Page 22 of Wanting Mr Black

“It’s got to be worth a shot.”

I place my hands on my hips. I want credit where credit’s due. “Admit it. It was a good idea.”

A smile plays on his lips as his gaze sweeps over me. “It was a good idea.”

“You’ve changed your mind about giving my idea a try, and you’re being nice to George and Olly. Where’s the Art I know, and what have you done to him?” I laugh.

He gives me an easy smile. “You mean, what haveyoudone to him?”

Before I can blink, he puts his arm round my waist and pulls me onto his lap.

I anxiously glance around to see if there any other staff nearby. If any of them sees us like this, it will just add fuel to the fire.

“We shouldn’t do this here. It’s unprofessional.”

“It’s quiet. There’s no one about.” His eyes search my face, and he shakes his head. “And if there were, I wouldn’t care.”

“Art …”

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, and I feel my heart squeeze in my chest.

“I saw you this morning. We live together.”

“But I haven’t seen you all day because I’ve been stupid busy, sorting this place out.” He kisses me. “And for that reason, we’re going to leave work a little earlier, and I’m taking you shopping.”

There’s an offer I can’t refuse. “What are you buying me?”

“A dress. It’s the charity reception at Mum’s on Sunday. We can’t go tomorrow because we’re meeting Mum for lunch and it’s the wedding of the year on Saturday.”

I kiss him. “Where are you taking me shopping?”

“Bond Street, of course.”

I stare at him. “Isn’t that going to be really expensive?”

“Money’s no object.” He smooths a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Especially when someone priceless will be wearing it.”

Twelve

Two hours later, I’m stepping off the sun-soaked pavement and through the double glass doors of Chanel’s Bond Street store. Art leads the way across the shiny white floor as I take in my surroundings, trying my best to act as if this weren’t a big deal. I’ve walked past the place often enough when I’ve been shopping with Lucy and Mum but never bothered coming inside.

What would be the point in torturing myself, knowing that I couldn’t afford anything?

White backlit walls illuminate the items on show on the glass shelves and cabinets dotted around the room. There are no rows of hangers displaying ten of the same items in this store. Eachpiece of clothing or accessory has been carefully selected – a black signature quilted handbag, a colourful houndstooth hat. I couldn’t be more excited, and I know I’m staring, but I don’t care.

A short woman, dressed head to toe in black, pounces on us within a matter of seconds.Mariais emblazoned on the white name badge pinned to her black T-shirt. “How can I help you both?”

“We’re looking for formal evening wear,” Art replies, glancing around the shop.

“Of course, sir. This way, please.”

We follow her to the back of the store and through an archway to the left, which leads into a changing room. In the centre is a black two-seater sofa and glass coffee table. White curtains line the changing booth.

“Would sir care to take a seat while I show madam the latest collection?” Maria says, but Art’s already making himself comfortable.

This isn’t the first time he’s shopped in a designer store.

He shoots me a warning look as he settles back against the seat. “Nothing too revealing.”

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