Page 25 of Perfect Strangers

‘Travel’s overrated,’ said Nick. ‘When you do what I do, you see a lot of identical minibars and not much else.’

He led Sophie over to a table and they sat down. Everyone else seemed to be up on the dance floor now throwing shapes to Michael Bublé, but all Sophie wanted to do was listen to Nick. He told her how he’d been to India, the Australian outback, Afghanistan; he’d even been fishing in the Faroe Islands: ‘An amazing place, but I wouldn’t recommend it unless you really like eating baked puffin or whale meat.’

In return, she told him about her six months in Florence, the tiny apartment overlooking the Ponte Vecchio, the family Christmases at the Sandy Lane hotel in Barbados, a ski trip to Jackson Hole with Will and his friends the New Year before. She told him only the good stuff, obviously. It was such a magical evening, she didn’t want to ruin the mood with tales of her dad’s death and her money problems. She had spent so long feeling sorry for herself lately, it was fun to just imagine herself in Lana’s life for real, pretend that everything was wonderful and effortless and sparkling. There was no harm in that, was there? And she loved the way Nick listened to her stories – really listened to them. Every other boy she’d dated in the last ten years only seemed to want to talk about themselves: who their friends were, what kind of car they were driving, what japes they’d got up to at university. She supposed that was the difference: Nick was a man, not a boy. And damn, he was sexy.

‘And what do you do, Sophie Ellis?’

She paused.

‘I’m just setting up my own business, actually. Personal health and fitness.’

It was economical with the truth. But it was still the truth.

‘That’s a growing market.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘And how’s it going?’

He looked into her eyes, and for a moment Sophie wondered if he was really asking about the business or about himself.

‘It’s early days yet,’ she grinned. ‘But I think it has potential.’

Just then the lights went down and Michael Bublé was frozen in a solitary spotlight. Everyone turned to look at him, holding their breath in anticipation, then the band kicked into ‘Haven’t Met You Yet’ and the dance floor erupted. Nick grabbed Sophie’s hand.

‘Come on, I like this song,’ he said, dragging her through the crowd.

‘No, Nick,’ she laughed. ‘I can’t dance, not in these shoes anyway.’

‘That’s okay, it’s up to the man to lead, right?’

He pulled her close and she felt his strong body against hers, then he spun her round and dipped her.

‘I feel like Fred Astaire,’ she giggled.

‘I think you mean Ginger Rogers,’ he replied.

She laughed.

‘That feels good.’

‘What?’

‘Laughing.’

‘And what about this?’

He pulled her closer, resting his hand on her bare back.

‘That’s pretty good too.’

‘You know, you do have very long eyelashes,’ he said, gazing into Sophie’s eyes.

‘And no one to bat them at.’

‘Not until now.’

Was he teasing her? Or was he really enjoying their time together as much as she was? Come on, Sophie, she said to herself, take it slow. She inhaled and let herself relax, resting her cheek against his shoulder as they swayed. She hoped Nick liked her. She’d been wary of men since Will had so unceremoniously dumped her. There had been no dates. No sex. She had trusted no one to get that close, expecting more disappointment. But this one seemed different.

The song ended and Nick whispered in her ear.

‘Shall we get out of here?’