Page 40 of Elite Connections: an LGBTQ Romance Charity Anthology

Staringat a blank canvas is less than fun, but I owe it to Harper to paint something. Anything. Yet every time I reach for a paintbrush, bad memories threaten to overwhelm me. I’ve stood in this beautiful art studio every day for the past three weeks, and I still have nothing to show for it.

“Hello?”

I wheel around at the sound of Harper’s mum’s voice.

She smiles as she picks her way across the garden in high heels. It rained overnight, so the ground is spongy, and the grass is soggy. “Bailey, sweetheart, is Harper in?”

“No. He’s in London, meeting with his financial adviser. He said he’d probably catch up with Clive before coming home.”

“Wonderful.”

I tilt my head and furrow my brow.

“It was you I wanted to see.”

“Me?”

“Yes, my handsome son-in-law.” She kisses my cheek. “I’m arranging a ball, and I want your charity to be the recipient.”

“My—?” Oh, shit. She thinks I work for charities when the reality is I’m a volunteer. She probably thinks I’m some high-up. Why else would I have met Harper at a charity ball?

“Let’s chat about it over a cup of tea. I want you to tell me everything about what your charity does, who you help, and what any money we raise would go towards.”

“Um, sure.”

She follows me into the house and sits on the sofa in the seating nook while I make tea and search for something to nibble on. Where’s a Rich Tea biscuit or a chocolate digestive when you need one? Harper has nothing of the sort in his cupboards. Not that he goes shopping. He has someone to do that for him. I need to ask him how I can add things to the shopping list. I find a tin of fancy biscuits, which probably cost more each than an entire packet of HobNobs, and arrange a few of them on a plate.

“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” Mrs Carr says as I put the tray on the coffee table and pour her a cup of tea. She helps herself to a biscuit covered in a thick layer of dark chocolate. “Tell me everything.”

She eats the biscuit and drinks tea as I talk. And talk. And talk. Aside from pausing to breathe and wet my throat, I don’t stop until I’ve told her everything about both charities I volunteer for. Not that I mention that word. My stomach twists itself in knots. I hate lying to her. She might be a little overbearing, but she’s lovely. It’s clear as day how much she adores Harper. I’m humbled by how easily and wholeheartedly she and her husband have welcomed me into their lives despite knowing next to nothing about me.

She presses her hand over her heart. “Oh, Bailey, seeing how passionate you are is wonderful. I don’t know how you have time to run two charities. It’s inspirational.”

“Oh, I don’t?—”

“You’ll have to do a speech at the end of the night.”

“A—speech?”

“Yes. To thank everyone for their generous donations. And they will be generous. I’ll invite people with very deep pockets. Would it be possible to get some photographs of the people you work with? Nothing tugs at the heartstrings more than eight-foot photographs of people in need.”

I gape at her.

“Too crass?”

“I—” I bite my tongue. I can’t say I wouldn’t know because I’ve never been involved with anything like this before. It’s exactly how I’m supposed to have met Harper. “Maybe.”

She hums. “You’re right, of course. We’ll raise money from the tickets and organise an auction. I know lots of people I can tap for items and experiences to auction off. And then we’ll also take donations. It’s going to be a wonderful success, and you and Harper must be there.” She laughs. “I’ve already asked you to give a speech, haven’t I? Of course you and my darling boy will be there.” She pats my knee. “Now, these things take time to organise. Shall we say three months today? Put it in your diary and make sure Harpers adds it to his. That boy would forget his head if it weren’t screwed on.”

“We’ll save the date.”

“And you must email me if there’s anyone you want to invite. Your charities must already have some generous donors. They should come.”

They might, but I have no clue who they are. I smile and nod, not wanting to trip myself up.

“Wonderful. How are you settling in?”

“Fine. Harper has a beautiful house.”

“What’s his is yours. The art studio in the garden is new. You must be the artist. Harper can’t even draw a stick figure.”

“Uh, I’m not an artist.” I rub the fleshy part of my hand beneath my thumb. “More of a dabbler. I haven’t done any art in several years. Harper thought having a studio might inspire me.”

“Has it?”

“Not yet.”

“That’s a shame. I paint.”

“You do?”

“I’m a dabbler like you.” She gasps, her eyes sparkling. “If you found the inspiration, you could do a painting for the auction. I’ll do one too.”

“I don’t think anyone would want to buy a painting by me. I’m—” Nobody.

“Nonsense. It’s for charity. Think about it, darling.”

“I will.”

The front door opens and closes.

“Hello?” Harper calls from the kitchen.

“In here, sweetheart,” his mum says.

As he walks into the nook, he glances at me. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Mother?” He talks through slightly gritted teeth.

“I came to have a chat with Bailey. But we’re finished, so I’ll leave you to it.”

Harper stands behind me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and leans down to kiss my cheek. “Are you okay?” he whispers.

I nod.

In a louder voice, he says, “Hello, husband. I missed you.” He straightens. “You don’t have to rush off, Mother. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

She waves her hand. “Nonsense. I’m sure you two love birds want to spend time together. I’ll see myself out.” She stands and points at me. “Don’t forget to put it in your diary. And Harper’s.” She winks and leaves.

“Put what in my diary?” Harper asks.

I wince. “She wants to plan a charity dinner and auction for the charity she thinks I run.”

“Oh. Oh!” Harper flops onto the sofa his mum has vacated. “That’s nice of her. When?”

“Three months today. She wants me to give a thank-you speech at the end.”

He sits up and clasps his hands between his splayed knees. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t have any right to, Harper. I’m a volunteer. Nothing more.” I shake my hands. “She also wants me to paint something to be auctioned off.”

Harper gives me a sympathetic look. “My mother, the whirlwind. Can you see why I needed to get married now?”

“Yes. It’s great that she wants to raise money for the charities I care about, but I can’t give a speech or paint something. What if she tells everyone I’m someone important in the charities? What if someone there knows I’m not? What if someone there tells your parents I’m a nobody?”

Harper walks over to me and kneels between my legs. He cups my face in his hands. “You’re not a nobody, Bay. You’re caring, compassionate, and give of yourself selflessly.”

“That doesn’t make me somebody.”

“It does in my eyes.”

My stomach does somersaults.

“With the amount of hours you spend volunteering, you have as much right to give a thank-you speech as anyone else. I’ll ask Mother if I can introduce you. Then we can control what gets said about who you are.”

“Okay.”

He gathers my hands in his. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when Mother arrived.”

“It’s fine. She’s lovely. I shouldn’t have panicked.”

“Trust me, I panic when Mother is around. Seeing her car in the driveway gave me palpitations.”

I laugh. “She loves you.”

“I know.” He squeezes my hands.

“How were your meetings?”

“Oh, fine. I’ve shuffled some of my investments around. Let’s not talk about money. It’s boring.”

“Is Clive boring?”

He tuts. “Cheeky boy. Don’t tell him I said so, but he can be sometimes. All he wanted to talk about was you.”

“Me?”

“And how we’re getting along.”

“What did you tell him?” I shouldn’t ask, but I’m too curious not to.

Harper kneels upright and pecks my lips. “That we get along famously, especially in bed.”

My cheeks heat. “You didn’t.”

“I did.” He kisses me deeply, his lips coaxing mine apart so our tongues can caress. “Have we got time to see how famously we get along in bed before the chef arrives?”

“He’s not coming tonight.”

Harper rocks onto his heels. “Why?”

“I gave him the night off.” I dip my chin. “I hope you don’t mind.” Did I overstep?

“Who’s going to cook?”

I meet his horrified stare. “We are.”

“I can’t cook.”

“No, but I can, and I’m going to teach you. It will be fun.”

“If you say so.”

I laugh. “It will.”

He crosses his arms and pouts like a grumpy three-year-old.

I lean forward and kiss his pout away. “We’re going to make creamy Tuscan chicken.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“It’s not, I promise.”

“We have the ingredients for it in?”

“I went and bought them this morning.”

“Oh. You shouldn’t have gone to that much trouble.”

“I wanted to. I want to cook with you, Harper.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. What do we have to do first?”

I teach him how to cut cherry tomatoes, mince garlic, cook chicken in a frying pan, and make sauce with double cream and parmesan. Harper is hopeless with a knife, so I stand behind him and teach him hand over hand.

“Who knew cooking could be sexy?” He pushes his arse against my groin and turns his face to kiss me.

“Pay attention, or you’ll slice your fingers off.”

“That wouldn’t be sexy.”

I chuckle. “Nope.”

We make some pasta to go with the chicken and sit at the dining room table with a glass of white wine each.

Harper stares suspiciously at the meal before him. He sniffs. “It smells nice.”

“It tastes nice too. Try it.” I eat a generous forkful, humming as the rich flavours in the sauce hit my taste buds. I nod encouragingly.

He puts the tiniest amount on his fork and tastes it tentatively. He widens his eyes, scoops three times as much onto his fork, and shovels it into his mouth.

“I told you it was nice,” I say.

“I cooked this.” Harper’s voice brims with pride.

“You did.”

He clears his throat. “I suppose you did most of the work. I was the assistant.”

“You cooked it, and you did a great job.”

He holds his hand out across the table. I thread my fingers through his.

“Thank you,” he says.

“What for?”

“Pushing me out of my comfort zone. Let’s cook together at least once a week. You can teach me a new dish every time.”

“All right, but you’ll need to tell me how to add things to the shopping list.”

“What shopping list?”

“Um, you don’t choose what to buy?”

“No. I assume the chef handles it all.”

“Huh. Maybe we should go shopping together too.”

Harper’s jaw drops.

“Too much?”

“Yes. You’ve already talked me into having a cooking lesson once a week. Talk to the chef tomorrow. I’m sure he can arrange for whatever you want to be bought.”

Will the chef mind me putting chocolate digestives on the shopping list? “Why stop at once a week? We could cook every night.”

He snorts. “Steady on, husband. No need to go overboard.”

I laugh and shake my head.

Harper raises one finger. “Once a week.”

“Twice.”

He groans and sighs. “Fine. You twisted my arm. Twice.”