Page 24 of Wanting Mr Black

I smile, pleased at the impression the dress has made. “If it has this effect on you, it’s definitely the one.”

He kisses me again and looks into my eyes. “It’s not the dress. It’s you.”

Thirteen

The nerves I felt at the initial mention of afternoon tea with Barbara return with a vengeance as we pull up outside the grand frontage of The Ritz Piccadilly. A doorman wearing a smart black suit and top hat is standing at the top of the white marble steps that lead to the double front doors. A navy-blue canopy hangs over the entrance, bearing the gold emblem of the prestigious hotel.

Art buzzes the driver’s window down as the valet approaches, and the two men exchange words. I smooth my navy dress over my knees and pull down the mirror to inspect my make-up.

“You look beautiful,” Art assures.

I tuck my hair behind my ear and look at him. “Thank you, but I can’t help feeling nervous.”

“There’s no need to be nervous.”

“This will be the first time I’veproperlymet your mum. I’m going to feel nervous. We can’tallbe super confident.”

He shrugs defensively. “I get nervous.”

I frown. “Really?”

“Of course.”

I’m intrigued. “What about?”

He looks out of the window, avoiding my gaze. “I dunno … stuff.”

He’s being evasive, but I want to know more.

“You look beautiful, and Mum already loves you,” he assures me.

“You don’t know that. And what if she doesn’t? Or what if she does and changes her mind after today?”

He unfastens his seat belt and laughs. “That’s incredibly unlikely. And Mum’s a great judge of character. Anyway, I wouldn’t care if she didn’t like you.”

He rests a hand on mine and gazes at me. My heart skips a beat. For one wild second, I’m convinced he’s going to tell me that he loves me. I’m literally waiting with bated breath.

Disappointment extinguishes my feeling of hope as he looks past me, out of the window, and instead says, “Shall we make a move?”

We climb out of the car. Art passes his keys to the valet and takes my hand as we walk up the steps and into the hotel.

Opulent carpet stretches across the floor beneath grand white marble arches. Magnificent gold chandeliers hang from the curved ceilings. I knew this place was going to be fancy, but this is a whole new level of posh. We’re greeted by an older gentleman with a mop of grey hair, wearing a smart three-piece black suit.

“Good afternoon, sir”—he looks at Art and then glances at me and smiles politely—"madam. Welcome to The Ritz. How may I help you?”

“Hi, we’re here for afternoon tea. A table for three in the name of Black,” Art replies.

“Of course, sir. The other member of your party is already seated. Please, this way.”

My heels sink into the thick carpet as we follow him into the vast Palm Court. Spectacular high, arched ceilings and magnificent floral arrangements decorate the lavish room. Mellow tones coming from the grand piano provide the backdrop to the hum of conversation from the guests.

Art gives me an easy smile and squeezes my hand, looking totally at ease. I’m anything but. A knot of nerves sits in my stomach at the prospect of meeting Barbara properly for the first time. I glance at the other diners, all dressed to impress. And Art’s no exception. His painfully expensive charcoal-grey suit fits his broad frame like a glove. He looks sharp and sexy and is receiving lots of admiring looks from the female guests as we pass by the tables. Self-conscious, I glance down at my dress and check my nude patent heels for scuff marks.

“You look perfect,” he says, leaning into me.

I beam at his words, and he gives my hand another reassuring squeeze.

Barbara stands as we arrive at the table. She’s wearing a cream linen trouser suit, finished off with a chic pale pink floral neck scarf. Her eyes sparkle as she smiles at me. “Hello, Sophie. How nice to meet you again.”

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