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THE DOORBELL RANG EARLY the next morning. I paused, hands hovering over the vase of pink and red peonies. My heart kicked up speed, thudding in my chest until I found it almost impossible to breathe.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded myself this was just business. Tom was here to help sell my house. That was it. Nothing more. Straightening my shoulders, I strode toward the door, chin up. I could do this. I could face Tom Rutledge without acting like a lovesick teenager.
I threw open the door and nearly melted on the spot. The sight of him hit me like a visceral punch to the gut. He was wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece pinstripe suit with a blue-and-gray striped silk tie and simple, white-gold cufflinks. His dark hair was tousled just right to show of perfectly sculpted cheekbones and a strong jaw. He looked good enough to eat. My fingers itched to stroke his arm, touch his skin. I was in trouble. Big trouble.
I tried to dredge up an image of Owen, but it was no use. All I could focus on was the man in front of me. I stood there like an idiot with my mouth half-open as a slow, deadly, delicious smile spread across his full lips.
“Hi, Deb.”
I cleared my throat. “Tom. Welcome. Come in, please.” I managed to get my feet moving so I could step out of his way. “Would you, ah, like some tea?” When in doubt, fall back on hundreds of years of British tradition.
“That would be lovely. Thank you, Deb.” The way he said my name spoke of silk sheets and dark bedrooms. The fluttering in my chest got worse.
I scurried past him to the kitchen, busying myself with the ritual of tea. I had to concentrate or my focus would shatter. Water in the kettle? Tick. Kettle on? Tick. Tea... where was the tea? Oh, yes, in the tin on the counter where it belonged.
“Milk? Sugar? Lemon?” Did I even have lemon? I’d never been a lemon person. I preferred sugar and lots of it.
“Milk, please. No sugar.”
I nodded and tripped across the tile floor to the fridge. Swinging open the door, I stared blankly inside. What was I getting?
An arm reached past me and grabbed the milk. “Got it.” He was close. Far too close. He gently released my fingers from their death grip on the door handle and shut the door.
I licked my lips nervously. “Um, thank you.”
He stepped closer. The kettle started singing. Saved by the whistle. I ducked around him and snagged the kettle.
“Now, I’d like to sell as soon as possible,” I said without looking at him.
“No problem,” Tom said, setting the milk on the counter. He was too close again. “Sales in this area are on the uptick, and three-bedrooms like yours are very in demand. Where were you interested in looking for your new place?”
“Notting Hill,” I mumbled, stirring the tea a little more vigorously than necessary.
“Really? That’s where I live.”
That got me. I glanced at him, startled, sloshing tea over half the counter. “Oh, dear.” I stared blankly at the spill while Tom rescued me with the dishcloth.
“Here, let me get that.” He mopped up the tea as if it happened every day, then handed me my mug with some caution.
“Thanks.” I took a sip of tea to brace myself. “I thought you lived in Harrow near Owen.”
“I was just staying with him that night. I’ve lived in Notting Hill for the last five years.” He gave me a crooked grin. “We could be neighbors.”
The thought of Tom being my neighbor gave me butterflies. “Let me show you around the place,” I said, changing the subject to something semi-safe.
I gave him a quick tour of my three-bedroom house. It was nothing special, but I’d done some improvements over the years so it was clean, modern, and comfortable. But it had never really felt like home.
“I think we can get you a good price,” Tom said as we finished the tour. He named a sum quite a bit higher than what my ex and I had paid years ago. It was actually more than I’d expected.
“That’s great,” I said.
“And then I can help you find your new place in Notting Hill.”
“That would be wonderful,” I blurted without thinking.
A wide grin spread across his face. “Excellent.”
I could have kicked myself. The last thing I needed was to spend more time with Tom. The temptation.... No, I wouldn’t give in. I knew what I needed, and Tom wasn’t it. This would be business. In for a penny, in for a pound. “When can we start?”
“How about tomorrow?”
I swallowed. “Perfect.”
# # #
THE NEXT MORNING I took extra care with my appearance. I knew I was being foolish. I kept reminding myself it was business. It could never be anything more than that. But still, I dithered over what to wear before settling on a simple blue A-line skirt and a cream-colored top with a lapis lazuli choker that made my skin glow and my eyes shine. I guess my heart didn’t care if it was business or not.
I arrived at Tom’s office promptly on time. Promptness was something my mother had drilled into me from early childhood. I could clearly hear her voice in my head. “It’s very rude to arrive late to any event, Deborah,” she’d said often. “It shows a distinct lack of care for others. It is even more offensive to arrive too early. It can cause the hostess a great deal of consternation should she not be prepared for the early arrival of guests.” I’d spent my life walking the fine line between the horror of being late and the rudeness of being too early.
“Deb.” Tom rushed around his desk and leaned down to give me a peck on the cheek. Was it just me, or did he linger a little longer than necessary? His hand rested warmly on my shoulder, and the stroke down my arm as he backed away felt more like a caress than a friendly touch. I shivered right down to my toes.
“Ready to look at some houses?” he asked with a grin that took my breath away.
I swallowed. “Yes. That would be lovely.” I reminded myself I was a grown woman, not a sixteen-year-old with a crush. I didn’t need to get all swoony over Thomas Rutledge.
Today he wore a charcoal suit with a purple tie over a lavender shirt. It was a bit much on the purple, but somehow it suited him, making him look even more, well, manly, for lack of a better word.
He ushered me toward a Geo Metro sitting at the curb. The small car was one of the cheaper models and looked a few years old. There was an enormous ding along the passenger door.
“We’ll take the company car,” he said. “Don’t worry. I didn’t do that.” He grinned when he caught me looking at the scraped door. “That was Theresa, my boss. She got sideswiped by a lorry the other day. You should have seen her after. I thought she’d eviscerate the guy.”
He opened the door so I could climb in. I tried to do so gracefully, but the car sat rather low so I sort of fell in. I guess “gracefully” was out.
“I think your idea to rent a place for six months before deciding to buy in the neighborhood is smart,” Tom said as he pulled into traffic.
“Since I’ve never lived in Notting Hill, it seemed like the best option,” I said. “I mean, I have this vision of what it will be like, but who knows? Maybe I’ll hate it.”
“Oh, I’m certain you’re going to love it,” he assured me. “It’s an amazing place to live. So much to see and do, and great neighbors, too.” He winked, and I found myself smiling. “But it helps to really get to know a neighborhood before you decide to buy there.”
The morning was spent inspecting flat after flat. By lunchtime I was drooping, but I didn’t want to give up. I wanted to find my perfect Notting Hill flat.
“How about lunch?” Tom suggested, obviously noticing my fatigue.
It was lunchtime. And it wasn’t like this was a date or anything. It was business. He was my estate agent, I was his client. We were having a working lunch. That was it.
“All right,” I agreed.
He led me to the nearby Le Pain, a rustic European-style bakery that also served lunch. A young woman in black and white ushered us to the end of one of the long, wood tables. She handed us the menu and then vanished, only to return moments later with water.
Tom ordered a smoked chicken Caesar on a brioche bun, while I selected the chicken cassoulet. I was starving from all that walking around, and the hearty meal was just the ticket. I nearly moaned as the rich sauce of the cassoulet hit my tongue.
“So tell me, Deb. What are you into?”
I nearly choked. “Um, what do you mean?”
“For a living. What do you do?”
Well, this was awkward. “I was working for an energy company over in Mayfair. I was there about five years, but I recently quit to pursue my dream of working for myself.”
“Really? That’s fantastic. What do you do?”
I fidgeted. “I’m a photographer.” There. It was out. That made it suddenly very real.
“Art photography or...?”
“Art, weddings, parties, whatever catches my fancy. I love capturing people celebrating, that moment they’re at their happiest.” It made me feel happy, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. But I didn’t say that.
“That’s fascinating. You know my friend, Owen, is an amateur photographer.”
“Um, yeah. I’m taking this class, and he’s sort of teaching it.”
His brow went up in surprise, and he paused with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Really.” His tone was surprisingly flat.
“Yes. I had no idea until I showed up.”
He carefully took a bite, chewing slowly. When his mouth was finally empty, he said, “That must be an interesting class.”
“It is,” I admitted. Why was he being so weird? Surely he wasn’t jealous. Dream on. “I have an assignment for next week. Choose a human subject and take a series of photographs in various locations and lightings using the different settings on my camera.”
“Sounds like an interesting assignment. Have you chosen a subject yet?”
“Not yet. What about you?” I blurted impulsively. I could have kicked myself. What had I just done? I was trying to spend less time with him, not more.
Tom’s expression brightened. “You want to take pictures of me?”
Too late to back out now. “Sure. You’re....” I couldn’t say “gorgeous.” I would die of embarrassment. “You’d make a fascinating subject for my, ah, project.”
His smile widened, green eyes sparkling. “When do we start?”
“Well,” I rooted around in my shoulder bag and pulled out my camera. “How about now?”
“Absolutely. Where do you want me?”
Oh, good gosh, that was a loaded question. “Just where you are.”
“Should I smile?”
“If you like. Whatever feels natural.”
So he smiled until dimples flashed in his cheeks and his eyes danced with laughter. I snapped a quick photo, then two more for good measure. I lowered my camera and swallowed. I might never survive this project.
“Thanks. I’ll—ah—take a few more later.”
“Good. Let’s crack on, shall we? More flats to see.” He held out his hand to help me up. What could I do but take it? The minute our hands touched, a zing zipped through me. Yes, I was definitely in big, fat trouble.