London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) (8 page)

“Are you going to eat?” she asked, still not meeting his eyes.

He picked up his fork and then set it back down with a clank. “What exactly do you want from me?”

Clearly she hadn’t anticipated a direct approach. Two spots of color bloomed on her pale cheeks. “I suppose I was hoping that we could at least be friends.”

“No.”

She blinked rapidly, clearly struggling against hurt. “I see. I suppose I deserve that.”

“Not merely friends. I think we both know where that ends up.”

Her lips parted on a half exhale, half laugh, and God help him if his mind didn’t go straight to what it would be like to kiss them again.

“We do?” she asked.

“We do.”

“Then where does that leave us?”

You’re an idiot
, his better judgment chanted in the back of his mind. He shoved it away. “Dinner.”

“Tonight?” When he nodded, she narrowed her eyes. “What if I already have plans?”

Was that a hint of flirtation in her tone? “Cancel them. Unless, of course, you’re not interested.”

“No,” she said slowly, “I’m interested.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven, then.” Ian retrieved his utensils, his appetite back with a vengeance now that he’d made a decision. It was rash, reckless, utterly ridiculous to be even considering getting involved with her again. In all likelihood, they wouldn’t make it through dinner before discovering that the embers of whatever they had shared were too cold to ever be fanned back to life.

But it was better than spending another ten years wondering what would have happened had he taken a chance.

Chapter Eight

A knock came at the door at precisely 6:55 and set Grace’s heart hammering. She leaned over the sink to give her lips one last swipe of pale-pink lipstick, then thrust her feet into a pair of black leather ballet flats. She hadn’t any idea where Ian was taking her, so she’d opted for a safe casual look: skinny jeans and a slinky top beneath a blazer with a gauzy scarf wrapped around her neck. In the last two days, she’d pretty much exhausted all the date-appropriate clothing stuffed in her duffel bag. She hadn’t exactly thought this through when she left Paris.

The knock came again, and she rushed to the door, yanking it open without checking the peephole. Ian stood there with an umbrella in hand, drops of water flecking his dark hair and sparkling on the shoulders of his trench coat. “Are you ready?”

She looked down at her casual clothing, then back at the perfectly creased trousers showing beneath his coat. “I’m underdressed.”

“No, you look beautiful.”

The sudden warmth in his voice made her heart hiccup for a second. She grabbed her handbag from the coatrack, then stepped into the hall with him. “Where are we going exactly?”

“I don’t know yet. I guess we’ll see. Shall we?” He smiled mysteriously and swept a hand toward the staircase. Out on the stoop, he extended the umbrella and held it over her as they dashed for the black cab waiting at the curb.

Once they were safely inside, the driver turned. “You know where we’re headed yet?”

Ian pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. “A few minutes more.”

“Suit yourself. Meter’s still running.”

Grace sent him a quizzical look. “What’s this about now?”

As if on cue, Ian’s mobile beeped from his pocket. He dug it out and checked a text. “West Croydon.”

The driver made a sound that might have been exasperation, then pulled out onto the street. Grace stared in bafflement, though Ian looked perfectly unperturbed about the unconventional start to their evening.

“Did you have a nice afternoon?” he asked. “What did you do?”

“Wandered around Putney and took photos. You?”

He waved a hand. “This.”

“You’re really not going to tell me what this is about?”

“Not at all. It would spoil the surprise.”

“But it took you all afternoon to set up?”

He gave a single nod, clearly not going to give away any details. She leaned back against the seat in bewilderment. This was nothing like she’d expected. She’d been thinking casual dinner, maybe at one of James’s restaurants, followed by cocktails or coffee. Not crossing half of London in Saturday-night traffic in the pouring rain to a mystery location, apparently sent to him via text message. He had put in some effort to not be predictable.

When they pulled up on a nearly deserted block in front of an abandoned warehouse, though, a little quiver of nervousness began. The brick storefronts were shuttered for the night, graffiti scrawled across the metal roll-up doors. She took Ian’s hand and stepped out into the fine mist of rain, her heart slamming into her ribs. It took all she had not to look around for potential ambush sites. This was London, and she was with Ian. He would never bring her to anyplace dangerous.

“Don’t look at me like I’ve suddenly become an ax murderer,” Ian said with a wry smile. “I know that’s what you were thinking.”

“It did cross my mind,” she murmured.

His answering laugh was so warm and amused, though, it unclenched her stomach and calmed her heart. He squeezed her hand as they approached an orange painted door.

A burly man in a black shirt stepped from the shadow of the building. He would have been threatening if he hadn’t been holding a tablet computer and wearing an earpiece. “Welcome, sir, ma’am. Your names?”

“Smithson.”

The man checked his tablet and then reached to open the door for them. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Smithson.”

They stepped into darkness. Grace hesitated as her eyes adjusted to the surroundings. Black screens and drapes cordoned off a reception area and a temporary cloakroom that seemed to be made of … trees? Or coatracks that looked like trees. Strains of live flamenco music drifted from somewhere inside.

“Welcome to Seek.” A gorgeous woman with dark curls tied back in a kerchief and dressed in colorful, full skirts greeted them. “Right this way, Mr. Smithson.”

Grace cast an intrigued look at Ian and followed the woman around the screen into the massive warehouse space. But rather than the concert venue she’d begun to anticipate, they stepped into a Spanish town square, complete with cobblestones underfoot and a splashing fountain in the center. Festive paper lanterns strung from tree to tree—live trees this time, Grace realized—lit the space with a dim, romantic glow.

“What is this?” she asked as the hostess led them to a spot at one of the long, rustic tables.

“If I had to guess, I’d say Basque Country. Sometime in the past.”

Grace laughed in surprise. She climbed over the bench at their place, wide enough for two and adorned with an embroidered, red cushion. More details filtered in: a glittering canopy of stars overhead, a group of musicians with guitars and percussion boxes in the corner. In fact, had she not just come in from the London streets, she’d be convinced she’d somehow been transported to a plaza in Spain.

Ian watched her, a slight smile on his lips. “It’s a pop-up restaurant. It’s kept completely secret until the night of. No one knows where it will appear next or what the theme will be.”

“I don’t know what to say.” She looked at him in wonder. “You didn’t have to go to this trouble for me.”

“First dates should be memorable.”

“This is more like our five hundredth date, Ian.”

“It’s our first date,” he said firmly before he reached for the jug of sangria on the table in front of them. “Of course, considering it was a last-minute first date, I’m happy I managed to pull it off. This usually requires some advance booking.”

“How advance?”

He shrugged, but his eyes twinkled in the low light. “Four months, give or take.”

“The advantages of working in the restaurant business?”

“The advantages of having a food critic owe you a favor.” He raised his glass to her. “Hence the fact I get to be Mr. Smithson for the evening. To surprises and starting over.”

“And secret identities,” she said, clinking her glass to his. He was trying to impress her, and she found it completely endearing. More than that. Humbling. Her heart twinged with something painful and unfamiliar. She had practically begged him for a second chance, and yet he was acting like he was the one who needed to prove himself.

Ian shifted so he was facing her on the bench. “So, the obligatory first-date questions.”

“What do I do for a living?” The sangria was already making her feel a little warm and flirtatious, so she set the glass down on the table and folded her hands primly in her lap.

“I think we have that one covered. But since we’re being somewhat adventurous … what’s the maddest thing you’ve done in the last few years?”

“Maddest or most ill-advised?”

“Either. Though it makes me wonder that you have to draw the distinction.”

She laughed. She had plenty of both to choose from, but she also had enough practice to steer away from the truly heart-wrenching stories to the ones people wanted to hear. The ones that sounded far more glamorous in the retelling than they had felt at the time. “Riding in a NATO chopper on a rescue mission in Iraq.”

“Really! That was not what I was expecting. What happened?”

Maybe she did need another sip of the sangria to tell the story. “I won’t go into the why, but when we approached the landing zone, we took fire … Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” he asked, smiling.

“Like I did something brave. I was holding on for dear life. I really thought I was going to die. I was so terrified, I didn’t even get any shots off.”

“Somehow I don’t believe that.”

“Completely true. I’ve been held at gunpoint, robbed multiple times, locked down in hotels because of bomb threats, but that was the most scared I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t see myself getting back on a helicopter for any reason anytime soon.”

“And yet you can tell the story so easily.”

“It’s a good story.”

“It’s a very good story. You really think you can leave all the good stories behind?”

The question hit close to home on a night when she just wanted to enjoy herself and get to know a very handsome man. She went for lighthearted instead. “Who needs all that when I can visit Basque Country right in the middle of London?”

He didn’t say anything but looked at her in that intense way that caught her breath and made the twinge turn to a quiver. The serving plates began to go down all along the tables, placed by men in embroidered white trousers and red berets. It began with the Basque version of
tapas
called
pintxos:
goat cheese and green-olive tapenade on toasted bread, thinly sliced smoked fish wrapped around fruit, something that tasted like seviche piled on a peppery cracker.

“This is amazing,” she said with a happy sigh. “When’s the last time you were in Spain?”

“With you. Do you remember? Barcelona?”

“Ah yes, Barcelona. I remember. Your squad won.”

“Yes, we won. But that’s not what stands out most from that trip.”

Grace flushed as she followed his memories. They’d been there for his rowing competition, but they’d found more than enough time for strolls hand in hand through the Barrio Gòtico, the Gothic Quarter steeped in history and romance. There had been one particular bar decorated like a fairy wood, complete with trees and strong sangria—

“Wait. Did you … is that why you chose this? Because of Barcelona? I thought no one knew the theme?”

He shrugged, but his smile over the rim of his cup gave away the answer. “I told you. Advantage of being owed a favor by someone in the know.”

Something about the fact he’d specifically tried to re-create one of their romantic moments made her breathless. She’d taken his words last night about not having forgotten as a warning, a reminder that his trust would not be so easily won. But had he also meant that he hadn’t forgotten what they once were to each other?

The server was back again, removing the pintxos plates and trading them for the enameled pottery bowls of fragrant lamb stew. Despite the fact that there must have been two hundred people in the room, the darkness, the sensual flamenco music, the aromas of exotic, unfamiliar food wound around them like a cocoon. It would have been the perfect seduction scene, but now it was even more romantic because she knew he intended nothing of the sort. In fact, despite being nestled together on a single bench, eating with their fingers, he didn’t touch her. Just looked at her with those unsettling clear-blue eyes as if she was something wondrous.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” she murmured, “I’m going to think you like me.” It was a stupid thing to say, but she had to do something to lessen the spell that wove steadily around her with each moment.

“If I didn’t like you, we wouldn’t be here. Besides, first date. Remember?”

“Right, first date.” And from the lack of suspicion in his expression, she could believe he meant it. Could almost believe it herself.

They finished their night with
gâteau Basque
, a shortbread cake filled with a fragrant pastry cream and brandied cherries, just about the most delicious thing Grace had tasted in years. When Ian took her fork and fed her a bite of it with a wicked little smile, she almost changed her mind about the seduction.

“You’re dangerous, do you know that?” she said when he helped her on with her coat, the end of the evening coming much too soon. “You certainly know how to make an impression.”

He smiled mysteriously and guided her into the crowd, making their way to the front of the warehouse, where a line of taxicabs waited to pick up the departing guests. He put up the umbrella against the steadily falling rain and pulled her closer beneath its shelter. Her heart gave a little hiccup.

It turned to a full-fledged stutter when they slid into the humid backseat of a cab, and he turned the full force of that intense gaze on her. “Did you have a good time?”

“And then some. This morning I would have said it would be impossible for you to surprise me, but I’m surprised. Thank you. This was … lovely.”

“It was entirely my pleasure.”

As the cab slid through the dark, Grace fell silent, aware of the mere inches that separated them. She could practically feel the heat from his body, imagined the electric current spanning the space between their hands on the seat, achingly close but still so separate. She shifted her handbag into her lap so she wouldn’t be tempted to give in to the mad impulses rushing through her veins. She was feeling the magic of the night, the allure of the unexpectedly perfect surprise. His romantic streak hadn’t dissipated with time.

By the time he handed her out of the cab in front of Asha’s building, she felt as jittery as a schoolgirl anticipating her first kiss.

“Don’t you need it to wait?”

“Tube’s still running. Or I can walk. I’m close by.”

“In the rain? I doubt you live that close.”

“I own a flat on Gloucester Road.”

“Of course you do.” Grace felt a little silly to have thought he was still living in his second-floor flat in Islington.

“Here, allow me.” Ian gently took her key and opened the door, making her realize she’d been staring at him like an idiot on the building’s stoop.

As she climbed the stairs, her heart thudded harder than the exertion warranted. Outside the flat, she took back her keys and flipped through the ring with a tremor in her normally steady hands.

He closed his hand over hers to stop her fumbling with the lock. “Wait.”

She froze, suddenly aware of the small space that separated them, the kindling warmth in his eyes, and realized there was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to kiss him. Which was a spectacularly bad idea when the way his gaze skimmed her face shot her pulse into overdrive.

Then again, she’d always had an affinity for bad ideas. She stepped into him and lifted her face to his.