Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set (57 page)

On the way back to London, he asked, ‘So are you seriously going to buy this car?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Apart from the colour? I was thinking, it’s not very practical for transporting wedding dresses.’

‘I don’t need a car for that. I’m hiring a van for the wedding show,’ she said.

‘So why don’t you have a car?’ he asked.

‘I live and work
in London, so I don’t really need one—public transport’s fine.’

‘You needed a car today to take us to the seaside,’ he pointed out.

‘Not necessarily. We could have gone by train,’ she said.

‘But then you wouldn’t have been able to sing your head off all the way to Brighton.’

‘And we wouldn’t have got wet on the way home,’ she agreed ruefully.

‘We really need to get you
out of those wet clothes,’ he said, ‘and my place is nearer than yours.’

‘Good point,’ she said, and drove back to his.

Sean had the great pleasure of peeling off her wet clothes outside the shower, then soaping her down under the hot water. When they’d finished, he put her clothes in the washer-dryer while she dried off. And then he had the even greater pleasure of sweeping her off
her feet again, carrying her to his bed, and making love with her until they were both dizzy.

Afterwards, she was all warm and sweet in his arms. He stroked her hair back from her face. ‘You were going to tell me how come you’re not a doctor.’

‘It just wasn’t what I wanted to do,’ she said.

‘But you applied to study medicine at university.’

She shifted onto her side and propped
herself on one elbow so she could look into his face. ‘It was Dad’s dream, not mine. It’s a bit hard to resist pressure from your parents when you’re sixteen. Especially when your father’s a bit on the overprotective side.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Luckily I realised in time that you can’t live someone else’s dream for them. So I turned down the places I was offered and reapplied to design school.’

He frowned. ‘But you were doing science A levels.’

‘And Art,’ she said. ‘And the teacher who taught my textiles class at GCSE wrote me a special reference, explaining that even though I hadn’t done the subject at A level I was more than capable of doing a degree. At my interview, I wore a dress I’d made and I also took a suit I’d made with me. I talked the interviewers through all the
stitching and the cut and the material, so they knew I understood what I was doing. And they offered me an unconditional place.’

He could see the pain in her eyes, and drew her closer. ‘So what made you realise you didn’t want to be a doctor?’

‘My mum.’ Claire dragged in a breath. ‘She was only thirty-seven when she died, Sean.’ Tears filmed her eyes. ‘She barely made it past half the
proverbial three score years and ten. In the last week of her life, when we were talking she held my hand and told me to follow my dream and do what my heart told me was the right thing.’

Which clearly hadn’t been medicine.

Not knowing what to say, he just stroked her hair.

‘Even when I was tiny, I used to draw dresses. Those paper dolls—mine were always the best dressed in class.
I used to sketch all the time. I wanted to design dresses. Specifically, wedding dresses.’

He had a feeling he knew why she tended to fight with her father, now.

Her next words confirmed it. ‘Dad said designers were ten a penny, whereas being a doctor meant I’d have a proper job for life.’ She sighed. ‘I know he had my best interests at heart. He had a tough upbringing, and he didn’t
want me ever to struggle with money, the way he did when he was young. But being a doctor was
his
dream, not mine. He said I could still do dressmaking and what have you on the side—but no way would I have had the time, not with the crazy hours that newly qualified doctors work. It was an all or nothing thing.’ She grimaced. ‘We had a huge fight over it. He said I’d just be wasting a degree if
I studied textile design instead, and he gave me an ultimatum. Study medicine, and he’d support me through uni; study textiles, and he was kicking me out until I came to my senses.’

That sounded like the words of a scared man, Sean thought. One who wanted the best for his daughter and didn’t know how to get that through to her. And he’d said totally the wrong thing to a teenage girl who’d
just lost the person she loved most in the world and wasn’t dealing with it very well. Probably because he was in exactly the same boat.

‘That’s quite an ultimatum,’ Sean said, trying to find words that wouldn’t make Claire think he was judging her.

‘It was pretty bad at the time.’ She paused. ‘I talked to your mum about it.’

He was surprised. ‘My mum?’

Claire nodded. ‘She
was lovely—she knew I was going off the rails a bit and I’d started drinking to blot out the pain of losing Mum, so she took me under her wing.’

Exactly what Sean would’ve expected from his mother. And now he knew why she’d been so insistent that he should look after Claire, the night of Ashleigh’s eighteenth birthday party. She’d known the full story. And she’d known that she could trust
Sean to do the right thing. To look after Claire when she needed it.

Claire smiled grimly. ‘The drinking was also the worst thing I could have done in Dad’s eyes, because his dad used to drink and gamble. I think that was half the reason why I did it, because I wanted to make him as angry as he made me. But your mum sat me down and told me that my mum would hate to see what I was doing to
myself, and she made me see that the way I was behaving really wasn’t helping the situation. I told her what Mum said about following my dream, and she asked me what I really wanted to do with my life. I showed her my sketchbooks and she said that my passion for needlework showed, and it’d be a shame to ignore my talents.’ She smiled. ‘And then she talked to Dad. He still didn’t think that designing
dresses was a stable career—he wanted me to have what he thought of as a “proper” job.’

‘Does he still think that?’ Sean asked.

‘Oh, yes. And he tells me it, too, every so often,’ Claire said, sounding both hurt and exasperated. ‘When I left the fashion house where I worked after I graduated, he panicked that I wouldn’t be able to make a go of my own business. Especially because there
was a recession on. He wanted me to go back to uni instead.’

‘And train to be a doctor?’

‘Because then I’d definitely have a job for life.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But it’s not just about the academic side of things. Sure, I could’ve done the degree and the post-grad training. But my heart wouldn’t have been in it, and that wouldn’t be fair to my patients.’ She sighed. ‘And I had a bit
of a cash flow problem last year. I took a hit from a couple of clients whose cheques bounced. I still had to pay my suppliers for the materials and, um...’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I could’ve asked Dad to lend me the money to tide me over, but then he would’ve given me this huge lecture about taking a bigger deposit from my brides and insisting on cash or a direct transfer to my account. Yet again
he would’ve made me feel that he didn’t believe in me and I’m not good enough to make it on my own. So I, um, sold my car. It kept me afloat.’

‘And have you changed the way you take money?’

She nodded. ‘I admit, I learned that one the hard way. Nowadays I ask for stage payments. But there’s no real harm done. And Dad doesn’t know about it so I avoided the lecture.’ Again, Sean could
see the flash of pain in her eyes. ‘I just wish Dad believed in me a bit more. Gran and Aunty Lou believe in me. So does Ash.’

‘So do I,’ Sean said.

At her look of utter surprise, he said softly, ‘Ashleigh’s wedding dress convinced me. I admit, I had my doubts about you. Especially when you lost her dress. But you came up with a workable solution—and, when the original dress turned up,
I could see just how talented you are. Mum was right about you, Claire. Yes, you could’ve been a perfectly competent doctor, but you would’ve ignored your talents—and that would’ve been a waste.’

Her eyes sparkled with tears. ‘From you, that’s one hell of a compliment. And not one I ever thought I’d hear. Thank you.’

‘It’s sincerely meant,’ he said. ‘You did the right thing, following
your dreams.’

‘I know I did. And I’m happy doing what I do. I’m never going to be rich, but I make enough for what I need—and that’s important.’ She paused. ‘But what about you, Sean? What about your dreams?’

‘I’m living them,’ he said automatically.

‘But supposing Farrell’s didn’t exist,’ she persisted. ‘What would you do then?’

‘Start up another Farrell’s, I guess,’ he said.

‘So toffee really is your dream?’ She didn’t sound as if she believed him.

‘Of course toffee’s my dream. What’s wrong with that?’ he asked.

‘You’re the fourth generation to run the business, Sean,’ she said softly. ‘You have a huge sense of family and heritage and integrity and duty. Even if you didn’t really want to do it, you wouldn’t walk away from your family business. Ever.’

It shocked him that she could read him so accurately. Nobody else ever had. She wasn’t judging him; she was just stating facts. ‘I like my job,’ he protested. He
did
.

‘I’m not saying you don’t,’ she said softly. ‘I’m just asking you, what’s your dream?’

‘I’m living it,’ he said again. Though now she’d made him question that.

It was true that he would never have walked away from
the business, even if his parents hadn’t been killed. He’d always wanted to be part of Farrell’s. It was his heritage.

But, if he was really honest about it, he’d felt such pressure to keep the business going the same way that his father had always run things. After his parents had died in the crash, he’d needed to keep things stable for everyone who worked in the business, and keeping to
the way things had always been done seemed the best way to keep everything on a stable footing.

He’d been so busy keeping the business going. And then, once he’d proved to his staff and his competitors that he was more than capable of running the business well, he’d been so busy making sure that things stayed that way that he just simply hadn’t had the time to think about what he wanted.

Just before his parents’ accident, he’d been working on some new product ideas. Something that would’ve been his contribution to the way the family business developed. He’d loved doing the research and development work. But he’d had to shelve it all after the accident, and he’d never had time to go back to his ideas.

Though it was pointless dwelling on might-have-beens. Things were as
they were. And the sudden feeling of uncertainty made him antsy.

Sean had intended to ask Claire to stay, that night; but right at that moment he needed some distance between them, to get his equilibrium back. ‘I’d better check to see if your clothes are dry.’

They were. So it was easy to suggest making a cold drink while she got dressed. Easier still to hint that it was time for her
to go home—particularly as Claire took the hint. He let her walk out of the door without kissing her goodbye.

And he spent the rest of the evening wide awake, miserable and regretting it. She’d pushed him and he’d done what he always did and closed off, not wanting her to get too close.

But her words went round and round in his head.
What’s your dream?

The problem was, you couldn’t
always follow your dreams. Not if you had responsibilities and other people depended on you.

Everybody has a dream, Sean.

What did he really want?

He sat at his desk, staring out of the window at a garden it was too dark to see. Then he gritted his teeth, turned back to his computer and opened a file.

Dreams were a luxury. And he had a business to run—one that had just managed
to survive a takeover bid. Dreams would have to wait.

CHAPTER TEN

S
EAN
SPENT
THE
next day totally unable to concentrate.

Which was ridiculous because he never, but never, let any of his girlfriends distract him from work.

But Claire Stewart was different, and she got under his skin in a way that nobody ever had before. He definitely wasn’t letting her do it, but it was happening all the same—and he really didn’t know what
to do about it.

Part of him wanted to call her because he wanted to see her; and part of him was running scared because she made him look at things in his life that he’d rather ignore.

And he still couldn’t get her words out of his head.
Everybody has a dream, Sean.
Just what was his?

He still hadn’t worked out what to say to her by the evening, so he buried himself in work instead.
And he noticed that she hadn’t called him, either. So did that mean she, too, thought this was turning out to be a seriously bad idea and they ought to end it?

And then, on Tuesday morning, his PA brought him a plain white box.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

Jen shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I was just asked to give it to you.’

There was no note with the box. He frowned. ‘Who brought
it?’

‘A blonde woman. She wouldn’t give her name. She said you’d know who it was from,’ Jen said.

His heart skipped a beat.

Claire.

But if Claire had actually come to the factory and dropped this off personally, why hadn’t she come to see him?

Or maybe she thought he’d refuse to see her. They hadn’t exactly had a fight on Sunday evening, but he had to acknowledge that
things had been a little bit strained when she’d left. Maybe this was her idea of a parley, the beginning of some kind of truce.

And hadn’t she said about not sending him flowers and how you couldn’t give chocolates to a confectioner?

‘Thank you. I have a pretty good idea who it’s from,’ he said to Jen, and waited until she’d closed the door behind her before opening the box.

Claire
had brought him cake.

Not just cake—the most delectable lemon cake he’d ever eaten in his life.

He gave in and called her business line.

She answered within three rings. ‘Dream of a Dress, Claire speaking.’

‘Thank you for the cake,’ he said.

‘Pleasure.’

Her voice was completely neutral, so he couldn’t tell her mood. Well, he’d do things her way for once and ask her
straight out. ‘Why didn’t you come in and say hello?’

‘Your PA said you were in a meeting, and I didn’t really have time to wait until you were done.’

‘Fair enough.’ He paused. He knew what he needed to say, and he was enough of a man not to shirk it. ‘Claire, I owe you an apology.’

‘What for?’

‘Pushing you away on Sunday night.’

‘Uh-huh.’

He sighed, guessing what
she wanted him to say. ‘I still can’t answer your question.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘A bit of both, if I’m honest,’ he said.

‘OK. Are you busy tonight?’

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘I thought we could go and smell some roses.’

Claire-speak for having some fun, he guessed.

‘Can you meet me at my place?’

‘Sure. Would seven work for you?’

‘Fine. Don’t eat,’ she said,
‘because we can probably grab something on the way. Some of the food stalls at Camden Lock will still be open at that time.’

Clearly she intended to take him for a walk somewhere. ‘And is this a jeans and running shoes thing?’ he checked.

‘You can wear your prissiest suit and your smartest shoes—whatever you like, as long as you can walk for half an hour or so and still be comfortable.’

When Sean turned up at her shop at exactly seven o’clock, Claire was wearing a navy summer dress patterned with daisies and flat court shoes. Her hair was tied back with another chiffon scarf—clearly that was Claire’s favoured style—but he was pleased that she didn’t add her awful khaki cap, this time. Instead, she just donned a pair of dark glasses.

They walked down to Camden Lock, grabbed
a burger and shared some polenta fries, then headed along the canalside towards Regent’s Park. He’d never really explored the area before, and it was a surprisingly pretty walk; some of the houses were truly gorgeous, and all the while there were birds singing in the trees and the calm presence of the canal.

‘I love the walk along here. It’s only ten minutes or so between the lock and the
park,’ she said.

And then Sean discovered that Claire had meant it literally about coming to smell the roses when she took him across Regent’s Park to Queen Mary’s Garden.

‘This place is amazing—it’s the biggest collection of roses in London,’ she told him.

There were pretty bowers, huge beds filled with all different types of roses, and walking through them was like breathing pure
scent; it totally filled his senses.

‘This is incredible,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you meant it literally about smelling the roses.’

‘I meant it metaphorically as well—you must know that WH Davies poem, “What is this life if full of care, We have no time to stand and stare,”,’ she said. ‘You have to make time for things like this, Sean, or you miss out on so much.’

He knew she
had a point. ‘Yeah,’ he said softly, and tightened his fingers round hers.

He could just about remember coming to see the roses in Regent’s Park as a child, but everything since his parents’ death was a blur of work, work and more work.

Six years of blurriness.

Being with Claire had brought everything into sharp focus again. Though Sean wasn’t entirely sure he liked what he saw
when he looked at his life—and it made him antsy. Claire was definitely dangerous to his peace of mind.

She drew him over to look at the borders of delphiniums, every shade of white and cream and blue through to almost black.

‘Now these I
really
love,’ she said. ‘The colour, the shape, the texture—everything.’

He looked at her. ‘So you’re a secret gardener?’

‘Except doing it
properly would take time I don’t really have to spare,’ she said. ‘Though, yes, if had a decent-sized garden I’d plant it as a cottage garden with loads of these and hollyhocks and foxgloves, and tiny little lily-of-the-valley and violets.’

‘These ones here are exactly the same colour as your eyes.’

She grinned. ‘Careful, Sean. You’re waxing a bit poetic.’

Just to make the point,
he kissed her.

‘Tsk,’ she teased. ‘Is that the only way you have to shut me up?’

‘It worked for Benedick,’ he said.

‘
Much Ado
is a rom-com—and I thought you said you didn’t like rom-coms?’

‘I said I didn’t mind ones with great dialogue—and dialogue doesn’t get any better than Beatrice.’ He could see Claire playing Beatrice; he’d noticed that she often had that deliciously acerbic
bite to her words.

‘And it’s a good plot,’ she said, ‘except Hero ends up with a man who isn’t good enough for her. I hate the bit where Claudio shames her on their wedding day, and it always makes me want to yell to her, “Don’t do it!” at the end when she marries him.’

‘They were different times and different mores, though I do know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want Ashleigh
to marry a weak, selfish man.’

She winced. ‘Like Rob Riverton. And I introduced her to him.’

‘Not one of your better calls,’ Sean said.

‘I know.’ She looked guilty. ‘I did tell her to dump him because he wasn’t good enough for her and he didn’t treat her properly.’

A month ago, Sean wouldn’t have believed that. Now, he did, because he’d seen for himself that Claire had integrity.
‘Claire,’ he said, yanked her into his arms and kissed her.

‘Was that to shut me up again?’ she asked when he broke the kiss.

‘No—it was because you’re irresistible.’

She clearly didn’t know what to say to that, because it silenced her.

They walked back along the canalside to Camden, hand in hand; then he bought them both a glass of wine and they sat outside, enjoying the late
evening sunshine before walking back to her flat.

‘Do you want to come in?’ she asked.

‘Is that wise?’

‘Probably not, but I’m asking anyway.’

‘Probably not,’ he agreed, ‘but I’m saying yes.’

They sat with the windows open, the curtains open and music playing; there was a jug of iced water on the coffee table, and she’d put frozen slices of lime in the jug. Sean was surprised
by how at home he felt here; the room was decorated in very girly colours, compared to his own neutral colour scheme, but he felt as if he belonged.

‘It’s getting late. I ought to go,’ he said softly. ‘I have meetings, first thing.’

‘You don’t have to go,’ Claire said. ‘You could stay.’ She paused. ‘If you want to.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

In answer, he closed her
curtains and carried her to her bed.

* * *

The next morning, Claire woke before her alarm went off to find herself alone in bed, and Sean’s side of the bed was stone cold. She was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t even woken her before he left, or put a note on the pillow. Then again, he’d said that he had early meetings. He’d probably left at some unearthly hour and hadn’t wanted to
disturb her sleep.

At that precise moment he walked in, carrying a tray with two paper cups of coffee and a plate of pastries. ‘Breakfast is served, my lady.’

‘You went out to buy us breakfast? That’s—that’s so
lovely
,’ she said, sitting up, ‘but you really didn’t have to. I have fruit and yoghurt in the fridge, plus bread and granola in the cupboard.’

‘I noticed a bakery round
the corner from yours. I thought croissants might be nice, and I’m running a bit short on time so I bought the coffee rather than making it.’

‘That sounds to me like an excuse for having decadent tendencies,’ she teased.

He laughed back. ‘Maybe.’

He sat on the bed and shared the almond-filled croissants with her. ‘You thought I’d gone without saying goodbye, didn’t you?’

‘Um—well,
yes,’ she admitted.

‘I wouldn’t do that to you. I would at least have left you a note.’ He finished his coffee and kissed her lightly. ‘Sorry. I really
do
have to go now. Can I call you later?’

‘I’d like that.’ Claire wrapped herself in her robe so she could pad barefoot to the kitchen with him and kiss him goodbye at her front door.

She still couldn’t quite get over the fact he’d
gone out to buy them a decadent breakfast. And he’d stayed last night. This thing between them was moving so incredibly fast; it scared and exhilarated her at the same time. She guessed it would be the same for Sean. But would it scare him enough to make him push her away again, the way he had the other night? Or would he finally let her in?

* * *

They were both busy during the week,
but Sean texted her on Friday.

Do you have any appointments over lunch?

Sorry, yes.

And, regretfully, she wasn’t playing hard to get. She really did have appointments that she couldn’t move.

OK. Are you busy after work?

Yes, but that was something she could move.

Why?

Am trying to be like you and plan a spontaneous date.

She couldn’t help laughing. Planning
and spontaneity didn’t go together.

OK.

Cinema?
he suggested.

Depends. Is popcorn on offer?

Could be...
he texted back.

Deal. Time and place?

Can pick you up.

She wanted to keep at least some of her independence.

Saves time if I meet you there.

OK. Will check out films and text you where and when.

Claire had expected him to choose some kind of
noir movie, but when she got to the cinema and met him with a kiss she discovered that he’d picked a rom-com.

‘Is this to indulge me?’ she asked.

‘I’ve seen this one before. The structure’s good and the acting’s good,’ he said.

‘You’re such a film snob,’ she teased, but it warmed her that he’d thought of what she’d enjoy rather than imposing his choices on her regardless.

They sat in the back row, holding hands, and Claire enjoyed the film thoroughly. Back at his place afterwards, they were curled in bed together, when Sean said, ‘I had a focus group meeting today.’

She remembered the samples he’d given her. ‘Did it go how you wanted?’

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘We need a rethink.’

‘For what it’s worth, I’ve always thought that your caramel hearts would
be great as bridal favours. That’s the sort of thing my brides always ask me if I know about, because not everyone likes the traditional sugared almonds.’

‘Bridal favours?’ he queried.

‘Uh-huh—the hearts could be wrapped in silver or gold foil, and you can offer a choice of organza bags with them in say white, silver or gold, so brides can buy the whole package. They could be ordered
direct from your website, or you could offer the special bridal package through selected shops.’

He nodded. ‘That’s brilliant, Claire. Thank you. I never even considered that sort of thing.’

‘Why would you, unless you were connected to a wedding business?’ she pointed out.

‘I guess not.’

‘So why didn’t the focus group like the salted caramels? I thought they were fabulous.’

‘It’s a move too far from the core business. Farrell’s has produced hard toffee for generations. We’re not really associated with chocolates, apart from the caramel hearts—which were my mum’s idea.’

‘Are you looking to move away from making toffee, then?’

‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘What I want to do is look at other sorts of toffee.’

She frowned. ‘Am I being dense? Because toffee’s—well—toffee.’

‘Unless it’s in something,’ he said. ‘Toffee popcorn, like the one you chose tonight at the cinema. Or toffee ice cream.’

‘You weren’t concentrating on the film, were you?’ she asked. ‘You were thinking about work.’

‘I was thinking about you, actually,’ he said. ‘But the toffee popcorn did set off a lightbulb in the back of my head.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘If I took the business
in that direction, it’d mean buying a whole different set of machinery and arranging a whole different set of staff training. I’d need to be sure that the investment would be worth the cost and Farrell’s would see a good return on the money.’