Husband Rollover (Husband Series Book 4) Read online

  Instead of being insulted, however, Rosie’s scarlet lips quirked into an almost smile. “Angela told me you were a straight shooter.”

  I gave her a look.

  “Okay, they told me you were embarrassingly frank.”

  “Is that why we’re talking in the ladies’ room?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea why, but you’re the first person I’ve admitted that to—that Dave is cheating on me.” We gazed at each other for a moment before she went on. “I came in here to distract myself from feeling sad about romantic dreams not coming true. But…” She shrugged. “You’re easy to talk to.”

  That deserved a hug so I pulled her in, but she was stiff and maybe surprised. “And you’re going to help me get laid,” I told her.

  She laughed at that and pulled out of my arms, blushing, which surprised me. I’d thought she was so cool that nothing would faze her. Clearly a girl-hug was outside her comfort zone which was a pity for her. If I hadn’t had girlfriends to hug, I’d have gone nuts way before now.

  “And how am I doing that?” she asked, repacking her tiny clutch purse.

  “Find me a slutty man and point me in his direction.”

  She laughed again. “Pimping. I see,” she said primly, but she opened the ladies’ room door and held it for me as I exited, managing to stay straight on my heels. “And what do I get in return?”

  “Dinner at Bohemian Brew.”

  It would be nice to get to know her better.

  “Ah,” she said, smiling. “You’re the manager, that’s right. Nice décor. I saw the YouTube video of Angela singing there with Noah Steele.”

  So had half the female population of the planet. When a hunky Aussie actor with that sort of Hollywood clout gets caught in an impromptu duet with a pretty young diva like Angela, women lap it up. “The two of them singing together was my idea,” I bragged shamelessly.

  “Good promo.” She nodded approvingly, then she glanced around the room, frowning in concentration.

  I followed her gaze, dismissing Angela’s three brothers out of hand. I’d grown up with the Patel boys, and even if they hadn’t been married, I wouldn’t sleep with any of them. They were bullies and I certainly didn’t want a reprise of the black eye I’d suffered last year from another bully—a low moment in my resume.

  “Hmmm. Not bad,” Rosie said softly, and a second later we both stepped out of the way so someone could pass us into the bathroom.

  “Where?” I followed her gaze as the next song kicked in—a slow nineties ballad, and Rosie leant in to whisper against my ear.

  “The crewcut.” Her perfume was subtle but sexy, and I had a moment of wondering what I smelt like? Not wine, I hoped. “Bridal table,” she added.

  I wanted to sigh in defeat. The groom’s brother Cal. I could only see him from the back, but I shook my head and said—probably too loudly, “Tried there. He’s too picky.”

  She frowned and turned back to me. “He hasn’t seen you like this.”

  I had to admit I did look different now. Sleeker. Maybe sexier. But, “I propositioned him and he turned me down flat—some shit about we barely know each other.”

  Rosie frowned in commiseration. “At least he was tactful.” She glanced back at him for moment, then whispered in my ear again. “You offered me gratuitous advice, so I’m returning the favor. Don’t proposition men. Just look sexy and wait for them to come to you.”

  I pulled back gave her a look. “Because I’m not desperate at all.”

  That made her bark a laugh, but before she could respond I felt a hand on my arm and Jill was pulling me away. “Bridesmaid conference,” she said apologetically to Rosie who waved us off.

  I let myself be tugged along, saying “Yes, boss,” which I knew annoyed Jill. She owned the café I managed, Bohemian Brew, courtesy of a stint of husband sitting which had also provided her own gorgeous husband Finn. But she wasn’t a bosses’ bootlace. She barely responded to the financials I sent her and was happiest if I made all the decisions, which I have to admit suited me. Her main contribution was supposed to be online promo, but most of her time went into pinning glamorous shoes on Pinterest.

  “Angela wants us,” she said, and before I could wonder if the bride was okay, we entered a small anteroom and I saw her beaming smile. She pulled me into a patchouli scented hug and I knew it had been pointless to worry. Angela Lata—nee Patel—had just married the man of her dreams who was also the father of her unborn child, a hunky, spunky, cowboy whose family just happened to own the eighth largest cattle station in the country.

  Plus, if Jill’s speculation was true, our good friend Angela now had orgasms on tap.

  What was not to like?

  She pulled back and I had my first up-close look at her gorgeous golden bridal sari with its tiny baby bump at the front. Her mother had shooed us away in the morning when we’d wanted to help her prepare, and seeing as it was the last time the bossy old Mumbai hen would have her little chick under her wing, we’d begrudgingly agreed.

  “So,” Angela said, pointing at my new sleek ponytail and smoky eyes. “A change of plan?”

  I shrugged. “Hair malfunction. Rosie helped me.”

  “I like it,” she said and nodded, looking from me to Jill to Louella. “You all look so sexy.”

  “And you don’t?” Jill cut in.

  Angela held out her arms. “Group hug.”

  The three of us stepped in, and Louella, in her Grecian pale-pink satin gown didn’t falter as I hugged her close. I was still getting used to the fact that her personal space was no longer a no-go zone. Falling for Nicholas had changed her so much. The bristly Miss Missionary Position—as Jill used to call her—had morphed from ice queen to blond bombshell almost overnight.

  She still listened more than she spoke—unlike me—but happiness had softened her in so many ways I couldn’t count them. Nicholas suited her very well, and I struggled not to be envious of that.

  “So,” Angela said and kissed each of our foreheads in turn while she had us in a hug. “This is the last time I’ll see you guys for a while…”

  We pulled back but held hands, a circle of friendship that went back twenty years.

  “…I’ve finished the latest album so I’ll be staying at the farm now until the baby is born.” Her eyes were damp and shiny with love. “And I’ll miss you so much, but I need to make this new family I’m in solid.”

  Jack had adopted his little nieces when his sister had died and they were as cute as pigtailed puppies, but they were also work, and Angela wasn’t the sort to hire a nanny. She’d waited all her life to be a mother, so it was completely understandable that she’d want to focus on that.

  “We’ll visit,” Louella said, and glanced at Jill and I.

  “Of course!” We spoke over each other and then laughed. It felt so good. Inside this circle was all the love in the world. More love than I could ever need. I felt like an idiot for my loneliness while I’d been watching them dance. They’d never let me be Nigel No-Friends. So even if I turned into Crazy Old Aunt Fritha who visited and taught their kids bad habits, I’d always be welcome in their lives, and that meant so much.

  In fact, if it wasn’t for the whole empty-bed melancholy that came over me from time to time—prompting ill-advised one night stands—I’d be crazy happy.

  Or at least that’s what I told myself.

  “So let’s stay in touch online,” Angela ordered, pretending to be bossy when she was the marshmallow of the group. Then she tuned on Jill. “I want to hear pregnancy news from you Mrs. Walters as soon as you fall.”

  Jill turned on Louella, “And we want a post-wedding celebration with you and Mr. Tattoo,” she demanded, “If you’re still going to elope.”

  Louella raised a perfect blond eyebrow. “Let me think.” She let us go and hefted both hands as if weighing something in each palm. “Elope to Maui with Nicholas, or stage a wedding for my parents which will end up being not good enough no matter what I do.”
r />   We laughed and I said, “Well when you put it that way, I vote for eloping over demanding parents. Having Angela’s and Jack’s mothers in the same room has done my head in.”

  Angela shook her head ruefully, frowning under her glorious Indian bridal head-jewelry. “I don’t know what’s worse. My mother’s Country Woman’s Association one-upmanship, or Mrs. Davenworth’s patronizing comments about grandchildren of color.”

  Jill’s hand fell out of mine as her mouth dropped open. Immediately she snapped it shut to say, “She didn’t!” As if she was preparing to march out there and give Jack’s mother a piece of her mind.

  “She’s right,” Angela said simply. “My parents are from Mumbai. Jack’s ancestors are from England.” She shrugged. “Daisy and Charlotte are blond, and their new sibling will be brown. But there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “Nor should you,” Louella said quietly. “You’re creating a family, not matching linen. Color is irrelevant where love is concerned.”

  Silence fell over the four of us because there was no arguing with that. But eventually Jill said, “Listen to you, talking about love. Nicholas has changed you.”

  I smirked. “She’s in touch with her emotions.” Then I glanced at Jill and we both laughed.

  “Yeah,” Jill said, “It’s always about the sex.”

  “Good sex,” Angela added, putting in a three musketeers hand.

  “Great sex,” Jill bragged, slapping her hand on top.

  Louella raised an eyebrow again but she placed a graceful hand over Jill’s. “Unforgettable sex,” she said softly, upping the ante.

  The three of them looked at me, but my smirk was gone and I suddenly didn’t want to lie. “Not so much,” I said and shrugged, despite the fact that I’d worked my way through all my male staff and half the suppliers of the teahouse. “Although I’m open to new experiences.”

  Angela smiled at me, but it was an odd expectant look. “Then I may have just the right man for you. A friend of Tug Dunn…” That was the television interviewer who’d given her a spot on his morning show. “…A British food critic who’s agreed to visit Bohemian next week on his Colonial Kitchens documentary series.”

  Jill was smirking as if she already knew, but I was clueless.

  “Food critic?” I asked.

  Angela smiled and said two words I never wanted to hear in conjunction with Bohemian Brew.

  “Max Banks.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Max Banks?” I barely got the words out.

  Angela was looking at me as if she’d just given me chocolate, and even Jill was smiling, but…Max Banks!

  I shook my head. “Why would you…” I shook it again, trying to quiet down my bubbling hysteria. “He’s a bastard. He only ever says bad things about restaurants. That’s what he does. Why would you inflict that—?”

  “Hey!” Jill grabbed both my flailing hands. “I’m the one who agreed. Don’t blame Angela, and this isn’t his Worst Restaurants of Europe series. He’s only featuring restaurants he likes. This could be huge.”

  “He’ll hate us,” I whined, remembering that stubble-framed sneer and those cold pebble eyes from late night television, imagining him disdaining the contents of my cake cabinet and throwing quiches at my customers. “We have Himalayan alpaca tea cozies and crystal teapot stands for Chrissake. He’ll make us into a quaint joke.”

  Angela was frowning in earnest now, and I suddenly realized I was spoiling her wedding day. It took a wrench to turn my rant around, but I managed to stop myself cold, then even produce a weak smile. “Listen to me,” I said. “As if I’d care what anyone thought. And besides, what’s not to like about BoBrew?”

  “Exactly,” Jill said, and turned to Angela with a beaming smile of her own, showcasing her glorious tan against those super-white teeth. “It will be amazing for the shop. Thank you so much for organizing it.”

  It took Angela a few more seconds to catch up with my belated enthusiasm, but then she gave us a tentative smile back. “So long as you’re sure.”

  “One hundred percent,” Jill said for the both of us, then she gave my hand a squeeze when I didn’t respond.

  “For sure!” I added a touch too enthusiastically. “I can’t wait to meet him and show him around. I’m sure he’ll love the place.”

  “I hate it.” Maxwell Banks turned on his heel in a slow three-sixty swivel to take in every Moroccan lamp, Persian rug and framed Mandala in Bohemian Brew. He was so out of place in his elegant black suit and crisp white shirt, he looked like a time traveler. “Who designed this? A backpacker from Nepal?”

  I expected his tiny blonde assistant to snort, but when I flicked a glance at her she had a non-expression on that smooth, boyish face, as if she and her impressive biceps couldn’t care less what happened in my teashop.

  I was less serene, breathing in slowly through my nose, keeping my lips tightly pressed together so I couldn’t tell him to Piss off and take his stupid Brit accent and his muscly sidekick in her black singlet and jeans with him.

  “Beanies?” He plucked a multicolored Alpaca wool specimen off the shelf beside the cake display and twirled it between two fingers before letting it fall back.

  “Tea cozy—” I said from between gritted teeth.

  He barked a laugh that sounded very much like derision.

  “—because it is a Tea House,” I added.

  In case you hadn’t noticed, you supercilious twit!

  He shook his head, clearly appalled, and flicked a glance over my row of staff lined up behind the counter, some of whom immediately straightened. They wore clean and tidy uniforms of either harem pants or a skirt in an earthy tan color, teamed with a loose white shirt. Not one of them had a hair out of place, not even our dreadlocked chef Sammie, whose personal standards had dropped since I’d slept with him a month ago.

  Typical of my managerial style, I couldn’t care less if his shirt was ironed, as long as his creations were superb, but today I wanted everything perfect. Luckily for me, it was. From my newest waitress to my front-of-house cashier Desiree who’d been with me from the start, they were all united in their terror of Maxwell Banks, and as a consequence they were turned out impeccably.

  If anyone was looking less than professional it was me, and that was pure rebellion. Instead of my usual uniform of tan and white, I’d worn pink because I’d read somewhere that the high and mighty Maxwell Banks found that particular color childish. Louella had bought me a designer pink sundress during our holiday in Rome, and I’d teamed it with teal high-heeled sandals and masses of silver bracelets. My hair was down, but it was clean and combed into the loose ringlets that occurred naturally.

  I’d even worn makeup which wasn’t like me, but I was damned if I was going to look like a country hick next to him, and seeing the stylishly cropped black hair and sartorial elegance he’d brought to my tiny regional town, I was glad I’d bothered, although I hadn’t been quite sure I was doing the right thing.

  After breakfast I’d sent Jill a selfie to check, because I didn’t want to let her down—Bohemian Brew was her investment—but she’d told me I looked ‘classy’. That didn’t particularly match the laidback style of the teahouse, but Mr. Snooty Banks hadn’t sneered at me, so I assumed I was up to scratch, even if my restaurant wasn’t.

  Before I could take comfort from that however, he snapped, “The lighting is shit,” and turned to face me.

  “Lunch?” I asked as calmly as I could, and pointed to a booth at the back. “Perhaps you’d like to sit at the table where Noah Steele eats when he’s in town?”

  Suck on that Mr. High and Mighty. You’re not the only celebrity we’ve had in here, and you’re far from the most important.

  His pebble black eyes narrowed under those jet-black brows. “I heard you’d been lucky—”

  “One visit is luck,” I cut over him. “Four visits means Noah is a regular.”

  The blond assistant pulled a phone out of her pocket, and I immediately
held out a hand to stop any texting she might do. If the newspapers got hold of this titbit, Noah would stop coming. I hadn’t even told Jill that he’d liked the lack of paparazzi so he’d come back. I’d thought I couldn’t trust a blabber like her to keep it secret, and now look at what I’d just done. I’d blabbed about it myself!

  The blond with her slick ponytail glanced at Max, as though seeking permission, and I had a horrible premonition that the future of Bohemian Brew could collapse with a single tweet. I was blushing madly but I forced myself to sound calm as I lowered my voice. “Naturally that must be kept secret.”

  Max’s arrogant expression hadn’t altered, as if it had been frozen onto his face in shock. I expected him to tell me off for my indiscretion, but he simply said, “Then perhaps you should tell me in future if there are ‘off the record’ comments, so we can speak…privately.”

  He’d leant forward marginally to say this, and had also lowered his voice into a gravelly rumble, which did startling things to my stomach. It immediately started to quiver, and then as he held my gaze—seemingly to impress his statement on me—I smelt his aftershave and my lips dropped open.

  Fucking hell.

  He smelt like wood-fire and hot skin and…brandy? Something alcoholic and expensive.

  Sweet baby Jesus, I’m thinking about sex. Shut it down! Stop looking at his lips…

  But they were pursed, and sexy as sin.

  “Mr. Banks,” the blond said in her husky voice, and he turned to her.

  Just like that, the spell was broken and I sucked in a slow, shuddering breath as I watched them interact. She was pointing at something on her phone and their two heads—dark and light—were close together as they whispered.

  No one was looking at me so I took the opportunity to check him out, starting at his glossy black hair that had been cropped in a classic manly style that I wanted to think of as ‘old school’ but which actually suited him perfectly.