Holiday With The Best Man. Kate Hardy

swallowed back the threatening tears and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘OK. No more tears, I promise. But thank you. I owe you.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      ONCE THE RESTORATION man had finished getting rid of the worst of the water and Grace had locked the flat, she programmed Roland’s address into her satnav in case she got stuck in traffic and lost both him and the van on the way, then followed him back to his house—which turned out to be in a swish part of Docklands. Once she’d parked behind his car, outside what looked like a development of an old maltings, Roland and the van driver helped her transfer her things from their cars and the van to his garage.

      ‘Everything will be safe here for tonight,’ he said when they’d finished.

      ‘And dry,’ Grace added. ‘Thank you.’

      There was a row of shops on the ground floor of the building, and Grace assumed that Roland had a flat on one of the upper floors; to her surprise, she discovered that his house was at one end of the building. And when he showed her into the townhouse itself, she saw that the entire back of the house was a glass box extension. It was incredibly modern, but at the same time it didn’t feel out of place—and the views over the river were utterly amazing.

      ‘This place is incredible,’ she said.

      He looked pleased. ‘I like it.’

      ‘But—’ she gestured to the floor-to-ceiling windows ‘—no curtains? Don’t you worry about people peering in?’

      ‘I have a little bit of trickery instead. It’s much cleaner, design-wise. And I loathe frills and flounces—my idea of hell is those swags of fussy fabrics.’

      And those were just the kind of thing Grace had in mind for her own dream home—a pretty little Victorian terraced house, with sprigged flowery wallpaper and curtains to match, and lots of cushions in cosy armchairs.

      He flicked a switch and the glass became opaque, giving them complete privacy.

      ‘Very clever,’ she said. And although she would’ve preferred the kind of curtains he hated, she could understand what he liked about it. ‘Did you have an architect design this for you?’

      ‘That,’ Roland said, ‘would be me.’

      Grace stared at him in surprise. ‘You’re an architect?’

      He nodded. ‘I designed Hugh and Tarquin’s offices,’ he said, ‘and I had a hand in remodelling Hugh’s place so it’s soundproof—for the sake of his neighbours, if he gets up in the middle of the night and starts composing on the piano.’

      ‘This is amazing.’ She shook her head. ‘What an idiot I am. I thought you were some sort of builder, given that you had a plumber and a van.’

      He smiled. ‘You weren’t that far off. I’m in the building trade, and I was pretty hands-on with this place. I guess this was my prototype.’

      ‘How do you mean, prototype?’ she asked, not understanding.

      ‘My company makes eco-prefab buildings—either extensions or even the whole house. They’re all made off site, and they can be put up in a matter of days.’

      ‘You mean, like the ones you see on TV documentaries about people building their own houses or restoring old industrial buildings and turning them into homes?’ she asked.

      ‘They’ve been featured on that sort of programme, yes,’ he said.

      ‘That’s seriously impressive.’

      He inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘I enjoy it. Let me show you to the guest room.’

      Like the rest of the rooms she’d seen so far, the bedroom was very modern, simply furnished and with little on the walls. But, with one wall being pure glass, she supposed you wouldn’t need anything else to look at: not when you had a whole panorama of London life to look at. Water and people and lights and the sky.

      There was a king-sized bed with the headboard set in the middle of the back wall, a soft duvet and fluffy pillows. The bed linen was all white—very high maintenance, she thought. The en-suite bathroom was gorgeous, and was about six times the size of the bathroom in Bella’s flat; Grace still wasn’t quite used to thinking of Bella’s old place as her own flat.

      She took the bare minimum from her case—it seemed pointless to unpack everything just for one night, when tomorrow she’d be moving to a hotel or whatever alternative accommodation the insurance company offered—and hung her office clothes for the next day in the wardrobe so they wouldn’t be creased overnight. Just as she was about to go back downstairs in search of Roland, her phone rang; thankfully, it was the landlord, who’d spoken to the insurance company and could fill her in on what was happening next.

      * * *

      Roland was sitting at the kitchen table, checking his emails on his phone, when Grace walked into the kitchen, looking slightly shy.

      ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked.

      ‘No, thanks. I’m fine,’ she said. ‘The landlord just called me. He’s talked to the insurance company and they’re getting a loss assessor out to see the flat—and me—tomorrow morning at eleven.’

      She sounded a little unsure, he thought. ‘Is getting the time off work going to be a problem for you?’

      She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m temping at the moment—but if I explain the situation and make the hours up, I’m sure they’ll be fine about it.’

      He was surprised. ‘Temping? So you’re what, a PA?’

      ‘An accountant,’ she corrected.

      Which made it even more surprising that she didn’t have a permanent job. ‘How come you’re temping?’

      ‘It’s a long and boring story. It’s also why I’ve moved into Bella’s flat.’ She flapped a hand dismissively. ‘But it’s not because I’m a criminal or anything, so you don’t need to worry about that. I just made some decisions that made life a bit up in the air for me.’

      He wondered what those decisions had been. But she was being cagey about it, so he decided not to push it. It was none of his business, in any case. ‘You can keep your stuff here as long as you need to, so that isn’t a problem.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You must be hungry. I certainly am, so I was thinking of ordering us a takeaway.’

      ‘Which I’ll pay for,’ she said immediately.

      ‘Hardly. You’re my guest.’

      ‘You weren’t expecting me,’ she pointed out. ‘And I’d feel a lot happier if you let me pay. It’s the least I can do, considering how much you’ve done for me this evening.’

      He could see that she wasn’t going to budge on the issue. In her shoes, he’d feel the same way, so he decided to give in gracefully. ‘OK. Thank you.’

      ‘And I’m doing the washing up,’ she added.

      ‘There’s no need. I have a housekeeping service.’

      She scoffed. ‘I’m still not leaving a pile of dirty dishes next to the sink.’

      A princess would’ve taken a housekeeper for granted. Grace didn’t, and she clearly wasn’t playing a part. How on earth had he got her so wrong? ‘We’ll share the washing up,’ he said, feeling guilty about the way he’d misjudged her. ‘What do you like? Chinese? Pizza?’

      ‘Anything,’ she said.

      So she wasn’t fussy about food, either.

      And, given the way she was dressed...it was almost as if she was trying to blend in to her surroundings. Minimum fuss, minimum attention.

      Why would someone