrow and tell me about your miserable day.”

Coffee with a dangerously attractive, friendly stranger as opposed to slinking home to my own miserable company, where I will no doubt replay the whole disastrous evening again and again, is definitely appealing, but I cannot think for the life of me why Dr. Love is bothering.

“Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me,” I say as I swap my shoes over to my other hand, and he eases my other sleeve onto my arm.

“After our dance and our shared love of Bing? You wound me to the quick,” he says, dramatically placing a hand on his heart, and I can’t help but laugh with him. “Plus, you promised me your firstborn if I rescued you, and I’m calling in your debt.”

“You might have to wait a long time for that,” I say morosely, thinking of Jonathan. “The way things are at the moment, I’m not even sure I have a boyfriend anymore.”

“So therefore far better to have coffee with me than go
home and think suicidal thoughts.” He buttons my coat with nimble, elegant fingers. I shiver, imagining those fingers and what else they are capable of doing. I also notice that they are ringless. “I’d never forgive myself if you slit your wrists or something,” he adds.

“I’m much too sensible,” I say, just a little bitterly. And far too sensible to have coffee with handsome strangers, too…

“Well, then, break the mold of sensibility. I think McDonald’s in Piccadilly Circus is our best option at this time of night. Not exactly high on the scale of sophistication, but it’s close, convenient, and packed with people in case you’re worried that I have nefarious motives.”

His choice of venue is surprising, but at least it proves he’s not a snob. I really shouldn’t do this…

“I don’t think—”
it’s a good idea,
I nearly say.

“Don’t think,” he says, his handsome face earnest as he holds up a hand. “Just come. Besides, you’ll be saving me from self-imploding through boredom. A necessary evil to raise money for worthy causes, but I hate these shindigs,” he adds, with a grin, as he shrugs on his own coat.

What if I did? Do I really want to go home and sit by the telephone and wait for Jonathan to call?

To hell with sensible,
I think as I smile back into his face. For once, common sense and practicality be damned.

“So your miserable day began—”

“This morning before I woke up,” I tell him as he tucks my hand in his arm and we walk to the door.

“Miserable days often start that way—mine usually involves a loud beeper in the wee hours of the morning to request my presence at the hospital.”

“I can’t beat that.” I shake my head. “My mysteriously nonfunctioning radio alarm fades into insignificance compared to, oh, saving lives.”

“Not at all,” he says, smiling ruefully. “I’m completely fascinated by mysterious radios. So, I take it this caused you to oversleep?” he prompts me.

“By an hour, but then the radiator in the living room decided to muscle in on the action.”

“A-ha. I’m guessing that until this point in time it was a very well-behaved radiator?”

“The height of radiator perfection,” I laugh. “It developed a sudden and violent leak,” I tell him, falling in easily with his rhythm of speech. This is actually quite fun…not that I should be having fun at a time like this.

As the doorman holds open the door for us, Dr. Love removes my hand from his arm.

“Hold on tight,” he says, and before I can ask him why, he scoops me up into his arms.

Never before in my life has a man lifted me into his arms and carried me—except for my dad, when I was little. But a hundred and twenty-five pounds of woman is a lot of weight to haul around compared to, say, thirty pounds of toddler.

What if he drops me? What if I’m too heavy?

“Relax, I’m not going to let you fall,” he says.

Actually, it does feel safe, and secure and…rather nice. Too nice. He’s just being
nice
to me. This is not an invitation to cuddle closer and run my fingers through his endearingly floppy, yet well-cut, hair.

“You’re doing the free-form arm thing again,” he says in my ear, and I have to force myself not to shiver at the warmth of his breath. “You might want to put one around my neck for balance.”

“But—” That would mean even more intimate contact with his person.
Yes,
every nerve ending in my body sings.
No—think clearly, logically,
I tell myself.

“Your poor feet have had enough torture—the last thing they need is to walk the streets of London clad only in panty hose. And besides, it’s starting to rain a bit.”

“But—” I tentatively slide my arm around his neck. Hmmm. He really does smell good…

“No buts,” he says, his face so close to mine that I could kiss him….

I squash that thought immediately. This is about
coffee,
I remind myself. Think about coffee. Think about Jonathan. How can I even consider kissing another man?

“So, where were we?” he asks as we reach the line of cabs outside the hotel, and I can’t remember, because his arms are so lovely and strong and warm. “Ah, yes—the badly behaved radiator. I’m thinking this involved a long wait for the plumber—”

I can’t stop myself from grinning back. He’s just so charming. He places me into the cab, and as he climbs in the other side, I’m wishing he’d carried me for longer. Which is totally ridiculous…

“Piccadilly Circus, please,” he tells the cab driver. “And?” he prompts me.
Where was I?
“Waiting for the plumber,” he prompts me again.

“And moving vast quantities of furniture and books, so that I could save the carpet from certain ruin,” I tell him.

“Always a good plan.”

“Yes, but while saving the carpet from certain ruin, my toast caught fire on the grill.”

“They don’t make grills the way they used to. The new ones are just too sophisticated and efficient—damn shame, the way they burn the toast,” he says, shaking his head as if burning toast was the most normal thing in the world to do.

“At least I know that my fire alarms are in good working order,” I say, as we reach McDonald’s and he scoops me out of the cab. I nearly forget to breathe as I try to focus on the conversation. “The firemen were very understanding about being called out on a false alarm,” I tell him as we reach the doors and he places me back on my feet.

“Better a false alarm than a real emergency. Two large, normal coffees, please,” he says to the assistant. And then to me, “Is that okay? I can’t get to grips with all these newfangled coffee options—it’s all latte whatsits, skinny this, and mocha that—very confusing.”

“Normal coffee is great,” I say. And then, as we sit down at a table in the corner, “This must be so trivial compared to your days.” I must sound like a complete idiot, chattering on and on.

“Not at all trivial.” He shakes his head. “We’ve barely scratched the surface. Lunchtime.”

“Okay. So at lunchtime—”

“Which you planned to work through in order to catch up on the work you missed this morning—”

I think he’s psychic.

“My mother called. This involved a detailed description of her latest crisis—the gas supply was disconnected—”

“And I’m guessing here that your mother is like mine,
therefore this also involved you fixing it,” he says, stirring sugar into his coffee.

Definitely psychic! And he’s good to his mother.

“A lengthy trip to the energy company to pay the late bill, and threaten, cajole and plead until they agreed to reconnect this afternoon.”

“My God, you’re good.” He raises that sardonic eyebrow again. “It usually takes them at least a week. Sorry—old habits die hard,” he adds, smoothing his eyebrow.

“Granny Elsie was my ace card,” I tell him dryly. Actually, the eyebrow thing is very cute. “She lives with Mum, and I simply pointed out that it would not be good publicity to allow an eighty-six-year-old grandmother to spend the weekend in a freezing house.”

“Clever move.”

“Well, I thought so. I didn’t mention the alternative plan to the company representative—Mum’s covert threat that she and Granny Elsie would move in with me until it was fixed.”

“And although you love them, this was not a tempting alternative?”

“You don’t know my mother.”

“I’m with you, trust me,” he nods. “My mother, much as I adore her and am grateful to her for carrying me for nine months, and generally making sure I grew up without killing myself on motorbikes and such, would drive me mad within the hour—far too tidy.”

Another reason why Dr. Love and I would never be compatible. Not that I’m making a list here, of course…

“My mother’s the opposite,” I sigh and don’t add that I am a neat freak. I’d drive him crazy.

“Mine would be ironing my socks and scrubbing between the tiles in the bathroom with a toothbrush before I could blink. Or rather, she’d hire a maid to do it.”

I flush.
I
iron socks and clean between the bathroom tiles with an old toothbrush.

“Um—” His folks have
maids?
Mine can barely afford the gas bill, and his have
staff.

“Oh, God—I didn’t mean to insult you,” he says, his eyes crinkling as his hair flops onto his forehead. “Nothing wrong with being clean and tidy—in fact, they do say that cleanliness is next to godliness. Now back to your day,” he says, pushing his hair back.

“Well, because I was running so late,
of course
I missed the cleaners by five minutes, which means that I couldn’t retrieve my discreet black velvet evening dress. This also means that instead, I am wearing a much more revealing evening dress.”

“I, for one, am rejoicing. That’s a very attractive dress you’re wearing.”

“Thank you,” I tell him evenly, but my pulse is humming, and my heart is pounding just a bit harder at the way he’s looking at me. Even though he can’t see the dress, because my coat is covering it. “But this was not my choice of dress for tonight. I didn’t want to encourage Sidney’s wandering hands.”

“Sidney should be in complete control of his hands at all times. Trust me—the dress is not an issue.”

Why couldn’t Jonathan have said something like that? Thinking of Jonathan depresses my mood. I wonder what he’s doing and what he’s thinking…

“It is when your boyfriend is really hoping for a promotion and you don’t want to piss off his boss,” I say, looking into my coffee cup. I don’t need to point out that my boyfriend chose to stay with his boss, rather than leave with me. How pathetic must I seem?

But I still can’t believe that my boyfriend, whom I love—at least I’m nearly sure I love him—could not see the situation for what it was.

“That’s a sticky one. Yet your boyfriend, I’m sure, will come to his senses, and by tomorrow this will all be a storm in a teacup. They say that everything seems a lot better in the morning.”

“But not—”

“—the mornings when your alarm clock fails to work,” he finishes my sentence for me again.

Dr. Love is a complete stranger, yet I feel like I know him. How odd is that? But maybe he understands because he’s removed from the situation. It’s sometimes hard to see something if you’re too close, isn’t it?

“So, after your surreal, stress-filled day—”

“I had only fifteen minutes to get ready for this surreal, stress-filled evening.”

“I’d never have guessed,” he says. “You look lovely, and if I were your boyfriend I’d be completely proud to have such an amazing girlfriend who worries about my promotion prospects.”

I break eye contact and refocus on my coffee.

“It’s late,” I say eventually, my cheeks still on fire at his last comment. He’s just being nice, and I am far too sensible to read more into his words. I should go home. For all I know, Jonathan might be trying to call me right now to explain and apologize.

“Yes. Of course. I’m sure your boyfriend will be worried about you. I’d be worried about you. Oh, excuse me one moment,” he says as his beeper rings. “I suspect that Baby Woodbridge has decided to make an appearance, which will be a relief for poor Mrs. Woodbridge, because she’s a week past her due date.”

And as he calls the hospital on his cell phone, I can’t help but think back to his comment earlier this evening when I first grabbed his arm at the fund-raiser. He really
does
make a habit of saving damsels in distress…

“Sadly, I have to go, too.” And his smile really is sad, as if he’s really going to miss me. I must get a grip on reality.

“Which is not sad for Mrs. Woodbridge, though,” I say, getting to my feet and picking up my shoes.

“It looks like she’s in for a long night.” He takes our cups and places them in the trash. “Ten hours of contractions and she’s still only dilated by two centimeters.”

“I’m sure she’s in the best hands.” I pause as we reach the door. “Well, thank you so much for coffee and the shoulder to cry on.”

“Not so fast,” he tells me, and my heart leaps into my mouth. Maybe he’s going to ask me for my number. “Hold on tight,” he tells me, scooping me up into his arms again. I could get used to this—used to him, I think, as the blood in my brain pounds in my ears. “Let’s get you safely into a taxi.”

“Really, there’s no need—I can walk,” I protest just a bit but am secretly delighted at the close contact. My body is even more delighted, and hums, aching to get closer. Even if only for a few seconds. Even if guys like him never ask for telephone numbers from girls like me.

“Well, here we are,” he says, turning his head to look into my eyes just as a black cab pulls over. And what I see there freezes me.

“Yes,” I breathe, my heart racing, because he’s looking at me as if he is starving and I am a delicious meal.

“I’d better put you down,” he says, as if he never wants to put me down.

“Yes,” I breathe again, swallowing as he begins to bend to place me in the cab, and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart and the whisper of suggestion in my ears.

And in that moment, I want to be rash. I forget that I am Miss Sensible and
know
that I am about to do something exciting. Impulsive. Irrational. Instinctively, my arm tightens
around his neck, and his face moves closer to mine. And I, Rosie Mayford, take the final step and kiss him.

It is soft, and sweet, and gentle, and tastes of coffee. And my God, I want more.

And when he pulls back, probably shocked to his core that a complete stranger has kissed him, and he was only being kind to the poor girl, after all, I hardly dare open my eyes. But when I finally do, his are hot and blazing.

This time, the kiss isn’t soft at all.

It’s hot, and wet, and explosive, and exhilarating. Every nerve ending in my body is screaming with joy.

I don’t notice when I drop my shoes and wind my other arm around him, pulling him closer, sliding around in his arms to press more closely to him.

I don’t notice the damp as my feet touch the wet ground.

I don’t notice the chill in the air, or the noise of the traffic, or the bright neon lights of Piccadilly Circus, because of the fireworks exploding in my head.

But the impatient honking of the taxi is a reality check. What the hell am I doing, playing with fire like this?

“Come on, love, is he getting in the cab with you or not?” the cab driver yells through the window, and I pull away and gasp.

Dr. Love looks as stunned as me. But probably not for the same reasons.

How can I kiss another man so passionately, when only an hour or two previously I was thinking of Friday-night sex with my boyfriend of six months? What kind of woman does this make me?

“Um. I’d better go. You’d better go,” I babble, jumping into the cab.

Dr. Love, for once, doesn’t have much to say. He is still standing there with that dazed expression on his face, but lu
natic women who kiss you passionately in the middle of a busy London street can have that effect on you.

I pull the door closed, and as the taxi pulls away, I cannot resist turning around to get one last glimpse of him. What must he think of me?

“I said, where to, love?” the cab driver asks me.

“Notting Hill. Princedale Road,” I tell him, realizing the irony of my street address as I watch Dr. Love pick up my forgotten shoes from the sidewalk.

But he’s not my prince, I remind myself. And the shoes don’t even fit.

And then I realize something else.

He kissed me right back.