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He looked at her warily. ‘What, from the same place?’
She laughed. ‘No, silly. They’re two different cafés. I’m just trying to decide which one we go to.’
‘I had breakfast at six. Let’s go for the croissants.’
She gave him a solemn nod. ‘I warn you—you might get angry.’
‘Why?’
She stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear. ‘Because the coffee in this place is miles better than it is in the hotel.’
She could see him bristle. ‘No way.’
‘Way.’ The train slid to a halt. ‘Come and find out for yourself.’
* * *
There was almost a skip in Grace’s step as she led him from the Tube station and across the road to a café much like every other one in London. But as soon as he opened the door he could smell the difference. The scent of coffee beans filled the air, along with whiffs of baking—apple tarts, sponge cakes and something with vanilla in it. If you weren’t hungry before you entered this café, you’d be ravenous ten seconds after crossing the threshold. He’d need to remember that.
They sat at the table and ordered. As soon as the waitress left, Grace started playing with a strand of hair. ‘I might have done something,’ she said hesitantly.
‘What?’ he asked cautiously.
‘I might have ordered some purple light bulbs. And some white ones. I figure that if we can get the lights up outside the hotel it will give people an idea of what it looks like inside.’
He gave a nod. ‘I had a call from the manager of another chain of hotels today. She was asking about you.’
Grace’s eyes widened. ‘Asking about me?’
He nodded. ‘She wanted to know the name of the designer I’d used because she’d heard how good the hotel looked.’
Grace leaned across the table towards him. ‘Already? But I’ve only just finished.’
‘I know that and you know that.’ He held up his hand. ‘But this is London, word travels fast.’
She shook her head. He could almost see her shrinking into herself. ‘But I’m not a designer. I’m just one of the Maids in Chelsea.’
‘We need to talk about that.’
‘Why?’
Finlay reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the cheque he’d written. ‘I need to pay you for your services.’
Grace looked down and blinked. Then blinked again. Her face paled. ‘Oh, no. You can’t give me this.’
‘Do you want to get Clio to bill me, then? I’m not sure why, though—this is different from the work you do for the agency.’
Her fingers were trembling. ‘You can’t pay me this much.’
Ah. He got it. It wasn’t how he was paying her. It was how much he was paying her.
‘I can increase it,’ he said simply.
Her eyes widened even further. ‘No.’
It almost came out as a gasp.
Ah. Now he understood.
‘Grace, I based this on what we paid our last interior designer, plus inflation. That’s all. As far as I’m aware, this is what I’d normally pay for these services.’
The waitress appeared and set down their plates. She’d caught the tail-end of the conversation—and glanced at the cheque under Grace’s fingertips before making some kind of strangled sound.
Grace was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Finlay waved his hand and looked at the food in front of him. ‘Take it, it’s yours. You did a good job. You deserve it.’
He’d decided to follow Grace’s lead. The croissant in front of him was stuffed with tuna and melted cheese. Salad and coleslaw were on the side and the waitress came back with steaming cups of coffee. She winked at him. ‘Try the rhubarb pie after this, it’s to die for.’
He almost laughed out loud. She’d seen the cheque and would expect a decent tip. He could do that.
‘I think I might have to lie down after this,’ he said, taking in all the food on the plate.
Grace was still watching the cheque as if it would bite her. He picked it up again and looked under the table, sliding it into her bag.
‘Let’s lunch.’ He said the words in a way he hoped she’d understand. The amount wasn’t open to debate. ‘Where do you live?’
‘What?’ That snapped her out of her dreamlike state. ‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘I’d like to know a bit more about the woman I’m having lunch with.’
Didn’t she want to tell him where she lived?
She lifted her knife and fork. ‘I live in Walthamstow,’ she said quietly.
‘Did you go to school around there?’
She nodded but didn’t add anything further.
‘How long have you worked for Maids in Chelsea?’
Her shoulders relaxed a little. That seemed a more acceptable question. ‘Just for a few months.’ She met his gaze, ‘Truth is, it’s the best job I’ve ever had. Clio, the boss, is lovely and the rest of the staff are like...family.’
Family. Interesting choice of word for work colleagues.
‘What did you do before?’
She smiled. ‘You name it—I’ve done it.’
He raised his eyebrows and she laughed. ‘Okay, there are certain things I’ve never done. But I have had a few jobs.’ She counted off on her fingers. ‘I worked in the local library. Then in a few temp jobs in offices. I worked on the perfume counter of one of the department stores. Then I got poached to work on
the make-up counter.’
‘You got poached?’ Somehow, he could see Grace with her flawless complexion and friendly personality being an asset to any make-up counter.
She nodded. ‘But it wasn’t really for me. I had to eventually give up due to some family issues and when I needed a job again Maids in Chelsea kind of found me.’
‘Family issues? You have children?’
She shook her head and laughed. ‘Oh, no. I’d want to find a husband first.’
He hadn’t even considered the fact she might have children, or a husband! What was wrong with him? He tried to tease out a few more details. ‘So, you haven’t found a husband yet?’
She shook her head again. ‘I haven’t had time.’ She looked up and met his gaze. ‘I’ve dated casually in the last few years, but haven’t really had time for a relationship.’
Due to her family issues? He didn’t feel as though he could press.
‘I take it you were brought up in Scotland?’
He smiled. ‘What’s the giveaway?’
She laughed and took a sip of her coffee. ‘Is Sean Connery your father?’
‘Sean Connery wouldn’t have got a look-in. My mum and dad were childhood sweethearts. They lived next door to each other from the age of five.’
Grace set down her knife and fork. ‘Oh, wow. That’s so nice.’
It was nice. His mum and dad’s marriage had always been rock solid, even when half the people he’d gone to school with seemed to have more step-parents than grades at school.
‘Are they still in Scotland?’
‘Always. They’ll never leave.’
She gave him a fixed stare. ‘Why did you leave?’
He hesitated then spoke quickly. ‘Business.’ There was so much more to it than that. He had a home—a castle—in Scotland that had been his pride and joy. He hadn’t set foot in it for over a year. The penthouse in The Armstrong was where he now called home. He needed to change the subject—fast.
‘Tell me about the Christmas stuff?’
She quickly swallowed a mouthful of food. ‘What do you mean?’
