Here, a Christmas meal is being discussed, with ... undertones.
The slow click of the indicator heralded the turn-off to the farm. Hamlyn eased the car over the sodden gravel and pulled up in front of the unit. “I have a Christmas dinner planned at my house, a business thing. It’s one of those necessary evils, but it has to be done. I know it’s a busy time of year for you but if you could fit me in, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll check the diary while you’re here.”
Alice, my secretary, was shamelessly peering through the misted window.
We climbed out of the car. Hamlyn followed me through the door. The warmth was a relief after the piercing, damp cold outside.
“Do you a fancy a coffee while you’re here? I’ve been testing out some new biscuit recipes. You could be a guinea pig.” I asked, more in hope than anything else.
“Sounds good to me. I’m not in a hurry to be anywhere.”
I didn’t want to consider the reasons why this was good news to me. I took my diary from Alice’s desk and asked her to fetch coffee and a selection of biscuits before taking Hamlyn to my office.
“Sorry about the mess.” I cleared some space on the desk to try and make it look tidier and sat down.
Hamlyn took a seat and slipped out of his coat. The spice of his cologne drifted across the morass of papers and invoices. I slid my chair under my desk because my dick was having thoughts of its own about Hamlyn’s presence.
Not good.
“What date did you have in mind?” I opened my diary and pretended to be professional, in an attempt to snap myself out of it.
“I know it’s short notice, but is there any chance you can do the last Friday in November? I wanted to get the business over and done with before anyone gets too jaded from a surfeit of celebratory dinners.”
I shuffled through the pages. “That should be fine. I have a lunch but nothing in the evening. Have you any thoughts about what you want to serve?” I picked up a pen.
“It’ll be a sit-down dinner and there’ll be half a dozen guests. Three couples and me.”
How pathetic was it that I perked up at that intelligence? “Any idea what you’d like? French? Hungarian? Italian? British? A Christmas themed meal?”
“Italian would make a change.”
I rummaged through the pile of menus. “Here are the Italian choices. Have a look and give me a call when you’ve decided what you’d like. I can get it all ready and then just drop it by the house. All you’ll have to do is heat it up and serve.”
Hamlyn set the menu down. “I was wondering…if…” He glanced at the menu again. “I’d prefer it if someone could be there to serve it. I don’t want to be in and out of the kitchen all night when I’m entertaining.”
“Fair point.” I considered my list of part-time servers. “I can get one of the girls to serve.”
“I don’t suppose I could persuade you, could I? I’d rather you were there.”
“I don’t usually do that.”
“If you don’t want to, I’d understand.”
I can’t resist pleading blue eyes. I just bloody can’t. This had nothing to do with business and everything to do with wanting him.
Alice clattered in with two mugs of coffee and a plate of fresh biscuits. The Christmas line was a cut above the normal, plenty of chocolate, nuts and fruit. Hamlyn helped himself to a biscuit and smiled at Alice. She dimpled, blushed and scuttled away.
“If you’re the type that goes out on Friday nights, that’s all right. It’s okay to have a social life.”
“What is this ‘social life’ you speak of?” I waved the biscuits away. I’d spent most of the morning baking the bloody things.
“Ah, it’s like that, is it?” His eyes had a glint in them. “Just like me. No life.”
“I’ll do it. I haven’t anything else to do.”
Hamlyn’s smile was worth sacrificing an empty Friday night for. “Excellent. Thank you.”
“Just don’t expect me to dress in a maid’s outfit and hand the canapés around.” I scribbled the details into the diary. “What time will you want dinner for?”
If you want to read how things went the night of the dinner, why not pick up a copy of 'Biscuits and Bunting'?
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