Just Say Yes. Caroline Anderson

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      Damn. It was almost full. Still, there was a small table by the window, occupied by a woman with foaming red hair. He chuckled to himself. Occupied, as in taken over completely. A bag as big as a bucket was dominating most of the tabletop, the contents threatening to splurge out—and on the other seat, sticking up like tiny sentinels, were the daintiest, cutest little feet he’d seen in a long time.

      She was asleep, her lashes lying in dusky curves on the smooth cream of her cheeks, her mouth soft and rosy and vulnerable. Now in a fairytale, he thought, he would have to wake her with a kiss—

      Matthew cleared his throat, pulling himself together. ‘Excuse me. Is this seat taken?’

      Her lids flew up, revealing wide green eyes hazed with sleep, and she scrambled back into a sitting position and hooked her feet down, to his disappointment.

      ‘I’m sorry. No—no, I was just stretching out. I must have dozed off. I’m sorry.’

      She was embarrassed, dragging the bag towards her and colouring delicately along those rather interesting cheekbones. Her mouth, a little too wide and slightly vulnerable, curved fleetingly into a wry smile as she pushed the bag down at her feet, red hair tumbling wildly around her head.

      Matthew squeezed himself into the space between the seat and the table and tried not to fantasise. He put his briefcase down and flipped it open, pulling out the papers he intended to go over again, then snapped the locks shut and slid it behind his legs. Their feet collided, and apologising, they both withdrew to their own sides again.

      ‘There’s not much leg-room, is there?’ he said, bizarrely conscious of the warm place under his thigh where her feet had been, but she was staring out of the window again, ignoring him.

      Just as well. She had a wedding ring on. If she hadn’t had, he might have persued the conversation, but it was pointless. Pity. She was rather attractive in a fresh and slightly chaotic sort of way.

      He settled down to the papers in front of him, trying unsuccessfully to keep his legs to himself. He had to sit with his knees apart to accommodate hers, and the posture was strangely intimate and made him uneasy.

      He hated the train. Given the choice he would have driven, but parking in London was a nightmare.

      His phone rang, and he answered it absently, dealt with the call then made another, a follow-on call to clear up some of the unanswered questions, all the time trying not to think about that soft, wide mouth and the firm little knees between his own.

      Georgia rested her head against the seat-back, closed her eyes and tried not to let her knees drop against his. It was just too—intimate, really, too personal. Too much.

      She shifted in her seat, turning towards the window more, and her knee brushed his again.

      They murmured apologies and she shifted back, trying not to eavesdrop on his conversation.

      It was impossible not to hear, but it didn’t sound all that riveting anyway. Something about political unrest and financial insecurity and government intervention. She looked at him curiously. Arms? Probably plastic document wallets, she thought with a stifled smile—or loo paper.

      He had an interesting face but not the face of a criminal. Not conventionally handsome, but somehow attractive. His chin had a little cleft in it, and when he laughed at something the other person said, his eyes creased with humour and she found herself smiling too.

      He switched off the phone and put it down, picking up the document on the table and flicking through it, making quick notes in a sharp, jagged hand that fascinated her.

      She tried not to stare, but her eyes kept drifting back towards him, to the way the soft lock of hair at the front kept falling forward when he leant over to consult the document. Then he looked up and speared her with those startling ice-blue eyes, and she tried nonchalance for a moment and then dropped her eyes, as guiltily as if she’d been caught with her hand in the biscuit tin.

      Out of the corner of her eye she saw his mouth tip in a smile, and colour teased her already warm cheeks. Damn. By the age of thirty she should have learned to control that childish reaction!

      She was relieved when the refreshments trolley was wheeled in and she could find something to busy herself. ‘Tea, please. White,’ she said, and fumbled for her purse.

      The paper cup was set down in front of her, she was parted from an extortionate amount of change, and the trolley moved on.

      She saw he’d bought a bar of chocolate and a can of some gaudy tropical carbonated drink that would strip his teeth of their enamel in minutes and do disgusting things to his insides. She shuttered inwardly and stared out of the window again at the advertising hoardings that towered over the grubby little houses, wedged up cheek by jowl against the railway line, crammed with people trapped in the bowels of the dirty city. She could see into their bedrooms—see the unmade bed in one, someone undressing in another. So little privacy.

      She closed her eyes. It was too awful to contemplate. How she’d lived in London at all she found quite incredible, even if it had been Knightsbridge. It held no attraction for her at all now, and she couldn’t wait until she got home and could wash off the grimy smell and change out of her ‘city’ clothes into her jeans and soft, baggy old sweatshirt that said ‘World’s Best Mum’ on it in faded white letters.

      She thought longingly of a hot bath and a cold glass of Chablis, followed by some light and delicate dish, something clever with fruit and parma ham, seasoned to perfection and exquisitely presented by a discreet and well-trained slave—

      In her dreams! It would probably be frozen pizza again, and no doubt that would have to be slotted in round the children’s homework, sorting out a load of washing and doing a hundred and one other things that working women did that their spouses thought happened almost by accident.

      Not that she had a spouse, not any more, thank goodness. Not for ages, now. Three years. It seemed much longer since her reprieve.

      People had commiserated with her when Brian had died, and been puzzled when she hadn’t been heartbroken. All except her closest friends, who’d had an inkling of their unhappiness.

      Georgia snorted softly. They hadn’t known the half of it.

      Still, it was over now, over and done with and well behind them. She had a career to be proud of, a lovely house, two gorgeous children that she adored, and the rest of her life to look forward to.

      Strange, then, how sitting with her knees between the warm, hard legs of a personable man made her so painfully aware of the emptiness that lingered in the shadows of her crowded and busy life.

      She shifted further back on the seat, drawing her legs towards her and away from him, away from temptation and all that wicked sex appeal that she would do well to ignore…

      She’d gone to sleep again, her legs falling against his as she relaxed, making him inescapably aware of the soft warmth of her knees pressed against the inside of his thigh.

      Still, it gave him a chance to study her without fear of being caught, and as he did so, something teased at the back of his mind. Some occasion when they’d met, but he couldn’t place where. She’d been unhappy, though. He could remember those beautiful green eyes welling with tears—and his anger. He remembered the anger, the frustration of not being able to help her, but nothing more.

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