Million Love Songs(94)

‘Good.’

I have to smile. The man is shameless.

‘What do you fancy? I have a repertoire of a dozen different cocktails.’

I hold up my hands. ‘You choose.’

‘A little Sex on the Beach for you then, madam.’

‘Mason!’ I look at him as you would a naughty schoolboy. ‘Must you be so bloody obvious?’

‘It’s harmless enough,’ he promises. ‘And I’ll make a small one so you can try something else. Vodka, peach schnapps …’ He pours as he reels off the ingredients. ‘Cranberry and a soup?on of orange juice.’ He adds ice and a slice of orange before he brings it over to me.

‘No colourful umbrella?’

‘That’s so last year,’ he informs me.

I taste my drink. ‘Hmm. Nice.’

‘And it has three of your five a day,’ he says.

‘Nothing for you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he says and peruses his bottles. ‘A Singapore Sling, I think. Made to the original Raffles Hotel recipe. It’s one of my favourites. I’ll make one for you as a chaser too.’ He concentrates as he pours a little of this, a bit of that. ‘I’m seriously thinking of packing all this in and opening a beach bar in the Caribbean, Brown. I’d be quite happy doing this for the rest of my life. Coming with me?’

‘Yeah. Why not?’ It actually sounds quite appealing.

When he’s finished juggling a dozen different bottles, he brings the drinks over and I take a sip.

‘Blimey.’ I give a theatrical cough. ‘That’s like rocket fuel. Just how much alcohol is there in that?’

‘Maybe too much,’ he says as he tries his. ‘We’d have to charge a fortune for it. But it’s good, right?’

‘Very good.’

This is so strong that I can feel it melting my bones. But after a long, hard day on the front line of hospitality, it feels good to put my feet up and be waited on. Mason comes to sit next to me and he talks about what he’s been up to, plans for the business, his bartending course and, to be honest, I don’t really listen to him. I let it all wash over me and try to nod in more or less the right places but, if he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. It’s actually nice to be sitting here with him getting slowly trollied. It’s nice not to think about Joe for once. It’s nice to have someone making a fuss of me.

When we finish our Singapore Slings, Mason rubs his hands together. ‘Now what?’

And I don’t know what possesses me, but I leave my chair, go over to sit on Mason’s lap and kiss him deeply.





Chapter Eighty-Eight





The next minute we’re in the kitchen and Mason lifts me onto the massive stainless steel table that chef uses for preparation. It’s the only place that’s not covered by CCTV, Mason tells me and, at the time, I don’t question how he knows this.

I can’t tell you exactly how we got from the lounge to here, but we shed some clothes on the way, bump into furniture and the bar. My lips are bruised from some very enthusiastic kissing. Mason makes short work of unbuttoning my blouse and hitching my skirt up. As I’m struggling with his belt, his jeans, I think that chef would go mental if he could see us. I’m going to have to go over this with Dettol when we’ve finished.

We have rushed, drunken and sleazy sex on the table, my skirt rucked up round my waist, Mason’s still wearing his socks. When we’ve finished, we lie on our backs and we both start to laugh.

‘I’m glad you’re my boss,’ I say to Mason, giggling guiltily, ‘because I would so sack my arse if I found one of my staff doing that.’

‘You’re such a tart, Brown,’ he teases, fingers still trailing over my body. ‘That was fun though. I must ply you with cocktails more often if this is the effect it has on you.’

‘I think cranberry juice must be an aphrodisiac.’ Though it may be the half a dozen or more shots of alcohol that we quickly downed. My head is certainly spinning.

Then there’s a hammering at the front door of the pub, loud in the still of the night. My heart leaps to my mouth and I’m suddenly very sober.

‘Shit,’ Mason mutters. ‘Who the hell can that be?’

I don’t know, but whoever it is, I don’t want them finding us here without most of our clothing. ‘It can’t be Jay, he’d have his key.’

He jumps down from the table and finds his jeans which were kicked off in the scrabble. ‘Where are my fucking shoes?’

The knocking comes again. More insistent this time.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ he grumbles as he pulls his jeans on. I see his pants on the floor, but he’s not bothered with those. There’s no sign of his shoes or mine. ‘Keep your hair on!’

‘Suppose it’s burglars?’ I suggest, heart pounding.

‘Do burglars normally knock?’ he asks as he hastily buttons his shirt.

‘I don’t know, but it’s late.’ I don’t know what time it is as I’ve no idea where my phone went during our frenzy. ‘Why else would someone come here at this time of night?’ I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.

‘Shitshitshit.’ Mason looks round and grabs a knife from chef’s knife block.