I glanced up at him and he grinned and then slipped out of the room.
Beck was Matt’s opposite. Matt had never been afraid of commitment. He’d always envisaged his life with a wife and children. I wasn’t sure if it was because we’d met so young, but neither of us had needed to get used to coupledom. We’d wanted to be together, wanted to hear about each other’s day.
Trying to get Beck to act like a man in love—a man more like Matt—was going to require some work.
Twelve
Beck
Figuring out women had never been a priority for me. But this was business, and although I wasn’t good at relationships, I was good at business. I’d done a little digging and found examples of Stella’s design work—she clearly had the training she said she did and although her clients were a little different to mine, it was still obvious she’d injected some individuality into each project. But then her flat was stuffed to the brim with a hotchpotch of old stuff that didn’t seem to belong together.
“Are we heading over to your place now?” she asked. “So I can root through your stuff and make silent judgements?”
I laughed. She was irreverent and funny but somehow managed to hit the nail on the head. “We’re not going back to mine, but I’m happy for your judgement of me to be completely out in the open,” I said, clicking down on my key fob, the lights of the Lamborghini flashing as the doors unlocked.
She groaned. “Really? This is your car?”
“Is that a problem?” I asked, opening the door for her and then rounding the bonnet before getting in the drivers’ side.
“It’s just a little . . . obvious,” she said as I sat.
“And what you mean by obvious is new money.” I didn’t exactly snap but at the same time, I wished I hadn’t mentioned it. Joshua and Dexter were always ribbing me about this car. But I liked it. What was the point in having money unless you enjoyed yourself a little with it?
“I suppose—not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Fast cars are fun. If that’s obvious, I’ll take it.” I pulled out into almost-stationary traffic. If we weren’t in central London, I could show her just how fun cars like this could be. My money might not have been given to me by my father, but it was as good as the inherited stuff.
“I never got the car thing, but each to their own. So where are we going if not back to your place?”
“I don’t know. What do you like to do at the weekend?”
She let out a breath, which I’d figured out she did to give herself more time to answer. “I usually end up working, or I’m so knackered from work that I lie in bed, waiting for death.” She grinned at me.
She was funny. Like one of the guys. “Level with me about the recruitment consultancy thing. Why are you in a job you clearly don’t like when you used to do something you’re obviously passionate about?”
She leaned forward and began to fiddle with the air-con. “That’s not part of the introductory course. It’s the advanced curriculum. And anyway, you’ve heard a lot about me, and you’ve been in my flat twice now. I don’t know if you live in a tumble-down bedsit in Croydon or a Georgian townhouse in Belgravia.”
I laughed, happy to move on from talk of her job, even though I was curious about how she’d ended up where she had. I was confident I’d get her to tell me sooner or later. “I live in Mayfair, of course.”
“Of course,” she mumbled. “Mr. Mayfair. How could I forget?”
“So, when you’re not lying in bed, waiting for death, what do you like to do in London?”
“Eat?” she offered as if it was more of a question than an answer. “Especially at the weekend. Take the papers, settle into lunch. With a strictly no-talking policy.”
“Well, we can do food but I’m banning papers. We need to talk or I’m going to have to deal with you having a meltdown because you don’t feel prepared enough.”
“It’s like you’ve known me a thousand years already. But seriously, maybe we should just accept that this situation is impossible, shake hands, and move on with our lives. If Karen figures out we’re not really dating . . . I think I’d have to emigrate to avoid the shame.”
“There will be no emigrating. And no giving up. We have a deal.” I didn’t understand why she needed to have a boyfriend for this wedding in the first place, but if it meant she’d take me then I was up for it. “Do I have to remind you that you really want to be the designer on my new building—when are you going to get an opportunity like that again?” I didn’t mention the antique chest in her bedroom that didn’t seem to go with anything, or the weird Chesterfield sofa in her living room that looked like it belonged in some stuffy, men-only, private members lunch club. Perhaps they were hand-me-downs and she couldn’t afford anything else. I tried to focus on the work she’d previously done and ignore the fear that any talent she had for interior design was purely in her imagination. I’d cross that particular bridge when I came to it.
“And another thing. You lie in bed at the weekends waiting for death.” I chuckled at
the over-dramatic description of her mood. “This will shake things up a little, make life a little more interesting. Give you a new challenge.”
“And if I fail . . .” She trailed off. The hopelessness in her eyes suggested there was more to her story than what she’d told me.
“Do me a favor?” I asked. She had to stop thinking she was being forced to do this. It was her choice.