A Date with the Ice Princess. Kate Hardy
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‘The date’s not over yet.’
She blinked. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘I thought we could have dinner,’ he said.
She looked down at her jeans and her T-shirt. ‘I’m not really dressed for dinner.’
‘You’re fine as you are. I don’t have a dress code.’
She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not quite with you.’
‘I’m cooking for us. At my place,’ he explained.
This time, she laughed. ‘You’re cooking?’
He shrugged. ‘I can cook.’
She smiled. ‘I bet you only learned to impress your girlfriends at university.’
No. He’d learned because he’d had to, when he’d been fourteen. Because the only way he and his little sisters would’ve had anything to eat had been if he’d cooked it. Not that he had any intention of telling Abigail about that. ‘Something like that,’ he said lightly, and drove them back to his flat.
‘Can we stop at an off-licence or something so I can get a bottle of wine as my contribution to dinner?’ she asked on the way.
‘There’s no need. I have wine.’
‘But I haven’t contributed anything.’
‘You have. You bought me lunch.’
‘This was supposed to be my date,’ she reminded him.
‘Tough. I hijacked it, and we’re on my rules now,’ he said with a smile. ‘Just chill, and we’ll have dinner.’
Something smelled good, Abigail thought when Lewis let her inside his flat. Clearly he’d planned this, and it wasn’t the frozen pizza she’d been half expecting him to produce for dinner.
‘It’ll take five minutes for me to sort the vegetables. The bathroom’s through there if you need it,’ he said, indicating a door.
She washed her hands and splashed a little water on her face, then stared at herself in the mirror. She looked a total mess and her hair was all over the place, despite the fact she’d tied it back, and she didn’t have a comb with her so it’d just have to stay looking like a bird’s nest. Then again, this wasn’t a date date so it really didn’t matter how she looked, did it?
When she emerged from the bathroom, she could hear the clatter of crockery in the kitchen. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she called.
‘No, just take a seat,’ he called back.
There was a bistro table in the living room with two chairs. The table was set nicely; he’d clearly made an effort.
There was an array of photographs on the mantelpiece, and she couldn’t resist going over for a closer look. At first glance, Abigail wasn’t surprised that most of them seemed to involve Lewis with his arm round someone female. One of them showed him holding a baby in a white christening gown.
His baby? Surely not. If Lewis had a child, he would’ve mentioned it.
But then she saw a wedding photograph with three women and Lewis. When she studied it, she could see the family likenesses: the bridesmaids were clearly the bride’s sisters. And the same women were in all the photographs. One of them had the same eyes as Lewis; one had his smile; all had his dark hair.
Which meant they had to be Lewis’s sisters. She guessed that the baby belonged to one of them, and Lewis was a doting uncle-cum-godfather.
He came through to the living room, carrying two plates. ‘OK?’ he asked.
‘Just admiring your photographs—your sisters, I presume?’
‘And my niece.’ He nodded. ‘My best girls.’
She’d already worked out that he was close to his family. What would it be like to have a sibling who’d always be there for you, someone you could ring at stupid o’clock in the morning when the doubts hit and you wondered what the hell you were doing? Being an only child, she’d got used to dealing with everything on her own.
‘They look nice,’ she offered.
‘They are. Most of the time. You know what it’s like.’
No, she didn’t. ‘Yes,’ she fibbed.
‘Come and sit down.’
He put the plate down in front of her, and she felt her eyes widen. Oh, no. She should’ve said something. Right back when he’d first told her they were having dinner here. But she’d simply assumed that by ‘cooking’ he’d meant just throwing a frozen cheese and tomato pizza into the oven, and then she’d been distracted by the photographs.
Dinner was presented beautifully, right down to the garnish of chopped fresh herbs.
But no way could she eat it.
Maybe if she ate just the inside of the jacket potato, then hid the chicken stew under the skin?
He clearly noticed her hesitation. ‘Oh, hell. I didn’t think to ask. And, given what you had for lunch…’ He frowned, and she could see the second he made the connection. ‘You’re vegetarian, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed hard. ‘But don’t worry about it. You’ve gone to so much trouble. If you don’t mind, I’ll just eat the jacket potato and the veg.’
‘A casserole isn’t much trouble. And I’m not going to make you pick at your food. Give me ten minutes.’ Before she had a chance to protest, he’d whisked her plate away.
She followed him into the kitchen. ‘Lewis, really—you don’t have to go to any more trouble. Honestly. It’s my fault. I should’ve said something before. Leave it. I’ll just get a taxi home.’
‘You will not,’ he said crisply. ‘I promised you dinner, and dinner you shall have. Are you OK with pasta?’
‘I…’
‘Yes or no, Abby?’ His tone was absolutely implacable.
And, after all the adrenalin of their day at the adventure centre, she was hungry. She gave in. ‘Yes.’
‘And spinach?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I know you’re OK with dairy, or you wouldn’t have eaten cottage cheese. But I’ve already made enough wrong assumptions today, so I’m going to check. Are you OK with garlic and mascarpone?’
‘Love them,’ she said, squirming and feeling as if she was making a total fuss.
‘Good. Dinner will be ten minutes. Go and pour yourself a glass of wine.’ He was already heating oil in a pan, then squashed a clove of garlic and chopped an onion faster than she’d ever seen it done before.
So much for thinking he’d exaggerated his cooking skills. Lewis Gallagher actually knew his way around a kitchen. And he hadn’t been trying to impress her—he was trying to be hospitable. Bossing her around in exactly the way he probably bossed his kid sisters around.
She went back into his living room, poured herself a glass of wine and then poured a second glass for him before returning to the kitchen with the glasses. ‘I, um, thought you might like this.’
‘Thank you. I would.’ He smiled at her.
The spinach was wilting into the onions and the kettle was boiling, ready for the pasta. ‘Sorry, I’m out of flour, or I’d make us some flatbread to go with it.’
And she’d just bet he made his bread by hand, not with a machine. Lewis Gallagher was turning out to be so much more domesticated than she’d thought. And the fact he’d noticed that she couldn’t eat the food and guessed why… There was more to him than just the shallow