you were walking your feet off, around London, you could’ve met me?”
“But I never said anything to Tori or the staff.”
He dismissed her concern with a flick of the wrist. “We can say you wanted to keep it secret in case the Porters weren’t happy about it.”
“Hmm.” She leaned back, her legs stretched out in front with her ankles crossed.
“What about you?” She looked at him with an inquisitive look. “You haven’t told me much about yourself.”
“As a writer, I have flexibility.” He paused. “Let’s just say my working hours could easily accommodate meeting you.”
“Okay, I think it’s time for twenty questions,” she announced like a teacher announcing a test to her students. “When’s your birthday?”
“12 July, you?”
“Cancer?” She leaned back into her seat. “As a Cancerian, you’re looking to belong.”
His heart stilled and kept his face in neutral. “Sounds like dribble.”
She raised her hands defensively. “I find star signs interesting. Want to know about me?” She did not want for him to answer. “My birthday is 7 April and I’m an Aries.”
“What does that mean?” He found himself asking.
“I’m headstrong and often act first and think later.”
“Suits you.” He could not hide the smile tugging at his lips.
“Don’t laugh at me.” She gave his arm a playful punch.
“My turn,” he said. “What’s your favourite colour?”
“Easy, green. You?”
“Blue.”
“Soccer or football?”
“Soccer is football.” He rolled his eyes.
A pfft sound, which he ignored, rang out from her lips. “I forgot, you’re English. Football or rugby?”
“Both. You?”
“Neither.”
He stole a quick look at her. “I thought Australians like football.” Weren’t all Australians sport-mad?
Shaking her head. “Not this one. So who’s your favourite soccer team?”
“Football. Chelsea.”
“And your favourite food?”
“Italian? You?”
A frown marred her forehead. “I thought you’d prefer something more traditional like a roast or fish and chips.”
His fingers clutched the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening.
“Nate?”
He pushed away the memory of his first taste of roast meat at seventeen. After surviving on Marmite sandwiches for years, he owed his foster parents so much. Education. Love. Nutritious food.
“What’s wrong with Italian?” He snapped at her.
“Nothing, I love it. I just expected an Englishman to like typically English foods.”
“You read too many Enid Blyton books as a child.”
“You’ve got snappiness down to an art.” She threw at him. “If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.”
Silence so tight hung between them before she broke it. “In case you care, my favourite dinner is my mum’s lamb roast.”
Of course . He bristled with a tad of jealousy. Unfair and unreasonable to feel like that, sure. But he didn’t care. “How many brothers?”
“Three. You?”
“Bea.”
“What about parents?”
“I’ve already told you all you need to know.” He cracked his knuckles before returning to strangle the steering wheel. “Next question?”
“Shouldn’t I know more about your family?”
“No.” He kept his eyes fastened on the road as though navigating hair-pin turns rather than a modern four lane highway.
“We’re supposed to be engaged so don’t block me out.”
“Subject is closed.” His lips pursed together.
“Just so you know, I wouldn’t get engaged to someone who doesn’t share their feelings.” She paused. “No wonder Bea wants you to relax.”
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Anything else?”
“No,” she said smugly. “Let’s work out how you proposed?”
His jaw unclenched, happy to be off his family and onto something work related enquired, “how would you have liked me to propose to you?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question.”
He threw her a frustrated look. “Tilly, if we dated, I would know this.
“But I never said anything to Tori or the staff.”
He dismissed her concern with a flick of the wrist. “We can say you wanted to keep it secret in case the Porters weren’t happy about it.”
“Hmm.” She leaned back, her legs stretched out in front with her ankles crossed.
“What about you?” She looked at him with an inquisitive look. “You haven’t told me much about yourself.”
“As a writer, I have flexibility.” He paused. “Let’s just say my working hours could easily accommodate meeting you.”
“Okay, I think it’s time for twenty questions,” she announced like a teacher announcing a test to her students. “When’s your birthday?”
“12 July, you?”
“Cancer?” She leaned back into her seat. “As a Cancerian, you’re looking to belong.”
His heart stilled and kept his face in neutral. “Sounds like dribble.”
She raised her hands defensively. “I find star signs interesting. Want to know about me?” She did not want for him to answer. “My birthday is 7 April and I’m an Aries.”
“What does that mean?” He found himself asking.
“I’m headstrong and often act first and think later.”
“Suits you.” He could not hide the smile tugging at his lips.
“Don’t laugh at me.” She gave his arm a playful punch.
“My turn,” he said. “What’s your favourite colour?”
“Easy, green. You?”
“Blue.”
“Soccer or football?”
“Soccer is football.” He rolled his eyes.
A pfft sound, which he ignored, rang out from her lips. “I forgot, you’re English. Football or rugby?”
“Both. You?”
“Neither.”
He stole a quick look at her. “I thought Australians like football.” Weren’t all Australians sport-mad?
Shaking her head. “Not this one. So who’s your favourite soccer team?”
“Football. Chelsea.”
“And your favourite food?”
“Italian? You?”
A frown marred her forehead. “I thought you’d prefer something more traditional like a roast or fish and chips.”
His fingers clutched the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening.
“Nate?”
He pushed away the memory of his first taste of roast meat at seventeen. After surviving on Marmite sandwiches for years, he owed his foster parents so much. Education. Love. Nutritious food.
“What’s wrong with Italian?” He snapped at her.
“Nothing, I love it. I just expected an Englishman to like typically English foods.”
“You read too many Enid Blyton books as a child.”
“You’ve got snappiness down to an art.” She threw at him. “If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.”
Silence so tight hung between them before she broke it. “In case you care, my favourite dinner is my mum’s lamb roast.”
Of course . He bristled with a tad of jealousy. Unfair and unreasonable to feel like that, sure. But he didn’t care. “How many brothers?”
“Three. You?”
“Bea.”
“What about parents?”
“I’ve already told you all you need to know.” He cracked his knuckles before returning to strangle the steering wheel. “Next question?”
“Shouldn’t I know more about your family?”
“No.” He kept his eyes fastened on the road as though navigating hair-pin turns rather than a modern four lane highway.
“We’re supposed to be engaged so don’t block me out.”
“Subject is closed.” His lips pursed together.
“Just so you know, I wouldn’t get engaged to someone who doesn’t share their feelings.” She paused. “No wonder Bea wants you to relax.”
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Anything else?”
“No,” she said smugly. “Let’s work out how you proposed?”
His jaw unclenched, happy to be off his family and onto something work related enquired, “how would you have liked me to propose to you?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question.”
He threw her a frustrated look. “Tilly, if we dated, I would know this.
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