A Bride Worth Waiting For. Caroline Anderson

started to weep again.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘GOOD morning.’

      She looked up, and for a second her heart stopped.

      And then he moved, stepped forwards into the room, and as the light hit his face Annie felt the stupid, foolish hope drain away and her heart started again.

      She picked up a tea towel, drying her hands for something to do that didn’t involve anything fragile like crockery. Crazy. For a moment there—but it was silly. It was just because she’d been thinking about him—

      ‘You OK?’ he asked, his voice low and rough and strangely sensuous. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

      She nearly laughed aloud, and dragged her eyes from the battered, lived-in face in front of her, staring down in bewilderment at her shaking hands. Lord, she should have stopped doing this after all these years, clutching at straws, seeing him in any random stranger, but there was just something—

      ‘Sorry. You reminded me of someone. Can I get you anything?’

      He shook his head. ‘You must be Annie Miller. I’m Michael Harding—your landlord. It’s good to meet you. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.’

      He held out his hand, and she dropped the tea towel and reached over the cakes and placed her hand briefly in his warm, strong grasp—a grasp that was somehow safe and solid and utterly reassuring.

      She fought the urge to leave her hand there—probably for ever—and tried to remember how to talk.

      ‘That’s OK, I know you’re busy. Ruth said you’d be coming over,’ she told him, her voice unaccountably breathless. She retrieved her hand and found a smile from somewhere, and his lips tilted in answer, a crooked, distorted smile, one corner of his mouth strangely reluctant. It should have made him ugly, but it didn’t, something about the eyes and firm, sculpted lips devastatingly attractive—

      ‘Any chance of getting a few quiet minutes with you this morning so we can talk?’ he was asking, his soft and yet rough voice doing something weird to her insides. She forced herself to concentrate on his words, and found herself suddenly nervous. Was this it? Was he going to give her notice? Planning to sell up or hike her rent out of reach?

      She schooled her voice and her expression, trying to quell the panic. ‘It’s quiet now that the breakfast crowd have gone. Will this do?’

      ‘Sure. I’d just like to chat, really—have a look round, see it with my own eyes. I haven’t been here for years, but Ruth tells me you’ve done a good job. I gather it’s very successful. I just wanted to make sure you’re happy with everything.’

      She felt the tension ease a fraction and wondered if she was being too trusting. Probably. It was her greatest fault.

      ‘Help yourself, it won’t take you long to see it all—the cloakroom’s through that door at the back, and the store’s out there too, and the kitchen you can see.’

      He looked at it over the counter and nodded. ‘Nice, having it in the middle like this. Friendly.’

      ‘That was one of the things Liz and I insisted on, having the preparation area right in the middle of this long wall. It makes it relaxed and approachable, a bit like sitting in someone’s kitchen while they cook for you. And you can see everything—there are no nasty surprises, no dirty corners. You know exactly what conditions your food’s being prepared under, and people like that. We thought it was a good idea.’

      He nodded. ‘It’s good. Low key, easy. Relaxed. I like it. Who’s Liz?’

      ‘Oh—the founder, really. She was my late husband’s first wife. She was lovely.’

      ‘Was?’

      ‘She died nine years ago, just after she set it up.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and for some reason it didn’t seem like a platitude. He didn’t dwell, though, but moved on, his eyes taking everything in, and she followed him, answering questions, smiling as necessary and wondering what he’d think of her housekeeping.

      He went into the store, looked round, checked out the loo, then turned, almost on top of her, and her heart hitched.

      ‘It is small, isn’t it?’ he said, far too close for comfort and trampling all over her common sense.

      Ruth was right. He was broodingly sexy. Very. She backed away, reversing into a table. ‘Intimate.’

      ‘It’s tiny,’ he said, with a lopsided grin that made her heart lurch again.

      ‘Small but perfectly formed,’ she quipped, and his eyes flicked over her and returned to her face.

      ‘Absolutely,’ he murmured, and she stared into those gorgeous blue eyes and felt herself colour. Heavens. How could he not have been Ruth’s type? He’d be any woman’s type if she had a pulse—

      She turned away abruptly. ‘Coffee?’ she said, her voice scratchy and a little high, and behind her she heard him clear his throat softly, more of a grunt than a cough, as if he was reining back, distancing himself from the suddenly intimate moment.

      ‘That would be lovely.’

      So she poured two mugs of coffee and set them down on opposite sides of the round table by the window at the front, where she could see her regulars coming and get their orders under-way.

      She took the chair closest to the kitchen area. ‘I gather from Ruth that you want to refurbish the place,’ she said, meeting those dazzling eyes head-on with a challenge, and he nodded.

      ‘I do. It’s looking a bit sad. I hadn’t really registered—Ruth’s been too uncomplaining, and so have you. The flat needs a new kitchen and bathroom, and with the antique shop empty I was thinking maybe we could do something more with this place—give you a little more room as well as freshening it up a little. If you want?’

      ‘How much room?’ she asked, trying to concentrate on the overheads and not his face. ‘I can’t really afford to pay much more.’

      He shrugged, his lips pursing, one side reluctant. ‘As much as you need. You could take all of it.’

      She shook her head. ‘The stairs would be in the way. I wouldn’t like it divided into two—it wouldn’t feel the same. And anyway, the kitchen’s not big enough for all those tables. If you’re offering bits of the place, I’d rather have the garden.’

      He chuckled. ‘How did I know that was coming?’

      He peeled back the lid on the coffee creamer and tipped it in, stirring it with deliberation, and it gave her a moment to study him openly.

      His hair was short and dark, the temples threaded with grey. She wondered how old he was. Forty? Forty-five? More, maybe, or less, but it seemed irrelevant. Whatever, he was very attractive in a very masculine and hard-edged way.

      It was odd that he was so attractive, really, because his face wasn’t classically handsome, by any means. There was something peculiar about it, she decided. Irregular. The jaw wasn’t quite symmetrical, the left side of it etched with fine scars that carved white lines in the shadow of his stubble. His chin was a little crooked, his teeth not quite straight.

      And yet it was an attractive face for all that. Interesting. She’d love to know the story behind it, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask.

      Not yet, anyway. Maybe later, when she knew him better—and now she really had lost it! He was her landlord. This was their first meeting in seven years. Once the refurb was finished it would probably be another seven before she saw him again, and at that rate they’d both be dead before she knew him well enough to ask—

      ‘Penny for them.’

      She shook her head. No way! ‘Nothing,’ she denied. ‘I was compiling