How to Win a Guy in 10 Dates

‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

‘Great, isn’t it? It isn’t mine, I told you before, I get it in return for pony exercising, and Grandma-sitting. It lets me be … ’

He cut in.

‘Let me guess – independent? Why does that not surprise me? Sounds like a good deal, though having met the horse in question, I’m not so sure. My shoulder’s still in recovery after he dragged me down the road this morning.’ He assessed the large open space again, this time being careful to avoid the pole area. Every surface was covered. ‘I take it someone ransacked the place whilst you were away?’

He couldn’t resist the jibe, if only to see how she came back at him, given the chaos.

‘Artist at work.’ She gave a sheepish shrug, apparently not offended. ‘I prioritise, and housework comes last every time. Plus I hold on to anything I might use for my work. I’d have cleared up if I’d known the Tidy Police were coming.’

Nice return. One to raise the eyebrows. Neat was okay, but Tidy Police? If this was getting to know your date, he wasn’t sure he liked it.

He’d made it to her work table now, and helped himself to a small patchwork box, by way of retaliation. ‘So this is what you make?’

‘Certainly is.’ She shuffled, more uncomfortable with the scrutiny than she was letting on, he guessed. ‘I specialise in collage – papering over the cracks.’ She shot him a grin. ‘At uni I did large scale pieces, but in terms of making a living it’s more commercial to do smaller items, and people love boxes. I’ve hit on an unexpected niche-market, for original pieces. Every one’s different.’

He nodded, examining the colourful surface, built up of cut and pasted images. ‘I’ve seen something like it before. Can’t remember where, though. I take it you sell them?’

‘To exclusive stores in London mostly. That one is part of a French Theme series I’m working on. I’m building up, turning my art into business, filling in with the dance thing too.’

‘Oh, the dancing.’ The dancing. Slip this in, casually, drop it and let it bounce. ‘So you’re a lap-dancer? A stripper? Let me guess – to supplement your income?’ He’d swung his head round, and was eyeballing the pole, as her loud guffaw slapped him in the face.

‘Typical man.’ She was laughing now, those lovely lips drawing back to reveal beautiful, even teeth. ‘You saw the pole, and assumed I’m a stripper? Sorry to disappoint you, but the pole’s just a great way to keep fit. I’m no way athletic enough to be a professional.’

Damn. He squeezed the disappointment out of his voice. ‘Not meaning to be nosey, but what’s with the corsets then?’

‘They’re for the dancing. I teach Burlesque.’

‘Ahhh, I see.’ He didn’t at all, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

‘Anyway, I thought you were taking me out? I haven’t got all night.’ She brushed back her hair, pushed a smile in his direction, presumably to sugar the impatience. ‘So what are we doing?’

‘A picnic!’ He took a deep breath, unsure how she was going to take it, what with her date reluctance and all that.

Thank Cassie for this one. No posh baskets and absolutely no champagne.

‘A picnic?’ She chewed her thumb, and then fixed him with those deep grey eyes until he wished she would stop. ‘That I can handle.’

***

‘So why the date?’

Millie held up her glass of bubbly, and nailed him with her stare. It was only the way she chewed on what had to be the fullest lip in the history of pouts that gave any indication that maybe she wasn’t as fearless as she made out.

This so wasn’t going how he’d planned. Not that he had an exact plan.

The rug by the river, the cava and the smoked salmon had gone down okay. But she was so much more challenging than he’d anticipated, questioning everything, screwing answers out of him. And she was jumpy as hell. No need for Cassie’s rules about sex and first dates. At this rate he’d be lucky to have scored by the last one. Memo to himself. More work needed in that department.

‘Why the date?’ Repeating the question showed he didn’t have a clue about the answer, and he didn’t. Not any answer he could give her.

‘Whatever the rights and wrongs, the blast caused your fall, and I wanted to make amends.’ He replied, aiming for plausible. ‘Aw, that’s nice.’ Her eyes crinkled into a smile, and she dipped a strawberry deep into the cream pot, and then bit into it. Showing off those delectable teeth. Again.

And that was it? Phew! An answer that wasn’t another question.

‘Yep, I’m really sorry about it.’ And this wasn’t faking, he really was.

‘I don’t think it was your fault.’ Another easy response.

Under normal circumstances this was where he’d have made a move. Slid his hand over hers, looked deep into her eyes, said ‘No hard feelings?’ and got straight in there. Hell, by now he’d more than likely have been chasing that strawberry down her throat, his hand heading up her dress, and he wouldn’t have found shorts up there either. But there was too much at stake here to move in too early and get blown off.

‘So how come you can afford jeans like those, working in a quarry? Or have you hit gold?’

And she was off again. It was hard work keeping up with her. ‘My sister’s seriously loaded husband gave me a taste for good jeans with his cast offs, and great jeans are worth the investment. Now and again.’ More ambiguity. He’d seriously underestimated how difficult he’d find the lying, and the whole pretence that he had no money. Darn careless of him to wear these particular jeans in the first place.

‘Very cool, but I think I preferred the one’s you wore yesterday.’ She spun him a wicked grin. ‘I liked the rips.’

Predictably contrary. And how did she know the price of these jeans anyway, given how ultra-exclusive they were?

‘These chocolate pots are scrummy, by the way. Where did you find them?’

Yet another question, fired as she sucked on a fingerful of dark chocolate mousse. Maybe Cassie had a point about him making bad choices with women. The Big Challenge. He’d ended up choosing a woman who couldn’t be further from his ideal type, who not only refused point blank to date, but who was also a nightmare to handle. If he was going to have any chance of success here he was going to have to raise his game, massively.

Or he could give up on Millie, and begin again, choose someone easier, more polished, more suited to his tastes and needs. That was the obvious option, the easy option, the sensible option. But as he watched her kneeling now, all strawberry stained lips, tangled hair, and voluptuous curves, he knew wasn’t going to give up. No way. Giving up was out of the question. He was going to raise his game, work out his strategy, and go for broke. Because the woman in front of him might be unsuitable, she might be crazy, reluctant, and jumpy; she could be everything he didn’t want in a woman, but he couldn’t give up on her yet – simply because he couldn’t bear to let her go before he’d tasted her again.

***

At lunchtime next day, Millie arrived back from the Country Club to find Ed’s Land Rover parked in the yard, and Ed sitting on her doorstep. Literally. Back against the door jamb, legs bent, jeans under a lot of pressure.

She grabbed a box from the car boot, and then walked towards him, blaming her suddenly feeble legs on the weight of the parcel.

‘And where have you been?’ As usual he was looking like a dream, as usual he was sounding indignant.

‘A private lesson with my Santa Baby client.’ She refused to ask him why he was here, and refused to let herself be pleased he was. ‘At current rate of progress she will be ready to perform her Christmas Gift Dance for Christmas in eighteen months time, not six.’

‘I’ve come to see how your head is, and ask if you’ve got any ketchup?’

She blinked. Sitting on her doorstep, and making random comments? ‘Head still there, or it was last time I looked, thanks, and ketchup in the cupboard. Large bottle. Why?’ Damn. Now she’d cracked, and asked.

‘I’ve brought fish and chips for lunch.’ He sprung to his feet, jumped towards the Land Rover, and returned with two packages and a grin that flipped her insides. ‘You need a balanced diet to aid recovery. I’m taking responsibility.’

‘Since when were fish and chips balanced?’ She stifled a smile, went in and dropped the parcel on the already over-burdened sofa, then led the way through the house and out into the sun-splashed back courtyard, grabbing ketchup and cans of coke as they passed. ‘They smell delicious, let’s be wicked.’

She gave herself a hard kick for saying that, but he was already settling in at the outdoor table, rolling open the parcels of food. He pushed one towards her as she arrived.

‘Pleased to see you’re wearing your superior jeans today.’ Saying that took her mind off his broad tanned hands, and the way the jeans in question sat so tantalisingly low and tight on his hips they made her stomach drop. All but took her appetite away.

‘I’m not here to talk about jeans.’ He picked up the ketchup, and put a neat blob by the side of his fish, then held the bottle out to her.