her eyes. She’d have to do a major repair job if he did agree to meet, otherwise he’d run screaming in the other direction. She looked more lunatic than club founder.
See you there.
The response came within seconds, and Clare glanced at the clock. Yikes, she’d best get cracking.It was amazing they’d arranged a time to meet so quickly, Clare thought as she hurried into the bedroom. In her experience, finding a free night with a mutual Londoner required effort equivalent to building the Pyramids. It’d taken her and Edward forever to co-ordinate their schedules in the beginning! But the longer they’d been together, the easier it had become. Their lives had just fallen into sync. A tiny dart of sadness pinged her heart—what would he be doing right now? Probably still sleeping. He’d never been one for early mornings, always grumbling and grunting until she forced him from the bed.
Reaching into the wardrobe, Clare selected her favourite pair of skinny jeans and a turquoise jumper—her usual day-off uniform. A smile nudged her lips as she recalled how Ellie had persuaded her to buy the trousers, saying she must be the only person in the world still wearing boot cut. She’d whistled as Clare pivoted in front of the mirror, commenting how the garment made her look like she had ‘junk in the trunk’. God knows where her friend had picked up that one! Sighing, Clare pulled the jeans over her hips. She missed doing things with Ellie; it had been ages since the two of them had an outing lasting longer than a brief coffee.
Eek, there was a little too much junk in the trunk right now, Clare thought, straining to do up the button. She felt bloated, as if someone was attempting to blow up her abdomen from the inside out. Probably PMS, she sighed, tugging a jumper over her head. It’d been a while since her last period and she must be due on any day now.
Was this all right? Her brow furrowed as she examined her reflection . Don’t be silly, she told herself. It’s not a date. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a little nervous. She was out of practice meeting men—before Edward, she’d been on a blind date every couple of weeks. She had it down to a fine art: quick check in the mirror , quick drink at a nearby pub, and more often than not, quick getaway . Usually, she was in and out in less than thirty minutes, and by the time she was home, the date was far from her mind.
Clare tugged her hair into a ponytail, slicked on mascara and lip gloss, grabbed her bag, and was out the door. No matter what this man turned out to be like, she could murder a cup of coffee right now.
Outside, the early morning sky was dark, and Fulham Road was free from its usual traffic. As she walked to Carluccio’s, she wondered if Nicholas was already there. The worst thing about blind dates was trying to figure out who the guy actually was. More than once she’d approached the wrong man—not that it was difficult to do, given how fuzzy some of the photos were! One elderly bloke had actually sent a picture of his thirty-year-old son, pretending to be him.
Oh, there he was. Even with his blond head bent over an iPad, Clare could tell straight away it was Nicholas. She smoothed her hair and scurried towards him.
‘Hi, there,’ she said, hovering awkwardly over his table.
He glanced up, lips lifting in a friendly smile. God, his teeth were white, Clare thought as he got to his feet. ‘You must be Clare,’ he said. ‘Lovely to meet you. Have a seat.’ He gestured to the padded banquette across from him.
‘Nice to meet you.’ Clare slid onto the bench, but not before noting how tall Nicholas was. Edward had been only an inch or so taller than her—she’d had to be careful her heels weren’t too high whenever they’d gone out. ‘You were up early this morning! It’s good to meet someone else who can’t sleep in on weekends.’
Nicholas nodded. ‘I’m a TV producer for Wake Up London , and we have to be at the
See you there.
The response came within seconds, and Clare glanced at the clock. Yikes, she’d best get cracking.It was amazing they’d arranged a time to meet so quickly, Clare thought as she hurried into the bedroom. In her experience, finding a free night with a mutual Londoner required effort equivalent to building the Pyramids. It’d taken her and Edward forever to co-ordinate their schedules in the beginning! But the longer they’d been together, the easier it had become. Their lives had just fallen into sync. A tiny dart of sadness pinged her heart—what would he be doing right now? Probably still sleeping. He’d never been one for early mornings, always grumbling and grunting until she forced him from the bed.
Reaching into the wardrobe, Clare selected her favourite pair of skinny jeans and a turquoise jumper—her usual day-off uniform. A smile nudged her lips as she recalled how Ellie had persuaded her to buy the trousers, saying she must be the only person in the world still wearing boot cut. She’d whistled as Clare pivoted in front of the mirror, commenting how the garment made her look like she had ‘junk in the trunk’. God knows where her friend had picked up that one! Sighing, Clare pulled the jeans over her hips. She missed doing things with Ellie; it had been ages since the two of them had an outing lasting longer than a brief coffee.
Eek, there was a little too much junk in the trunk right now, Clare thought, straining to do up the button. She felt bloated, as if someone was attempting to blow up her abdomen from the inside out. Probably PMS, she sighed, tugging a jumper over her head. It’d been a while since her last period and she must be due on any day now.
Was this all right? Her brow furrowed as she examined her reflection . Don’t be silly, she told herself. It’s not a date. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a little nervous. She was out of practice meeting men—before Edward, she’d been on a blind date every couple of weeks. She had it down to a fine art: quick check in the mirror , quick drink at a nearby pub, and more often than not, quick getaway . Usually, she was in and out in less than thirty minutes, and by the time she was home, the date was far from her mind.
Clare tugged her hair into a ponytail, slicked on mascara and lip gloss, grabbed her bag, and was out the door. No matter what this man turned out to be like, she could murder a cup of coffee right now.
Outside, the early morning sky was dark, and Fulham Road was free from its usual traffic. As she walked to Carluccio’s, she wondered if Nicholas was already there. The worst thing about blind dates was trying to figure out who the guy actually was. More than once she’d approached the wrong man—not that it was difficult to do, given how fuzzy some of the photos were! One elderly bloke had actually sent a picture of his thirty-year-old son, pretending to be him.
Oh, there he was. Even with his blond head bent over an iPad, Clare could tell straight away it was Nicholas. She smoothed her hair and scurried towards him.
‘Hi, there,’ she said, hovering awkwardly over his table.
He glanced up, lips lifting in a friendly smile. God, his teeth were white, Clare thought as he got to his feet. ‘You must be Clare,’ he said. ‘Lovely to meet you. Have a seat.’ He gestured to the padded banquette across from him.
‘Nice to meet you.’ Clare slid onto the bench, but not before noting how tall Nicholas was. Edward had been only an inch or so taller than her—she’d had to be careful her heels weren’t too high whenever they’d gone out. ‘You were up early this morning! It’s good to meet someone else who can’t sleep in on weekends.’
Nicholas nodded. ‘I’m a TV producer for Wake Up London , and we have to be at the
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