Meet Me at the Honeymoon Suite: HarperImpulse Contemporary Fiction. Charlotte Phillips
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and definitely expensive scent of his aftershave. He didn’t remotely fit her idea of the farmer stereotype.
‘Crops?’ she said for the sake of conversation.
He shook his head.
‘Dairy. It’s a family affair. My father runs it, my brother works on it.’
Owen could hear the stiffness in his own voice and made a conscious effort to iron it out. Family loyalty worked both ways. They might have felt affronted that he didn’t want to join the family business but he couldn’t stop the resentment at their lack of interest in his own venture.
‘And what about you? You don’t look like you’re in milk.’
He grinned.
‘That’s because I’m not. Not unless it’s mixed with alcohol anyway. I’m in the drinks industry.’
Her smile lit up her face. He found he didn’t want to look at anything else.
‘I’d never have guessed. Sales rep?’ There was a note of triumph in her voice.
He pulled a mock-offended face.
‘Please! After all the effort I made to wow you with my drinks knowledge. I own a chain of cocktail bars.
A surprised pause and then she smiled her approval.
‘I’m impressed.’
He held her gaze firmly in his.
‘Good.’
Amy’s stomach gave an unexpected warm cartwheel that took her completely by surprise and she found her eyes lingering on his instead of cutting away instantly. Heat began to creep slowly up from her ears towards her cheeks.
Just what the hell was she doing?
‘Joe, let’s have one of the waiting staff check for any empty glasses on the tables,’ she said loudly to the bartender, to make it clear to anyone watching as well as to herself that she was still actually working, even if it felt an awful lot like flirting all of a sudden. She really ought to make her excuses and move away from this man with the crinkly blue eyes and the stomach melting smile. But it was somehow just so nice to have a tiny smidgeon of male attention thrown her way after today’s reaffirmation of what her life experience had been telling her for years - that she was most certainly nothing special. Knowing it was the wrong thing to do – (which somehow made it seem even more appealing because where had doing the right thing actually got her in the last twenty four years) – she resisted the sensible urge to go and give the honeymoon suite a final check before the bride moved into it and instead got right back on with the conversation. A few minutes’ ego-boosting time-out couldn’t possibly hurt. In fact, it could even be seen as therapeutic. And there was still plenty to do here on the front line.
She opened the glass washer and began to move spent glasses from the top of the bar into its shelves.
‘So you were brought up on a farm,’ she said, wiping trays. ‘How does someone make the leap from farming to cocktail bars? The two things couldn’t be more different.’
He’d heard that exact sentiment so many times before. Was it any wonder he was reluctant to make family visits when they were underpinned by negativity? Not that he had time to schlep back home whenever he felt like it, you didn’t build a successful business by taking time off.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘My parents are completely mystified by me. They think I must be some kind of throwback because I couldn’t think of anything worse than taking over the family mantle.’
He could hear the flip sound in his own voice. It was easy to make it sound light-hearted. In reality it had been anything but. He thought for the hundredth time of the flabbergasted response from his father when he’d first touted the idea of doing anything other than stepping into his shoes when the time came.
‘It’s a very routine-based life and a massive tie,’ he said. ‘Up at four-thirty every day of the week for milking. Massive emphasis on cleanliness so major daily hygiene routines to keep to. Hard graft that doesn’t end until early evening and on top of that the constant battle for income with milk prices being driven down. It’s not an easy life.’ She looked slightly surprised at his outburst and he paused, aware that this stream of justification for his decision was still as much for himself as for anyone else. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work but that just wasn’t for me.’
‘Hard work doesn’t have to mean backbreaking physical graft,’ Amy remarked, opening a carton of orange juice and filling a few glasses. She knew that only too well. The hospitality industry was no picnic. She was constantly on her feet, the hours were unsociable and she was dealing with Joe Public, who could never see the bigger picture. If they’d paid for a weekend away, or a wedding or an event, they couldn’t care less if your supplier let you down, or a car was delayed, or if there’d been a double booking by an inept minion of a receptionist. Over Owen’s shoulder she signalled to a nearby waitress to come and refresh her dwindling drinks tray. ‘It can’t have been easy to launch a business from scratch but you’ve obviously made a success of it.’
‘The hours can be tough, I’ll admit,’ he said. ‘This weekend is a bit of an exception for me. I’d normally check out at least one of the bars, making sure everything’s running to plan. I’ve got managers in place but I’m forever on call.’ He glanced at his phone on the edge of the bar, never far from his reach. So far it had been silent. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve taken this much time out actually. I kind of feel constantly like I should be somewhere, as if I’m missing something. It’s ridiculous. I’ve spent so long building the business up that it becomes impossible to switch off. May I?’
She stared as he reached for the carton of orange juice and topped up his champagne glass with it.
‘Bucks Fizz,’ he said, as she raised eyebrows. ‘Very eighties, but what can I do? You rejected my peach Bellini idea.’
He’d managed to elicit a smile, even if it was an exasperated one. He noticed that her eyes sparkled when she did that.
‘Since you mention being forever on call, there’s a hundred things I ought to be doing right now instead of chatting to you,’ she said.
He leaned in close to her.
‘So let’s play truant together,’ he said.
She smiled at him, tilting her chin up a little as she did so. It gave her a very cute expression that made his pulse pick up lightly.
‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I only started working here a week ago. The previous wedding manager was sacked and they needed someone to take over at short notice. I happen to know one of the senior staff here and they suggested me. Big break, right?’ She didn’t wait for him to reply. ‘At least it will be if I can pull off the trial period.’
‘You’re on probation?’
She nodded.
‘Yup. For a couple of months. They don’t put the word ‘probation’ or ‘on trial’ on your name badge – it makes the guests nervous. But all the same, the job isn’t really mine. Not yet. I know how the industry works. I need to make a great impression from the outset or the post will be put out to agencies before I can turn round. I need this weekend to be a raging success because all eyes are on me.’ She straightened her jacket and nodded at him. ‘And playing truant with you would be madness.’
He shrugged and picked up his glass again.
‘Sometimes a moment of madness makes life interesting, don’t you think? All that work and no play. And other clichés…’
He held her gaze in his own and her stomach gave a very slow and delicious, and extremely ill-judged flip. Probably because a moment of madness had absolutely no place in her life. Amy Wilson did not do madness. She did organisation, conscientiousness and hard graft. She’d learned at the age of seven that she couldn’t rely on other people to provide her