Marry Me: The Proposal Plan / Single Dad, Nurse Bride / Millionaire in Command. Lynne Marshall

now here they stood, virtual strangers.

      ‘Must be a reason for you to visit,’ he said. ‘All this time. Why now?’

      He could still read her like an open book, she realised. She’d never been able to keep secrets from him. Goosebumps prickled on her arms. He made no move to invite her in and she was glad.

      ‘I’m thinking of getting married,’ she blurted out suddenly, before she even knew what she was going to say.

      He nodded slowly, holding her gaze the entire time with the sharp eyes, green just like her own, and a sarcastic grin spread across his face. ‘You want my blessing?’ He gave a dry chuckle.

      She took a nervous step backwards. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t need your blessing. I just…’ She paused and looked at him closely. The grin was gone. The face was lined and old; tiny broken vessels from the heavy drinking reddened his nose and cheeks. The man was a shell of the person he once was. She realised her overwhelming feeling at that moment was pity for him. He certainly couldn’t hurt her or scare her any more. ‘I just thought you should know,’ she finished.

      His face softened almost imperceptibly and he nodded. ‘I’m pleased for you.’ His voice sounded gruff and he rummaged in his shirt pocket with his fingers. Removing his cigarettes, he lit one and, leaning against the door jamb, squinted at her through the smoke. ‘What’s he like, then, our Lucinda? Is he good enough for you?’

      She felt the back of her throat tingle suddenly and tears pricked at her eyes. Despite all that had happened he was still her father. And however he felt about her, however many years had gone by, he’d cared enough to ask. She swallowed hard to make the tears go away.

      ‘Yes, Dad, he’s a good man. He makes me happy,’ she managed.

      He drew hard on his cigarette and nodded firmly. ‘You hang onto him, then. Tell him your old man says he’d better look out for you.’

      She smiled suddenly at him and a smile touched his lips in return. She was glad she’d come after all. For the first time she felt she had control over a conversation with him. What could he say or do now that would hurt her? She was an adult now, not a scared kid any more. She had her own life, with no need of him in it. The balance of power had shifted while she’d been away and she could choose the terms on which she let him back in, if she did at all.

      ‘How are you, Dad?’ she ventured, more confidently. ‘How’s work?’

      ‘I get by.’ He shifted a little awkwardly. ‘I’d invite you in, but I only rent a room here. It’s difficult…’

      She didn’t mind. A few minutes was quite enough for today anyway. She had plenty to think about. It had been a big enough step just coming here and speaking to him.

      ‘Maybe next time. I have to get a move on anyway.’ She nodded towards the taxi waiting on the opposite side of the road. ‘It’s only a flying visit.’

      He sighed and nodded. ‘It’s good to see you, Lucinda.’ The green eyes were serious this time and she held his gaze. He seemed weaker, somehow. Smaller. The terrifying presence she remembered so vividly from her childhood was gone.

      ‘You, too, Dad. I’ll be in touch.’ She smiled at him one more time and then made a move towards the taxi. Halfway across the road he called to her and she turned back.

      ‘You couldn’t lend me some money, could you, love?’

      Exasperated, she walked back towards him, rummaging in her bag for her purse. And it was then that it dawned on her that he hadn’t really changed at all. He hadn’t moved on. She had.

      Gabriel parked the Aston Martin in the square opposite Lucy’s bakery and got out. Darkness was falling quickly and the streetlamps were already on, casting a golden glow. Standing hesitantly by the car, he questioned himself for a moment. So she hadn’t rung him back since they’d argued—so what? But then when he’d eventually become impatient enough to call Ed, he’d mentioned in passing that she’d gone to Birmingham to visit someone. That had rung alarm bells with Gabriel, although he was initially unable to put his finger on the reason why. Then eventually it had come to him.

       Lucy at the dinner table with his parents. ‘My father’s in Birmingham. A friend offered him a job…’

      How well he knew her. Almost well enough to have a stab at reading her thoughts? Perhaps she was still just angry with him and wanted space. Or perhaps she’d been to see her father.

      Locking the car, he strode decisively across the square. The shop, with its sign ‘Have Your Cake…’ depicted retro style in icing-sugar pink on a pistachio green backdrop, was closed, just as he would have expected at this time of day. But he knew her better than anyone.

      A couple of passers-by glanced curiously at the tall man pressing his hands against the cold glass of the cake shop window. Gabriel was oblivious to them. Shading his eyes, he could see nothing but the faint outline of the empty display cabinets and the counter. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to the dark, there at the back he saw a chink of light around the door that led to the back of the premises. To the kitchen, where the big ovens were, and the worktops where the cakes and pastries were made. He was right. She was here.

      Feeling triumphant at how well he knew her, he left the shop front and felt his way down the narrow alley at the side to the back entrance, his fingertips trailing along the rough sand-papery bricks as he felt his way along in the semi-darkness. Light streamed from the window at the back of the shop and he saw her rusty old Mini car parked up tightly against the wall.

      Trying the door, he was surprised when it opened easily, immediately assaulting his senses with the warm delicious smell of baking. He felt a burst of exasperation that she’d left the door unlocked. How many times had he harped on about personal safety to her?

      ‘Lucy!’ he shouted as he walked in, so as not to alarm her. There was no reply, so he continued along the short passageway to the kitchen, and then, rounding the corner, he took a deep breath as he saw her.

      Her unruly hair was caught up roughly out of her face with a pencil stuck through it; a smudge of flour crossed her cheek. She was adding drops of a bright green liquid to a huge billowing white mound of something cake-looking on the counter in front of her. Her face was paler than ever, no sign of any colour on the high cheekbones. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes. But he didn’t miss the fact that her mouth had a determined set to it.

      ‘Lucy,’ he said again, loudly enough that she couldn’t fail to hear him. There were batches of cakes and pastries on every surface. God knew how long she’d been here.

      ‘I’m busy.’ She didn’t even bother to look up, simply whisking the green liquid into the white gloop, watching it streak.

      He grimaced involuntarily. ‘What the hell is that?’

      ‘A bit like a meringue,’ she said, looking at it appraisingly. And then, glancing up at him, ‘I’m experimenting with some funky macaroons.’

      ‘Looks like you’ve liquidised a frog.’

      A second glance up at him. And the faint glimmer of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. His heart twisted as he noticed how tired she looked. He ached to just grab her and sweep her into a hug and he clenched his fists in a supreme effort to stop himself doing just that. He needed to talk to her first. To apologise. To make it right.

      ‘Lucy, I’m sorry,’ he said. When she didn’t look up, he walked over to her. Putting an arm around her, he firmly removed the spatula from her hand and cast it onto the worktop next to the ghastly blob of green stuff. She still didn’t speak but she made no move to stop him as he propelled her over to a chair. Pushing her to sit down, he knelt down in front of her and took both of her cold hands in his. They were sticky from the cake mixture.

      He looked deeply into her clear green eyes. ‘I had no right to talk to you like that about your parents.’ He searched her face for some response. ‘After everything they put you through, I don’t