Welcome to Mills & Boon. Jennifer Rae

when you already planned it. Or your PA did.’

      ‘It’s a surprise to both of us that way,’ Flynn pointed out.

      Helena rolled her eyes. ‘I really don’t think you understand spontaneity.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter now anyway,’ Flynn said, taking the phone from her and tucking it in his top pocket as the car slowed to a stop. ‘We’re here.’

      She’d known she wasn’t getting that phone back.

      The driver opened her car door and Helena stepped out into the sunshine again, her head a little heavy from the drive and the wine-tasting. The trattoria they’d arrived at looked almost like someone’s house, with its beautiful window boxes overflowing with flowers and the painted shutters thrown open. Helena spun slowly around to take in the view; nothing but fields and sunshine for miles, and the glint of a village a few miles down the road.

      ‘You like it?’ Flynn asked. He’d put on his sunglasses and Helena wished she could see his eyes. Surely even he had to admire the romance of a place like this.

      ‘It’s beautiful.’ This was the sort of place she could imagine living—or at least designing. Nothing quite as grand as the villa they’d borrowed for the wedding, but cosy and homely and filled with good food and red flowers. It wasn’t just beautiful; it was perfect.

      ‘Then let’s go in.’ Flynn held his hand out to her and, after staring at it for a moment, Helena took it. She couldn’t help but wonder, though, if it was a planned or spontaneous gesture. Either way, his hand felt warm and right in hers, so she decided not to ask.

      Inside, parts of the restaurant’s stone walls had been left bare, while others had been plastered and painted a creamy white that reflected the sunlight. Helena smiled at the happy mix of rustic and modern, finished with bright blooms in hand-blown glass vases, crisp table linen and an oversized clock hanging over the stone fireplace.

      It was almost exactly how she’d have chosen to decorate it, given the chance.

      They were shown to their table by an olive-skinned Italian girl in a neat black and white uniform. It wasn’t a huge place—the ground floor had been mostly knocked through to make a large dining area, with the kitchen added on at the back of the house, as far as Helena could tell. Still, the fact that almost every other table was already occupied, considering such an out of the way location, gave Helena great hopes for the quality of the food. Despite the bread and antipasti she’d enjoyed at Gia’s vineyard, her stomach started to rumble.

      ‘What are you in the mood for?’ Flynn asked as Helena cracked open the menu.

      ‘Everything,’ she answered, feasting on the lists of dishes printed on creamy paper in front of her. There was just the right amount of choice, she decided. Not too much, or it became impossible to decide, but enough that she felt she could consider each dish individually before picking her absolute favourite.

      Flynn laughed. ‘You like food, don’t you?’

      ‘Who doesn’t?’ The only question was: did she feel in the mood for meat or fish? And should they have a separate pasta course or just starters and mains? She reached for an olive from the bowl on the table between them to help her think. ‘Everyone needs to eat.’

      ‘Yes, but for some people it’s just fuel. You really enjoy it.’

      Helena glanced up to find his gaze settled on her, as if she were something to be studied, catalogued and understood. It was unnerving. But then, didn’t she want to do the same to him? Understand where he came from, and where they were going? Maybe Flynn’s thoughts had followed a similar thread, in which case the rest of the meal might go easier than she’d expected.

      Closing the menu—she was settled on the porcetta anyway—Helena returned Flynn’s interested gaze.

      ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Do you cook? Or do you survive on takeaway Chinese like Thea when she’s working?’

      ‘I cook.’ Flynn settled back in his chair. He hadn’t even looked at the menu, she realised. ‘Not often, but I can when the mood strikes me. I like eating fresh.’

      ‘Me too. Fresh and in season always tastes better than pre-packaged.’ She flashed him a grin. ‘So, we do have some things in common, then. That’s good.’

      ‘It is,’ Flynn agreed. ‘But really, given our families, I never doubted we’d find some common ground.’

      Helena gave a slight shrug. ‘I don’t know. I never really felt like a typical Morrison, not like Thea. I mean, I didn’t go into the family business or anything.’

      ‘No, but you grew up with the same expectations and weight of that family name,’ Flynn said, more insightfully than she’d expected.

      ‘And you grew up with those of the Ashton name.’

      ‘Not really.’

      A waiter approached before she could ask him to elaborate. Flynn ordered them wine, then asked for recommendations for food and ordered them without ever opening the menu, which Helena respected. For herself, she took the suggestion of risotto alla Milanese to start, but stuck with her porcetta for the main course.

      As soon as the waiter had cleared the table, though, Helena pressed the point. ‘What do you mean—not really?’

      ‘Hmm?’ Flynn had his phone out of his pocket again, but placed it face down on the table when she spoke.

      ‘You said “not really” when I talked about you growing up with the expectations of the Ashton name. What did you mean?’

      Flynn shrugged. ‘Just the obvious. I’m not a real Ashton.’

      ‘Of course you are! I mean, I know your father...’ She trailed off. How exactly could she describe the way Ezekiel Ashton treated his sons? ‘I know he wasn’t always exactly even-handed with you and Zeke.’

      ‘You mean he played us off against each other.’ Flynn’s voice was still even, but he stabbed at the nearest olive rather forcefully with the little stick. ‘I know exactly why he gave me the job that was always promised to Zeke when I graduated. He wanted Zeke to have to fight me for it.’

      ‘Except Zeke left instead.’

      ‘And I stayed.’ Another olive suffered a violent and pointy end.

      ‘Why?’ She’d wondered before, of course. Not originally, but ever since Zeke came back. She’d never got the full story, although she suspected Thea had. But either way, what had happened between Zeke and their father had influenced Flynn’s life hugely. If she wanted to understand her husband, she had to understand that.

      Flynn paused, a poor, defenceless olive halfway to his mouth. ‘Where else would I go?’

      ‘Anywhere, I suppose. Zeke did.’

      ‘No. I...owed my father. Whatever else he did, and whatever his reasons, he took me in and gave me a home and a future when my real parents offered me neither.’ A chill settled around Helena’s heart at his words. ‘I always knew that my place would be working at Morrison-Ashton, wherever I could be of most use.’

      ‘You don’t...’ Helena swallowed, imagining a younger version of Flynn, always so neat and sensible and kind. Was it all because of a sense of debt? Had his adoption really coloured his whole life that way?

      Had her daughter’s?

      And how would Flynn react when he found out about her past?

      ‘You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your own life and happiness to the company, though,’ she managed in the end. ‘Wasn’t there ever anything else you wanted to do?’

      Flynn shrugged. ‘I never really considered it.’

      ‘That’s...that’s awful.’

      With a gentle smile, Flynn shook his head. ‘Not