Page 31 of Cinderella and the Billionaire Boss

It’s not long before we arrive back at the village, and I park the car.

“Let’s call in at the supermarket,” she says, “and choose some things for the picnic later.”

“Okay.”

It turns out to be less a supermarket and more a local store, selling a limited selection of groceries. We opt for soft rolls, baked ham, a triangle of brie, strawberries, red seedless grapes, and, under Heidi’s insistence, a large bar of Dairy Milk chocolate. Finally, we choose a bottle of wine—a decent champagne, under my insistence this time.

“I’ll get this,” I tell her, handing over my credit card at the till.

“Titus!”

“You’ve just told me you exist on your teacher’s wages, and you’re putting me up for free. It’s the least I can do.”

She grudgingly accepts that, and I take the bags from her and carry them up the hill to her house.

“I’m enjoying having you staying with me,” she says as she puts her key in the lock.

“Like having a slave?”

She goes inside, casting a playful glance over her shoulder. “Does that include chaining you to my bed when you’re not washing the dishes?”

“Your wish is my command, ma’am.”

She laughs and comes up to take the bags from me. I hang onto them, though, and she gives me a wry look before I finally release them.

“Go and have a snooze,” she says. “So you’re all fresh for tonight.”

“You want me to get fresh with you?”

“Now who’s got a one-track mind?”

I chuckle and head upstairs. I keep telling myself I mustn’t flirt with her, but it’s impossible not to.

I go into my room, take off my Converses, and flop back onto the bed. My skin feels sun-kissed and wind-burned, and I’m pleasantly tired. I close my eyes, and in my mind I can see the beauty of the moors, all that vast landscape, and the thousands of years of human occupation spread out before me.

Then Heidi appears in my memory, her hair lifting in the breeze, her blue eyes looking up into mine. Her face lingers there, as sleep slowly descends upon me.

*

We head down to the park around six, and I’m surprised to find it packed with people, drawn out by the beautiful summer weather. It’s roughly square-shaped, with a children’s playground in the middle, and a river that runs down the right-hand side. Numerous trees—English oaks, beeches, chestnuts, and birches provide plenty of respite from the hot sun.

Near to the stage that’s been set up, we find a spot partly in the shade of a large English oak, spread out our blanket, and toss the cushions we brought onto it. I put the chilly bin—or cool box, as Heidi now calls it—between us, and we start unpacking the picnic. We’ve just begun eating the ham rolls when a man steps out onto the stage to welcome us to the park. He introduces us to the theater company, and then the play begins.

I stretch out on my side, head propped on a hand, next to Heidi, who’s sitting crossed-legged, and let myself be carried away by the atmosphere and the wonderful playwright’s words. It feels slightly surreal to be lying there in the evening sun on the other side of the world, eating strawberries and drinking champagne, under this old oak tree that has no doubt seen many such couples lying beneath its lobed leaves.

I’ve never felt this conscious of history before. There’s probably not an inch of land in England that hasn’t been walked on. I’ve not thought about it much, but I feel incredibly conscious of the people who’ve lived here—in the Neolithic, Bronze Age, Iron Age, Roman, Saxon, and Medieval periods. So many men and women, who’ve lived, loved, died, and been buried in this ancient land. I can almost hear them: talking, laughing, arguing, kissing, making love, having children, growing old, and dying, ghostlike around us.

“You okay?” Heidi whispers, and I look up to see her watching me, her blue eyes concerned. “You look sad.”

“Not sad. Thoughtful. Just thinking about history,” I murmur. “It feels very… I don’t know… pagan here, under the oak tree.”

“I know what you mean. I’ll take you to a village tomorrow that has a really odd blend of past and present.” She smiles.

I smile back, and I have to fight against an instinct to lift a hand, slide it to the back of her neck, and bring her down to kiss her. The sun is setting behind her, and she’s lit by a halo of golden light. Her face is in shadow, but I can still see the curve of her Cupid’s bow, and the rose-petal color of her lips.

She leans forward then, and my heart thuds as I wait for her to kiss me, aching for it to complete this mystical, magical evening. She pauses, her face about six inches from mine, looking into my eyes, and my pulse races. At the last minute, though, she reaches down to pick up a strawberry from the bowl, and returns to her sitting position, biting into the fruit as she returns her gaze to the actors on the stage.

I stifle a sigh. She is, of course, right not to go through with the kiss. We promised each other we wouldn’t get involved. So why do I feel so disappointed?

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