A New Year Marriage Proposal. Kate Hardy

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СКАЧАТЬ that day, to take the sting out of it. And it had felt fitting to do something in their memory on that day.

      ‘You can have the software to play with at any time in the next week. And I’ll give you the paperwork tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘Do you need virtual reindeer?’

      ‘No. I have real ones.’

      ‘OK. Then we’re done.’ He paused. ‘Unless you want to stay for dinner.’

      Dinner with Quinn O’Neill.

      Of course he didn’t mean candlelight, roses and vintage champagne. Or somewhere under the stars on a roof garden. Particularly in November. Just why were these ridiculous ideas seeping into her head? The man was a neighbour. A work colleague, of sorts. Not a potential date. And she didn’t do dates anyway. This was a business meeting and it was about the time that most people ate in the evening. They both had to eat, so they might as well eat together. It didn’t mean anything deeper than that.

      He was waving a piece of paper at her. A menu.

      ‘Takeaway pizza?’ she asked.

      ‘Works for me.’

      Now she had a better idea why his kitchen hadn’t had a cook’s vibe about it. She’d just bet his fridge was bare, too, except for milk and maybe some cheese. She had a feeling that Quinn O’Neill was the kind of man who forgot to eat when he was busy, or lived on takeaway food and didn’t notice what he was eating—it was fuel, and nothing more than that.

      ‘Pizza,’ she said.

      He gave her a pointed look. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t eat carbs. Not when you make brownies as good as those.’

      ‘No. Of course I eat carbs. But...takeaway pizza. The stuff with a thick crust. Ick.’ She liked the thin, crispy type. She grimaced and shook her head. ‘Look, I have fresh tuna and some stir-fry veg in my fridge. Why don’t we have dinner at mine?’

      ‘Healthy food. Fish and vegetables.’ He looked slightly disgusted.

      She hid a smile. Just as she’d thought: he lived on junk. She could offer a compromise there. ‘And polenta fries.’

      He looked thoughtful. ‘Are they as good as your brownies?’

      ‘According to my best friend, yes.’

      ‘Done,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring wine.’

      ‘Are you quite sure you don’t want a wheatgrass shot?’

      ‘I’m going to pretend,’ he said, ‘that you’re teasing, because I have a nasty feeling you might actually be serious—and there’s no way I’m drinking a glass of green gloop.’

      ‘I was teasing. Though I could source it.’

      He grimaced and shook his head. ‘No need. How long does it take to make polenta fries?’

      ‘About forty minutes.’

      ‘Which gives me time to go and find some wine.’

      Of course he wouldn’t have wine, especially if his fridge was practically bare. Plus he’d only just moved in. ‘You really don’t have to bring wine,’ she said.

      ‘I do. And pudding,’ he said. ‘Because you’re not getting these brownies back. This is business, so we’ll both bring something to the table.’

      Business. She was glad he’d said that. Because it stopped her fantasising about something truly stupid. Such as what it would be like to have a proper date with Quinn O’Neill. She wasn’t ready for dating again. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be ready. But business she could do.

      ‘OK. Deal. See you in thirty minutes or so,’ she said.

      * * *

      Quinn hit pure gold in the wine shop: they had a deli section, with a display of French macarons in pretty colours.

      Pistachio, vanilla, coffee. And then some more unusual flavours: violet and blueberry, white chocolate and pomegranate, crème brûlée, salted caramel. The perfect gift for a foodie like Carissa, he thought.

      He bought a boxful, plus a bottle of flinty Chablis.

      Back at the mews, he rang Carissa’s doorbell.

      She answered the door wearing a cotton apron covered in hearts over her skirt and shirt; it made her look younger and much more approachable than she’d seemed the first time he’d met her.

      ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Dinner’s almost ready.’

      He handed her the bottle and the box. ‘The box needs to go in the fridge,’ he said. ‘The wine’s already chilled.’

      ‘Thank you—though you really didn’t need to bring anything. Come up.’

      He closed the door behind them and followed her up the stairs to her kitchen. She’d laid her kitchen table, he noticed, with a white damask tablecloth, solid silver cutlery, very elegant fine glassware and a white porcelain vase containing deep purple spray carnations.

      ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked.

      ‘Given that you waved a pizza menu at me, can you actually cook?’ she teased.

      ‘I make great toasted sandwiches, I’ll have you know,’ he protested.

      She just laughed, and again he had a vision of the way she’d laughed on his doorstep, tipping her head back.

      Down, boy, he told his libido sharply.

      All the same, he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she stood by the hob, stirring vegetables in a wok. Did she have the faintest clue how gorgeous she was?

      The radio was playing a song he really loathed: ‘Santa, Bring My Baby Home for Christmas.’ A super-sweet Christmas song that always meant the festive season was on its way. Quinn’s least favourite time of year. Funny, he’d expected Carissa to listen to opera or highbrow stuff, not a singalong pop station. Which just went to show that you shouldn’t assume things about people.

      ‘That song’s so terrible,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Talk about cheesy. And sugary.’

      ‘Rather a mix of metaphors,’ she said drily.

      ‘You know what I mean.’ He sang along with the chorus. ‘“I wish, my baby, you were home tonight; I wish, my baby, I could hold you tight. Santa, bring my baby home for Christmas; Santa, bring my baby home to me.”’ He grimaced. ‘It’s terrible!’

      ‘Well, hey.’ She spread her hands. ‘Meet the original baby.’

      ‘What?’ He wasn’t following this conversation. At all. Or was she teasing him, the way she had about the wheatgrass shot? Did she just have a weird sense of humour?

      ‘My dad wrote that song,’ she said. ‘About me.’

      He blinked. ‘Your dad?’

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