the only one feeling awkward and uncomfortable over whatever had passed between them last night.
“Good morning,” he returned without inflection, studiously avoiding eye contact while he reached for the morning’s post on the corner of her desk and flipped through.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“No, thank you.”
Her smile slipped, uncertainty skating like clouds across the sky-blue of her eyes.
Nigel blew out a breath. He was being a bleeding sod, and he knew it. It wasn’t her fault that he’d gotten very little sleep and woken up about ten feet to the left of the wrong side of the bed.
“I would love a cup of tea, though,” he said in a much kinder voice.
She nodded quickly and rose, going around him and her desk to the small pantry that was tucked away at the far side of the reception area.
He watched her cross the expanse, her long legs eating up the space in record time. The slant of her three-inch, open-toed shoes made those legs look even longer, more taut. And her skirt—which turned out to be short and black—encased her buttocks like a second skin.
Not exactly conducive to quelling his arousal. The only thing that might help with that was distance. And possibly being struck blind.
Since the latter wasn’t likely to occur in the next few minutes, he opted for the former. Taking the stack of envelopes with him, he moved into his office and took a seat behind his desk.
He’d just logged on to check his email when Lillian appeared carrying a full tea service—the one he’d ordered when he’d first come to work in the States, but hadn’t seen hide nor hair of since. When he’d requested a cup of tea from his previous assistants, they’d all brought him a big, clunky ceramic mug with a nondescript tea bag bobbing in a pool of lukewarm water.
Nigel sat back, waiting while she set the tray on the edge of his desk and proceeded to pour already steeped tea from a china pot into a china cup. Through a stainless-steel strainer and complete with matching saucer, no less.
“This is a surprise,” he said.
She raised her head, meeting his gaze. The question was there in her eyes.
“I was expecting something much simpler,” he explained. “Aren’t you Americans fond of tea that comes in bags?”
“We are,” she answered. “Very. Probably because it’s a lot easier than all of this.” She waved a hand to encompass the tray and its accoutrements. “But I’ve heard you Brits are much more particular about your tea. And that you don’t think we Americans could brew a decent cup to save our lives.”
His lips quirked with the urge to grin. “We sound like a demanding lot with sticks up our bums.”
Lillian chuckled, returning her attention to the tea service. “You said it, I didn’t,” she replied, handing him the cup and saucer.
“To be safe, I went online and researched how to make a cup of true English tea. I make absolutely no promises that I’ve done it right, but I do hope you’ll at least give me points for trying.”
Gesturing to the other items on the tray, she said, “Milk, sugar and lemon.”
The real thing, he noticed. Milk—not cream, which so many Americans assumed should be added just because they used it in their coffee—the sugar cubed and the lemon cut into wedges.
“I wasn’t sure which, if any, you preferred.”
“If this tastes as good as it looks, I may even give you a bonus,” he told her. “For future reference, though, I take it black, so all the rest isn’t really necessary.”
She blinked, looking at him as though he’d said he wasn’t actually British, it was all just a cruel hoax.
“Then why do you have a full tea service in the kitchenette? I bought all of this specifically so you could have tea just the way you like it and wouldn’t be disappointed.”
He bit back a grin, but had the dignity to flush at her chastisement. “Truthfully, it came that way, as a set. My mother has used a full tea service from the time I was a lad, so I
“Good morning,” he returned without inflection, studiously avoiding eye contact while he reached for the morning’s post on the corner of her desk and flipped through.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“No, thank you.”
Her smile slipped, uncertainty skating like clouds across the sky-blue of her eyes.
Nigel blew out a breath. He was being a bleeding sod, and he knew it. It wasn’t her fault that he’d gotten very little sleep and woken up about ten feet to the left of the wrong side of the bed.
“I would love a cup of tea, though,” he said in a much kinder voice.
She nodded quickly and rose, going around him and her desk to the small pantry that was tucked away at the far side of the reception area.
He watched her cross the expanse, her long legs eating up the space in record time. The slant of her three-inch, open-toed shoes made those legs look even longer, more taut. And her skirt—which turned out to be short and black—encased her buttocks like a second skin.
Not exactly conducive to quelling his arousal. The only thing that might help with that was distance. And possibly being struck blind.
Since the latter wasn’t likely to occur in the next few minutes, he opted for the former. Taking the stack of envelopes with him, he moved into his office and took a seat behind his desk.
He’d just logged on to check his email when Lillian appeared carrying a full tea service—the one he’d ordered when he’d first come to work in the States, but hadn’t seen hide nor hair of since. When he’d requested a cup of tea from his previous assistants, they’d all brought him a big, clunky ceramic mug with a nondescript tea bag bobbing in a pool of lukewarm water.
Nigel sat back, waiting while she set the tray on the edge of his desk and proceeded to pour already steeped tea from a china pot into a china cup. Through a stainless-steel strainer and complete with matching saucer, no less.
“This is a surprise,” he said.
She raised her head, meeting his gaze. The question was there in her eyes.
“I was expecting something much simpler,” he explained. “Aren’t you Americans fond of tea that comes in bags?”
“We are,” she answered. “Very. Probably because it’s a lot easier than all of this.” She waved a hand to encompass the tray and its accoutrements. “But I’ve heard you Brits are much more particular about your tea. And that you don’t think we Americans could brew a decent cup to save our lives.”
His lips quirked with the urge to grin. “We sound like a demanding lot with sticks up our bums.”
Lillian chuckled, returning her attention to the tea service. “You said it, I didn’t,” she replied, handing him the cup and saucer.
“To be safe, I went online and researched how to make a cup of true English tea. I make absolutely no promises that I’ve done it right, but I do hope you’ll at least give me points for trying.”
Gesturing to the other items on the tray, she said, “Milk, sugar and lemon.”
The real thing, he noticed. Milk—not cream, which so many Americans assumed should be added just because they used it in their coffee—the sugar cubed and the lemon cut into wedges.
“I wasn’t sure which, if any, you preferred.”
“If this tastes as good as it looks, I may even give you a bonus,” he told her. “For future reference, though, I take it black, so all the rest isn’t really necessary.”
She blinked, looking at him as though he’d said he wasn’t actually British, it was all just a cruel hoax.
“Then why do you have a full tea service in the kitchenette? I bought all of this specifically so you could have tea just the way you like it and wouldn’t be disappointed.”
He bit back a grin, but had the dignity to flush at her chastisement. “Truthfully, it came that way, as a set. My mother has used a full tea service from the time I was a lad, so I
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