Page 40 of His Best Mistake

“Those poor Italian bankers.”

“Indeed.”

“This has been the best birthday, Jack,” she said with a funny sort of smile. “Thank you.”

“It isn’t over yet. I have something for you,” he said, taking a small wrapped parcel from the pocket of his jacket and putting it on the tablecloth next to her cup of coffee.

For a moment she just stared at it. “Is that a present?” she said, her voice cracking a little.

“Open it.”

She bit her lip and undid the ribbon, and then unwrapped the paper and let out a little gasp of horror or delight, he couldn’t tell.

“It’s a scarf,” he said, possibly unnecessarily but for some reason badly needing to say something. “By that artist whose exhibition we went to see in Kensington. You can either wear it or frame it. Or take it back if you hate it.”

“Hate it?” she said, her face lighting up as she wrapped it round her neck and tied it in a knot to one side. “I love it.”

“Good.”

“Thank you,” she said, and before he knew what was happening she got up and reached over and kissed him as if it was the most natural thing to do in the world.

He froze. She froze. Time seemed to freeze. All he could hear was the sound of his heart thundering in his ears. All he could see was blush of horrified mortification spreading across her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

“That was totally out of order.”

And he could just shrug and brush it off and tell her not to worry, but he couldn’t suppress how much he wanted her any longer. “No. It wasn’t. Do it again.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“Kiss me again. Or let me kiss you. I don’t much care who starts.”

“No,” she breathed.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She really had to ask? “I want you so badly it hurts,” he said roughly. “I want to take you upstairs to bed right now and keep you there to make up for all the time we’ve wasted dancing around the extraordinary chemistry we share.”

“No.”

“Do you want me?”

He didn’t know what he’d do if she said no, but for one long dizzying moment, Stella just looked at him, her breathing shallowing and that tiny pulse at the base of her neck pounding, and he really thought she was going to grab his hand and haul him off. But then she swallowed and blinked and shook her head and that hope crashed. “Well, possibly,” she said, “but it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Isn’t there?”

“No. You know that.”

“I don’t know that.”

“It would really complicate things.”

Really? Everything seemed pretty bloody simple to him. “In what way?”

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