Wedding Bell Wishes: It Started at a Wedding... / The Wedding Planner and the CEO / Her Perfect Proposal

Claire found the list on her phone. ‘Ready?’ she asked.

‘Yup. And remember you’re doing this, too,’ he said.

‘OK. Your favourite kind of book, movie and music?’ she asked.

He thought about it. ‘In order—crime, classic film noir and anything I can run to. You?’

‘Jane Austen, rom-coms and anything I can sing to,’ she said promptly.

‘So we’re not really compatible there,’ he said.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘We’re not that far apart. I like reading crime novels, too, but I like historical ones rather than the super-gory contemporary stuff. And classic noir—well, if Jimmy Stewart’s in it, I’ll watch it. I love Rear Window.’

‘I really can’t stand Jane Austen. I had to do Mansfield Park for A level, and that was more than enough for me,’ he said with a grimace. ‘But if the rom-com’s witty and shot well, I can sit through it.’

She grinned. ‘So you’re a bit of a film snob, are you, Mr Farrell?’

He thought about it for a moment and grinned back. ‘I guess I am.’

‘OK. What do you do for fun?’

‘You mean you actually think I might have fun?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘You can be a little bit too organised, but I think there’s more to you than meets the eye—so answer the question, Sean.’

‘Abseiling,’ he said, his face totally deadpan.

She stared at him, trying to imagine it—if he’d said squash or maybe even rugby, she might’ve believed him, but abseiling? ‘In London?’ she queried.

‘There are lots of tall buildings in London.’

She thought about it a bit more, and shook her head. ‘No, that’s not you. I think you’re teasing me.’ Especially because he knew she was scared of heights.

‘Good call,’ he said. And his eyes actually twinkled.

Sean Farrell, teasing her. She would never have believed that he had a sense of humour. ‘So what’s the real answer?’ she asked.

‘Something very regimented,’ he said. ‘Sudoku.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with doing puzzles,’ she said. Though trust Sean to pick something logical.

‘What about you? What do you do for fun?’ he asked.

Given how he’d teased her, he really deserved this. She schooled her face into a serious expression. ‘Shopping. Preferably for shoes.’ Given what she did for a living, that would be totally plausible. ‘Actually, I have three special shoe wardrobes. Walk-in ones.’

‘Seriously?’ He looked totally horrified.

‘About as much as you go abseiling.’ She laughed. ‘I like shoes, but I’m not that extreme. No, for me it’s cooking for friends and watching a good film and talking about it afterwards.’

‘OK. We’re even now,’ he said with a smile. ‘So what do you cook? Anything in particular?’

‘Whatever catches my eye. I love magazines that have recipes in them, and it’s probably one of my worst vices because I can never resist a news stand,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

‘I can cook if I have to,’ he said. ‘Though I admit I’m more likely to take someone out to dinner than to cook for them.’

She shrugged. ‘That’s not a big deal. It means you’ll be doing the washing up, though.’

‘Was that an offer?’ he asked.

‘Do you want it to be?’ she fenced.

He held her gaze. ‘Yes. Tell me when, and I’ll bring the wine.’

There was a little flare of excitement in her stomach. They were actually doing this. Arranging a date. Seeing each other. She could maybe play a little hard to get and make him wait until Friday; but her mouth clearly had other ideas, because she found herself suggesting, ‘Tonight?’

‘I’d like that. I’ve got meetings until half past five, and some paperwork that needs doing after that—but I can be with you for seven, if that’s OK?’ he asked.

‘It’s a date,’ she said softly.

He took her hand and brought it up to his mouth. Keeping eye contact all the way, he kissed the back of her hand, just briefly, before releasing it again; it made Claire feel warm and squidgy inside. Who would’ve thought that Sean Farrell was Prince Charming in disguise? Not that she was a weak little princess who needed rescuing—she could look after herself perfectly well, thank you very much—but she liked the charm. A lot.

‘Next question,’ he said.

‘OK. What are you most proud of?’ she asked.

‘That’s an easy one—my sister and Farrell’s,’ he said.

His family, and his family business, she thought. So it looked as if Sean Farrell had a seriously soft centre, just like the caramel chocolates his factory made along with the toffee.

‘How about you?’ he asked.

‘The letters I get from brides telling me how much they loved their dress and how it really helped make their special day feel extra-special,’ she said.

‘So you’re actually as much of a workaholic as you think I am?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ she said dryly. ‘I know you see extreme things on a fashion catwalk and the pages of magazines, but it doesn’t mean that designers are all totally flaky. I want my brides to feel really special and that they look like a million dollars, in a dress I’ve made just for them. And that means listening to what their dream is, and coming up with something that makes them feel their dream’s come true.’

‘Having seen the dress you made for Ashleigh, I can understand exactly why they commission you,’ he said. ‘Next question?’

‘What are you scared of?’

‘Easy one. Anything happening to Ashleigh or the business.’

But he didn’t meet her eye. There was clearly something else. Something he didn’t want to discuss.

‘You?’ he asked.

‘Heights. I’m OK in a plane, but chairlifts like that one in Capri make my palms go sweaty. Put it this way, I’m never, ever going skiing. Or abseiling.’

‘Fair enough. Next?’

She glanced down at her phone to check. ‘Your most treasured possession.’

‘I can show you that.’ He took his wallet out of his pocket, removed two photographs and handed them to her. One was of himself with Ashleigh, and the other was himself on graduation day with his parents on either side of him. Claire had a lump in her throat and couldn’t say a word when she handed them back.

‘You?’ he asked.

‘The same,’ she whispered, and took her own wallet from her bag. She showed him a photograph of herself and her parents on her seventeenth birthday, and one of her with Ashleigh and Sammy and the Coliseum in the background.

He took her hand in silence and squeezed it briefly. Not that he needed any words; she knew he shared her feelings.

She put the photographs away. ‘Next question—is the glass half full or half empty?’

‘Half full. You?’

‘Same,’ she said, and glanced at her watch. ‘We might have to cut this a bit short. Last one for now. Your perfect holiday?’

‘Not a beach holiday,’ he said feelingly. ‘That just bores me silly.’

‘You mean, you get a fit of the guilts at lying on a beach doing nothing, and you end up working.’

‘Actually, I’m just not very good at just sitting still and doing nothing,’ he admitted.

‘So you’d rather have an active holiday?’

‘Exploring somewhere, you mean?’ He nodded. ‘That’d work for me.’

‘Culture or geography?’

‘Either,’ he said. ‘I guess my perfect holiday would be Iceland. I’d love to walk up a volcano, and to see the hot springs and learn about the place. You?’

‘I like city breaks. I have a bit of an art gallery habit, thanks to Sammy,’ she explained. ‘Plus I love museums where they have a big costume section. I should warn you that I really, really love Regency dresses. And I can spend hours in the costume section, looking at all the fine details.’

‘So you see yourself as Lizzie Bennett?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘and I’m not looking for a Darcy—anyway, seeing as you hate Austen, how come you know more than just the book you did for A level?’

‘Ex-girlfriends who insisted on seeing certain films more than once, and became ex very shortly afterwards,’ he said dryly.

‘Hint duly noted,’ she said. ‘I won’t ever ask you to watch Pride and Prejudice with me. Even though it’s one of my favourite films.’

‘Nicely skated past,’ he said, ‘but let’s backtrack—you said you like holidays where you go and look at vintage clothes. And you said you look at details, so I bet you take notes and as many photos as you can get away with. Isn’t that partly work?’

‘Busted.’ She clicked her fingers and grinned. ‘I have to admit, I don’t really like beach holidays, either. It’s nice to have a day or two to unwind and read, but I’d rather see a bit of culture with friends. I really loved my trips in Italy with Ash and Sammy.’

‘So what’s your perfect holiday?’ he asked.

‘Anywhere with museums, galleries and lots of nice little places to eat. Philadelphia and Boston are next on my wish list.’

‘This is scary,’ he said. ‘A week ago I would’ve said we were total opposites.’

She thought about it. ‘We still are. We have a few things in common—probably more than either of us realised—but you like things really pinned down and I like to go with the flow.’ She smiled. ‘And I bet you have an itinerary on holiday. Down to the minute.’

‘If you don’t know the opening times and days for a museum or what have you, then you might go to see it when it’s closed and not get a chance to go back,’ he pointed out. ‘So yes, I do have an itinerary.’

‘But if you go with the flow, you discover things you wouldn’t have known about otherwise,’ she pointed out.

‘Let’s agree to disagree on that one.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better head back.’

‘You don’t have to walk me back, Sean. Go, if you have a meeting.’

‘I was brought up properly. I’ll walk you back,’ he said.

‘I’m planning a slight detour,’ she warned.

He looked a little wary, but nodded. ‘We’ll do this your way, then.’

Her detour was to an ice cream shop where the ice cream was cooled with liquid nitrogen rather than by being put in a freezer. ‘I love this place. The way they make the ice cream is so cool,’ she said, and laughed. ‘Literally.’

‘It’s a little gimmicky,’ he said.

‘Just wait until you taste it.’

To her surprise, he chose the rich, dark chocolate. ‘I would’ve pegged you as a vanilla man,’ she said.

‘Plain and boring?’

‘Not necessarily. Seriously good vanilla ice cream is one of the best pleasures in the world—which is why I just ordered it.’

‘True. But remember what I do for a living. And my favourite bit of my job is when I work with the R and D team. Am I really going to pass up chocolate?’

This was a side of Sean she’d never really seen. Teasing, bantering—fun. And she really, really liked that.

She watched him as he took a spoonful of ice cream. He rolled his eyes at her to signal that he thought she was overselling it. And then she saw his pupils widen.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘This is something else,’ he admitted. ‘I can forgive the gimmicky stuff. Good choice.’

‘And if you hadn’t gone with the flow, you wouldn’t have known the place was there.’ She grinned. ‘Admit it. I was right.’

‘You were right about the ice cream being great. That’s as far as I go.’ He held her gaze. ‘For now.’

It should’ve been cheesy and made her laugh at him. But his voice was low and sexy as hell, and there was the hint of a promise in his words that made her feel hot all over, despite the ice cream. It was enough to silence her, and she concentrated on eating her ice cream on the walk back to her shop.

‘Well, Ms Stewart,’ he said on her doorstep. ‘I’ll see you later. Though there is something you need to attend to.’

She frowned. ‘What’s that?’

‘You have ice cream on the corner of your mouth.’ Just as she was about to reach up and scrub it away, he stopped her. ‘Let me deal with this.’

And then he kissed the smear of sweet confection away. Slowly. Sensually. By the time he’d finished, Claire was close to hyperventilating and her knees felt weak. Sean was kissing her in the street. This was totally un-Sean-like behaviour and it put her in a flat spin.

‘Later,’ he whispered, and left.

Although Claire spent the rest of the day alternately talking to customers and working on the dress, in the back of her head she was panicking about what to cook for him. She had no idea what he liked. She could play safe and cook chicken—she was fairly sure that he wasn’t a vegetarian. Wryly, she realised that this was when Sean’s ‘plan everything down to the last microsecond’ approach would come in useful.

She could text him to check what he did and didn’t like. But that meant doing it his way and planning instead of being spontaneous—and she didn’t want to give him the opportunity to say ‘I told you so’. Then again, she didn’t want to cook a meal he’d hate, or something he was allergic to, so it would be better to swallow her pride.

She texted him swiftly.

Any food allergies I need to know about? Ditto total food hates.

The reply came back.

No and no. What’s for dinner?

She felt safe enough to tease him.

Whatever I feel like cooking. Carpe diem.

When he didn’t reply she wondered if she’d gone too far. Then again, he’d said that he was going to be in meetings all afternoon. She shrugged it off and concentrated on making the dress she’d cut out that morning.

Though by the end of the afternoon she still hadn’t decided what to cook. She ended up having a mad dash round the supermarket and picked up chicken, parma ham, asparagus and soft cheese so she could make chicken stuffed with asparagus, served with tiny new potatoes, baby carrots and tenderstem broccoli.

Given that Sean was a self-confessed chocolate fiend, she bought the pudding rather than making it from scratch—tiny pots of chocolate ganache, which she planned to serve with raspberries, as their tartness would be a good foil to the richness of the chocolate.

Once she’d prepared dinner, she fussed around the flat, making sure everywhere was tidy and all the important surfaces were gleaming. Then she changed her outfit three times, and was cross with herself for doing so. Why was she making such a big deal out of this? She’d known Sean for years. He’d seen her when she had teenage spotty skin and chubby cheeks. And this was her flat. It shouldn’t matter what she wore. Jeans and a strappy vest top would be fine.

Except they didn’t feel fine. Sean was always so pristine that she’d feel scruffy.

In the end, she compromised with a little black dress but minimal make-up and with her hair tied back. So he’d know that she’d made a little more effort than just dragging on a pair of jeans and doing nothing with her hair, but not so much effort that she was making a big deal out of it.

The doorbell rang at seven precisely—exactly what she’d expected from Sean, because of course he wouldn’t be a minute late or a minute early—and anticipation sparkled through her.

Dinner.

And who knew what else the evening would bring?

CHAPTER SEVEN

HE WAS ACTUALLY NERVOUS, Sean realised.

Which was crazy.

This was Claire. He’d known her for years. There was nothing to be nervous about. Except for the fact that this was a date, and in the past they’d never really got on. And the fact that, now he was getting to know her, he was beginning to realise that maybe she wasn’t the person he’d thought she was.

Would it be the same for her? He had no idea.

He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

When she opened the door, she was barefoot and wearing a little black dress, and her hair was tied back at the nape with a hot pink chiffon scarf. He wanted to kiss her hello, but was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop himself—it had been tough enough to walk away at lunchtime. So instead he smiled awkwardly at her. ‘Hi. I wasn’t sure what to bring, so I brought red and white.’

‘You really didn’t need to, but thank you very much.’ She accepted the bottles with a smile. ‘Come up.’

She looked so cool, unflustered and sophisticated. Sean was pretty sure that she wasn’t in the slightest bit nervous, and in turn that made him relax. This was just dinner, the getting-to-know-you stuff. And he really should stop thinking about how easy it would be to untie that scarf and let her glorious hair fall over her shoulders, then kiss her until they were both dizzy.

He followed her up the stairs and she ushered him in to the kitchen.

‘We’re eating in here, if that’s OK,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a drink? Dinner will be ten minutes.’

‘A glass of cold water would be fabulous, thanks.’ At her raised eyebrows, he explained, ‘It’s been a boiling hot day and I could really do with something cold and non-alcoholic.’

‘Sure.’ She busied herself getting a glass and filled it from the filter jug in the fridge, adding ice and a frozen slice of lime. When she handed the glass to him, her fingers brushed against his; it sent a delicious shiver all the way down his spine.

Her kitchen was a place of extremes. The work surfaces had all been used, and it looked as if most of her kitchen equipment had been piled up next to the sink. The fridge was covered with magnets and photos, and a cork board on one wall had various cards and notes pinned to it, along with what looked like a note of a library fine. Chaos. And yet the bistro table was neatly set for two, and there was a compact electric steamer on the worktop next to the cooker, containing the vegetables. So there was a little order among the chaos.

Much like Claire herself.

‘Something smells nice,’ he said.

‘Dinner, I hope,’ she said, putting the white wine into the fridge.

He handed her a box. ‘I thought these might be nice with coffee after dinner.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘Toffee, I assume?’

‘Samples,’ he said, smiling back. ‘There have to be some perks when you’re dating a confectioner.’

‘Perks. Hmm. I like the sound of that, though if we’re talking about a lot of calories here then I might have to start doubling the length of my morning run.’ She did a cute wrinkly thing with her nose that made his knees go weak, then looked in the box. ‘Oh, you brought those lovely soft caramel hearts! Fabulous. Thank you.’

Clearly she liked those; he made a mental note, and hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed with what these actually were. ‘Not quite,’ he said.

‘What are they, then?’

‘Wait until coffee. Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘No, you’re fine—have a seat.’ She gestured to the bistro table, and he sat down on one of the ladder-back chairs.

Small talk wasn’t something Sean was used to doing with Claire, and he really wasn’t sure what to say. It didn’t help that he was itching to kiss her; but she was bustling round the kitchen, and he didn’t want to distract her and ruin the effort she’d put into making dinner. ‘It’s a nice flat,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘I like it here. The neighbours are lovely, the road’s quiet, and yet I’m five minutes away from all the shops and market stalls.’

Work. An excellent subject, he thought. They could talk about that. ‘So how did the dressmaking go today? Are you on schedule for your big show?’

‘Fine, thanks, and I think I am. How about your meetings?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ Then it finally clicked that she wasn’t as cool and calm as she seemed. She was being super-polite. So did that mean that she felt as nervous about this as he did? ‘Claire, relax,’ he said softly.

‘Uh-huh.’ But she still looked fidgety, and he noticed that she didn’t sit down with him. Was she just feeling a little shy and awkward because of the newness of their situation, or was she having second thoughts?

‘Have you changed your mind about this?’ he asked, as gently as he could.

‘No-o,’ she hedged. ‘It’s not that.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘I’m usually a reasonable cook.’ She bit her lip. ‘What if it all goes wrong tonight?’

Nervous, then, rather than second thoughts. And suddenly his own nerves vanished. He stood up, walked over to her and put his arms round her. ‘I’m pretty sure it’ll be just fine. If it’s not, then it doesn’t matter. I’ll carry you to your bed and take your mind off it—and then I’ll order us a pizza instead.’ He kissed the corner of her mouth, knowing he was dangerously close to distracting her, but wanting to make her feel better. ‘Claire, why are you worrying that the food’s going to be bad tonight?’

‘Because it’s you,’ she said.

Because she thought he’d judge her? He had to acknowledge that he’d judged her in the past—and not always fairly. ‘You already know I’d rather wash up or take someone out to dinner than cook for them, so I’m in no position to complain if someone cooks me something that isn’t Michelin-star standard.’

‘I guess.’ She blew out a breath. ‘It’s just... Well, this is you and me, and it feels...’

He waited. What was she going to say? That it felt like a mistake?

‘Scary,’ she finished.

He could understand that. Claire fascinated him; yet, at the same time, this whole thing scared him witless. Her outlook was so different from his. She didn’t have a totally ordered world. She followed her heart. If he let her close—what then? Would he end up with his heart broken? ‘Me, too,’ he said.

The only thing he could do then was to kiss her, to stop the fear spreading through him, too. So he covered her mouth with his, relaxing as she wrapped her arms round him, too, and kissed him back. Holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his and the sweetness of her mouth against his, made his world feel as if the axis was in the right place again.

A sharp ding made them both break apart. ‘That was the steamer. It means the vegetables are done,’ Claire said, looking flustered and adorably pink.

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

This time, to his relief, she stopped treating him like a guest who had to be waited on. ‘Could you open the wine? The corkscrew’s in the middle drawer.’

‘Sure. Would you prefer red or white?’

‘We’re having chicken, so it’s entirely up to you.’

He looked at her. ‘You’d serve red wine with chicken?’

‘Well, hey—if you can cook chicken in red wine, then you can serve it with red wine.’

He wrinkled his nose at her. ‘Am I being regimented again?’

‘No. Just a teensy bit of a wine snob,’ she said with a grin. ‘You need to learn to go with the flow, Sean. Carpe diem. Seize the day. It’s a good motto to live by.’

‘Maybe.’ By the time he’d taken the wine from her fridge, found the corkscrew in the jumble of her kitchen drawer, uncorked the bottle and poured them both a glass, she’d served up.

He sat down opposite her and raised his glass. ‘To us, and whatever the future might bring.’

‘To us,’ she echoed softly, looking worried and uncertain—vulnerable, even—and again he felt that weird surge of protectiveness towards her. It unsettled him, because he didn’t generally feel like that about his girlfriends.

‘This is really lovely,’ he said after his first mouthful. Chicken, stuffed with soft cheese and asparagus, then wrapped in parma ham. Claire Stewart was definitely capable in the kitchen, and he could tell that this had been cooked from scratch. He’d assumed that she’d be the sort to buy ready-made meals from the supermarket; clearly that wasn’t the case.

‘Thank you.’ She acknowledged his compliment with a smile.

‘But you’re not reasonable.’

She frowned. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You called yourself a reasonable cook,’ he said. ‘You’re not. You’re more than that.’

‘Thank you. Though I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’ She shrugged. ‘I used to like cooking with my mum. Not that she ever followed a recipe. She’d pick something at random, and then she’d tweak it.’

‘So I’m guessing that you didn’t follow a recipe for this, did you?’ he asked.

‘I cooked us dinner. It’s not exactly rocket science,’ she drawled.