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‘All that is correct,’ he said. ‘But I meant my personal circumstances.’ Though he couldn’t blame Gabby for citing his business ones. This was supposed to be all about business.
‘I know that you were widowed. And as I said on Saturday I’m so very sorry. You must have been devastated.’
How to explain it? Explain that he had been blasted with grief—grief at the loss of a life so young, grief that the girl he’d fallen in love with aged sixteen should have been taken, grief at the waste, the sadness, the sheer horror of watching someone you cared about fight and lose, slowly get weaker and fade away.
‘It was difficult,’ he said.
He waited as their pizzas arrived, black pepper and parmesan were dispensed. Then he continued, aware of the intent concentration of her expression, grateful for the lack of question or comment. Gabby was letting him tell the story as he wanted.
‘Since Claudia’s death I haven’t had another relationship, and to be honest I am good with that. I haven’t wanted one and I still don’t. However, my family have different ideas. They are worried about me, think I need to move forward...and they spend way too much of their time trying to set me up.’ He paused to sample the pizza and nodded. ‘You’re right. This is incredible.’
‘Glad you like it.’ She paused to pour chilli oil over her pizza. ‘It’s nice that your family cares.’
For a second he saw wistfulness cross her face.
‘Yes. But on Saturday, after our...encounter, I went back to Mum and Dad’s and everyone fell on me with joy.’
‘Why?’
He sighed. ‘We were spotted by one of my mum’s friends. Edna Harris, if you want to know full details.’ The woman had an uncanny ability to nose out secrets, to be in the ‘right’ place at the ‘right’ time. ‘She headed straight for Casa Grosvenor to share the glad tidings and my family are thrilled.’
Gabby’s face held bemusement. ‘OK. But I’m still not seeing this. All you had to do was explain you were helping out an old schoolmate with a hen challenge. End of.’
‘Given the detail Edna went into about what she saw, it would have been a tricky explanation.’
Gabby speared an artichoke heart and shook her head. ‘Yes, but...’
‘You’re right. I could have explained it. I decided not to.’
‘Because...?’
The artichoke was halted, halfway to her mouth, and for a moment his gaze snagged on her lips. He remembered their feel, the taste of her, the sheer unexpected passion and desire that kiss had evoked...
Deep breath. He decided he might as well go for it. ‘Because I thought it would be a great idea to pretend you are my girlfriend.’
The artichoke heart fell from her fork.
‘That’s why I’m here. I want to hire you to be my fake girlfriend.’
CHAPTER THREE
GABBY WATCHED THE descent of the artichoke heart on to the tomato sauce of her pizza as her brain scrambled for a response to his words...questioned whether she could have heard them correctly. Perhaps this was Zander Grosvenor’s idea of some sort of bizarre joke. Perhaps her tomato-splattering response was being recorded by an unseen camera. If so, the image could be labelled The Personification of Stupefaction. Or maybe she had misheard him?
Trying not to gibber, she surveyed his expression—outwardly calm, with a hint of tension in his jawline.
Eventually her brain decided on a single syllable. ‘Why?’ Immediate hindsight suggested a simple no would have been a better choice, followed by a rapid exit.
Zander sipped his wine, then placed the glass down, his fingers still around the base. For a second she studied his hand—its size, its strength, the very faint smattering of hair, the sturdiness of his wrist—and a funny little thrill shot through her.
Wrenching her gaze away, she looked up. ‘Why would you want to hire a fake girlfriend? If you need a girlfriend, I’m pretty sure you could muster up a real one.’ The man was gorgeous and loaded and—oh, God, had she just given him the wrong idea? ‘Not me, obvs. But I’m sure there would be plenty of women who would go out with you for nothing.’
‘I don’t want a real girlfriend. I don’t want a real relationship. Not right now.’ The words or ever seemed to hover unspoken over the table, implicit in his tone, and Gabby could have kicked herself around the restaurant. The man was a widower, either still in love with his wife or not yet ready to move on. She’d been so inappropriately focused on his damn hand she’d lost the plot.
‘I’m sorry, Zander. I didn’t mean any disrespect to Claudia.’
‘None taken.’
‘But I still don’t get why on earth you would want a pretend girlfriend.’
