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She wondered if Mick’s plane had landed yet. They were planning to meet for coffee at the Observatory later, after she’d indulged her Star Wars obsession with the afternoon asteroid show and before he had to be at his parents’ house for a pre-wedding dinner. She hadn’t seen him for several days, since she’d collapsed in a snoring heap on his lap, but they had talked on the phone twice. His mood had been significantly darker last night, presumably with the prospect of a family reunion looming in less than twenty-four hours.
In the interests of merry diversion, her brain continued to throw up any and all distractions it could muster, next causing her to wonder if she’d left enough cooked food in the fridge for Jeeves. He’d developed a nervous stomach condition that preferred expensive cuts of meats to cheap dog biscuits. She was not entirely convinced that it wasn’t psychosomatic, but doubting the validity of his complaints didn’t save the carpets. The pricey meals it was. Goodbye, any new clothes for autumn. Hopefully he wouldn’t do anything to disgrace himself in front of Melissa. Her cousin tended to be a fair-weather animal lover. The moment that bodily fluids or frenetic barking were involved, her admiration went out the window. They had both dropped her off at the airport late last night and Melissa had stood at the darkened glass windows with her, waiting for the boarding call and watching the Christmassy twinkle of lights on the runway.
Having mostly put Mick’s irritating hypothesis out of her head, she had still found herself venturing a tentative enquiry about Dale. Melissa had hooted at any suggestion that they might get back together.
“God, no,” she’d said dismissively. “Things are good. I can go entire days without wanting to throttle him. The delicate balance of our relationship depends upon our never, ever getting mutually naked again. Besides,” she’d added thoughtfully, “I get the feeling he’s interested in someone else.”
“Why do you think that?” Sophy had asked uneasily.
Damn Mick. He was determined to topple her lovely, uncomplicated life at every turn.
“I don’t know.” Melissa had wrinkled her nose. “He just has this expression sometimes. Like a lovesick sheep. Thank God he never looked at me like that. It’s revolting.”
She’d laughed, apparently unperturbed.
Sophy had not.
She still thought Mick was way off the mark about Dale’s perception of her, but she didn’t appreciate even the whispering suggestion of anything sexual. Now things were inevitably going to be tinged with awkward when she was around him. She was incapable of compartmentalising things like that.
A door opened and she looked up quickly, her nerves jumping, but her immediate neighbour, a grey-haired man with a walking stick and a battered copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, was called instead. She sighed, and then almost fell off her seat when a hand touched hers.
Mick lowered his tall frame into a chair that was far too low for him and eyed her askance.
“Sorry,” he said mildly. “But I did say your name three times.”
She stared at him wide-eyed, her palm pressed to her sternum to prevent her heart from actually making a stressed, suicidal leap from her chest.
Mick was leaning forward to look at her dangling feet, a smile breaking through the gravity of his appearance.
“Would you like to swap seats?” he asked, his voice carefully even. “That one looks a little…hard.”
Sophy entertained the offer for about three seconds, before deciding that the indignity would override any benefit of switching. And he was silently laughing at her, the git, so she didn’t feel particularly sorry that he would have to sit with his knees up around his chin.
“No, thank you,” she said primly. She was still watching him in surprise. “You came.”
His shoulders moved fractionally under the crisp blue of his shirt. She could see a slow, steady pulse beating in his throat. He had probably shaved early that morning before his flight, but the stubble was already a blue-black shadow around his jaw. Unlike her, he looked completely at ease in the environment of the courthouse. He also looked like the popular Hollywood conception of a drug dealer, which was earning him the side eye from the world’s most intimidating receptionist.
She was embarrassingly pleased to see him.
“I had the morning free,” he said laconically, “since I wasn’t planning to help decorate the church.”
Despite the dismissive words, his dark eyes were keen and evaluating as he studied her.
“How was your flight?” he asked.
“Turbulence over the Strait and the guy across the aisle looked like Hugh Jackman, so the flight attendant kept forgetting my coffee. Yours?”
“Uneventful.”
That was probably the most banal exchange they’d ever had. She suspected he was trying to distract her with the trivial.
“Sophia James?”
A man in a waistcoat and tie, actually wearing pince-nez like he was a solicitor in an Agatha Christie novel, had come into the waiting room and was looking up expectantly from an open file.
Mick stood and somehow managed to extract her from the depths of the chair in seconds while giving the impression of barely touching her. She admired the panache.
“It shouldn’t take long,” he said calmly. “I’ll wait for you here.”
