Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
He touched his hand to his lips. “What did you do?”
“Absolutely nothing.” I laughed. “There was nothing I could do. It’d all built up inside the poor thing and she needed to explode, and until she was done, I just let her at them.”
“Did they ever get married?”
I nodded. “The maid of honour handled the seamstresses, I kicked the mothers out of her house, and together we got to work. The big wedding was cancelled after their dads intervened and paid for them to go to Greece to get married at a small villa through a friend of mine.”
“Wow. That took a wild turn.”
“I got a free week in Corfu. Personally, I thought it was a great turn of events.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Do you know how it all ended up?”
“Oh, yeah. She reached out to me about six months ago with pictures of their new baby. Turns out their mums knew each other growing up, and their fathers were business rivals, so they’d never gotten along. Neither one had ever mentioned it as they didn’t think the relationship would last, so it was purely a matter of one upmanship on both sides when it was clear they were in it for the long haul. She pointed out that their behaviour had cost them seeing their only children get married and it would cost them their grandchildren if they didn’t fix things.”
“Ouch. They didn’t go to the wedding?”
“Nope. Their dads and grandparents did, but they left their mums out to make a point. They’ve never regretted it.” I shrugged. “Last I knew, they’re now good friends and the parents bought a holiday home together.”
“Wow. That was a ride.”
“No kidding. She wasn’t exactly a bridezilla, more just a frustrated bride who exploded in the end, but she did cancel a ninety-grand wedding two weeks before to elope to another country, so that does kind of push her into bridezilla territory just a bit just on principle.”
Thomas snorted. “You know, I’m starting to think I dodged a bullet.”
My eyebrows shot up, but before I could take the appropriate moment to ask what he was talking about, a waiter came over with two plates and stopped at our table.
“Two cottage pies?” he said, looking at us.
I glanced between him and Thomas. “I didn’t order—”
“Yes, thanks, Sam,” Thomas said, pushing his drink out of the way.
Wordlessly, I moved the wine glass and watched as the biggest single serving of cottage pie I’d ever seen was put in front of me and proceeded to assault my senses with a gorgeous mix of hot melted cheese, potato, and meaty gravy.
When I say my stomach rumbled, my stomach rumbled. Like an Earthquake in my belly.
Thomas looked at me, amusement twisting his lips. “You’ve had two glasses of wine. I assumed you hadn’t eaten, and evidently, it was a correct assumption.”
“I was planning on the liquid dinner,” I replied, picking up a fork. “Thank you.”
“Mind the dish. It’s hot.” He smiled, picking up his own knife and fork.
I didn’t know how we’d gone from bickering at each other to eating a peaceful dinner—a slightly drunk one from my side, but still a peaceful dinner all the same. More to the point, how we’d gone from not being able to stop bitching and sniping to not saying a word for the next twenty minutes aside from little, “Ha, ha!” breaths and declarations of, “Ooh, that’s hot!” when we stumbled on particularly hot spots of the food.
It was… nice.
Too nice.
I was far too comfortable sitting opposite him at a pub, eating dinner I wasn’t paying for, like this was some kind of date. After he’d bought me both waffles and hot chocolate at the lights switch on, too.
Ooft.
No.
I was going to have to insist on buying this dinner, if only for myself. I would go down swinging on this one. I simply could not allow myself to be in debt to Thomas Castleton on more than one occasion.
Especially since I already had the feeling that he was going to insist upon taking me home again.
Damn. I really should have bought some wine at the shop and got drunk in my bedroom instead.
“That was good,” he said, sitting back on the chair.
I nodded, setting my cutlery in the little dish that had housed the pie. “It was. Thank you.”
“Are you feeling any better?”
“I didn’t realise I was that hungry,” I admitted, eyeing my empty dish. “How much do I owe for mine?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s already paid for.”
I pulled out my purse and slapped a twenty-pound note on the table. “There.”
He put one finger on it and pushed it back towards me. “I said nothing.”
“And I don’t accept it,” I replied. “Just let me pay for my food, at least.”
“By all means, leave it as a tip. The food and service are good enough to warrant it. But I won’t be taking your money, Sylvie.”