Page 14 of Wanting Mr Black

He nods. “Actually, I’ve a text from Mum. She’s invited us to a charity thing she’s organised.”

I lift my eyes to his and pop a segment of orange in my mouth. “Charity thing?” I repeat, unsure exactly what he means.

“Yeah, she’s a patron of a fostering charity, and she’s hosting the annual reception.”

Reception?

“Erm … where’s it going to be held? At the hotel or something?”

“At home,” he replies simply, as if it were a normal occurrence.

I frown. “You mean … as in the house where you grew up?”

“Yes.”

I take a long sip of coffee. I know his family is loaded, but the house must be huge if they can host a reception.

“Since Dad died, Mum’s done more and more charitable work. It helps keep her busy, I suppose.” He finishes his fruit salad, putting down his fork. He looks awkward. “I’d like for us to go.”

I smile. I’m pleased that he wants to share this with me, but I have to ask, “I’d like that, of course, but what do I wear to a reception?”

He picks up his mug, and a faint smile twitches at the corners of his lips. “They’re quite formal, so a dress.”

I’ve got dresses, sure, but I haven’t got fancy dresses fit for a reception. This is the first time I’ll be going to Barbara’s house and no doubt meeting her friends. I want to look nice.

My worry must translate onto my face because he breaks out into a smile.

“You’ll look beautiful in whatever you wear, but if you want, I’ll take you shopping.”

“Thank you because I’m not sure whether I’ve got much of a clue,” I admit, taking a mouthful of honeydew melon.

He raises his cup to his lips and takes a sip. “Mum said she enjoyed meeting you yesterday. Actually, she’s asked if we’d like to meet her for afternoon tea one of the days this week.”

Yikes.

Barbara seemed lovely, but I can’t help feeling nervous.

“That would be nice. Where?”

“The Ritz.”

My mouth falls into an O as I turn over what he said. Afternoon tea at The Ritz.

Did I really expect anything less by now?

“Lovely,” I reply. “Sounds … posh.”

He smiles. “It’s notthatposh.”

I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one.

“So, what did you and Mum talk about the other day?”

I rest my fork on my plate and hesitate. I’m not going to lie to him. “Your childhood.” I pause and decide to tell him everything. “Your birth mother.”

His shoulders stiffen a fraction, and he puts his mug down, keeping his eyes on the table. “So, you know why I was taken off her? What she did for money?”

“Yes,” I reply.

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