Cloudy with a Chance of Love (33 page)

‘Oi!'

‘Sorry, enthusiastically
consuming
cake, late at night. I knew it when I saw you throwing a whale in a skip and passed out on the drive with one shoe off.'

‘Classy,' I nodded, but inside my heart was doing somersaults and a couple of exalted back flips.
And
he hadn't mentioned about me perving at his bum. That was good.

‘I've been fighting it ever since but now I want to fight
for
it. I'm ready for
you
, Daryl,' he said, finally. ‘If you'll have me.'

I dropped my fork with a bit of a clatter. I couldn't speak. I couldn't say anything at all. Blood was pulsing round my body at a hundred miles an hour. I felt faint. I felt sick. I felt bloody brilliant.

‘Only if you're interested, of course. And if you're ready, that is. Would you take a chance on me?' He looked anxious. His brown eyes were all big and expectant. ‘I like you, Daryl,' he said. This was the third time this week someone had said that to me, but somehow, I knew, this was the real deal. I really hoped so. I still couldn't speak. ‘I did the summerhouse, tonight, for
you
. I hated it, because I thought no one would ever appreciate it again. But I knew you'd love it. Damn it, Daryl! Say something! I'm besotted!'
Besotted
. I don't think anyone had ever said that about me before.
Besotted
. ‘Stop me from waffling on,
please
, and answer me one question: would you consider going on a date with me?'

At last, I could speak, although it was more of a squeak, to be honest. ‘I'd have to think about it…' I said, with a slow, dawning smile.

‘Please don't think too long.'

I didn't have to. Sam had been taking the love forecast too literally; I never should have done. I wasn't going to fall in love by Friday, at all, but I would be ready to take a
chance
on love. I was ready. I wasn't scared any more. I whispered my reply.

‘I say yes.'

He stood up. He came round to my side of the table. I stood up as well. He gently put his arms round me and pulled me nearer to him. It felt lovely. I could feel his hands on the small of my back. His face was really quite close to me now. I wanted to take my hand and gently stroke the side of it. I wanted to feel his skin.

‘How would you feel about me kissing you again?' he murmured.

‘What, now?' I whispered. I looked at his lips.

His voice was almost inaudible. ‘Yes, now. Although, I have no real idea how you feel about me,' he said. ‘I said “besotted”, you still haven't said a lot.' He was staring at my lips now.

Just kiss me, and I'll show you how I feel.'

‘I like besotted,' I murmured. ‘And I like you, too.' I looked straight into those heavenly brown eyes.

‘In
that way
?'

‘Yes, in
that way
,' I whispered. God, this was amazingly unbearable. I had never felt such anticipation in my life. Was it now? Was he going to kiss me now?

‘Good. As long as you're sure…' Yes, yes, come on, Will. Kiss me! Kiss me
now
. Our faces were really close to each other now. Tantalisingly close. They couldn't get any closer without touching.

‘Yes, I'm sure, Will. Please just bloody well kiss me!'

He smiled, making my heart melt into a puddle on the floor, and then he leaned forwards and kissed me.

Oh god, his lips were so amazingly warm. And velvety. And soft. I could press mine against them for ever. He started kissing me gently – soft, brief kisses, with the full pressure of his amazing lips. Then slowly, slowly, the soft, brief kisses became longer, probing kisses and we were kissing properly, exploring… It went on for ages… It was so much more
sensual
than the first time. So sexy… He cupped the side of my face, with his hand, again…I reciprocated by finally placing my hand on the back of his head and tousling his hair a little… Oh, it was heavenly… I could have kissed him all night… and it felt like he didn't want to stop, either…

Finally, we drew back from each other and I don't think I'll ever forget the look on Will's face and just how
delighted
he looked. And a little bit horny, I must admit. Which was fine by me, as I felt the same.

‘That was even better than the first time,' I managed to say.

‘Don't sound so surprised,' he said. His voice was an octave lower, rumbly. I knew he was struggling to contain himself and I loved it. ‘I've thought of pretty much nothing else since last night. I've been practising it in my head all day, just in case we ever got to do it again.'

‘I had no idea.'

‘And I'd like to do a lot more real-life practising, if that's okay with you. A
lot
more.' He came in for another kiss; I was happy to oblige. This time we set a new record.

‘Blimey,' he said, as we came up for air. He circled his arms round me, nice and tight. ‘So?' he whispered.

‘So?'

‘So, what are you doing on Bonfire Night?' he asked. ‘We've done Halloween; I think we should have fireworks next'

‘I think fireworks can be arranged,' I grinned. ‘Let me see, that's Tuesday, though. I'm not sure I can plan that far ahead.'

‘True,' he nodded. ‘A lot can happen between now and then.'

I winked at him. He grinned at me. I was about to kiss him again when a yawn suddenly caught in my throat and came out in full glory. How embarrassing. Still, he was used to that. Me being embarrassing. I couldn't see that ever stopping.

‘Uh-oh,' he said ‘Someone's tired. Do you want to take a rain check?'

‘Sorry. Yes. God,
sorry
. Could whatever it is start tomorrow? I
am
absolutely shattered.' The hot chocolate had made me incredibly sleepy and there was something highly soporific about pumpkin pie. Who knew? It had been a really long night, and I also realised that I would really like to have this night, on my own, to hug this deliciousness to me, before I started on my new adventure.

‘That's fine with me,' said Will with a big smile. ‘Are you ready to go?'

‘Yes, please. Thank you, Will, for tonight, it was all wonderful. Yes, I'm ready.'

Will opened the door of the summerhouse. It had finally stopped raining. There were just a few raindrops trickling prettily off the door frame. Ducking under them, Will took my hand and led me down the path back across his garden.

‘Look!' I said, pointing upwards. For the first time in days, the sky was clear, and I could see the stars.

‘Beautiful,' said Will, and he kissed me again.

Turn the page for an exclusive extract from
A Year of Being Single
, the bestselling feel-good romantic comedy from Fiona Collins!

Prologue

They had a charter. An unofficial one. It wasn't written on parchment scroll in swirly feather quill or drawn up on foolscap by a portly, provincial solicitor or even scrawled in biro on the back of a magazine. It wasn't written down anywhere. But it was a charter, nonetheless, and it went something like this:

They were independent women – self-sufficient, autonomous. They could change their own light bulbs and the batteries in their smoke alarms, refill their own windscreen wash bottles in their cars, put out their own bins, carry their own suitcases, take their own cars through the carwash and unscrew the lids on their own jars. If they didn't know how to do something they would ask each other, as one of them probably would. Or they would ask Google and work it out.

They would provide each other with emotional support and babysit each other's children. If one needed another, they would come over.

They had freedom, they had power; they could please themselves and would make sure they did.

None of them had a man. None of them wanted a man. None of them needed a man.

And they would be single for one year to prove it.

Chapter One: Imogen

If Imogen had screamed out loud, no one would have heard her. If she'd screamed, it would have been swallowed by the unconcerned Paris traffic roaring below. If she'd screamed, nobody would have given a monkey's. Least of all, the giant male ape inside her sumptuous hotel room.

She was standing on the tiny balcony of a massive hotel room, on the top floor of an enormous hotel. A room that she was paying for. The Ape's contribution was zilch. He thought it enough to enjoy the room and the balcony and the whole posh Paris hotel experience as fully and as enthusiastically as possible. Especially the bar, the breakfast buffet, the three gorgeous restaurants and the extensive room-service menu. He'd enjoyed the whole trip. He'd larked about photo-bombing people at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower, stuffed his face with madeleines at Blé Sucré – whilst attempting a French accent that made him sound like a crumb-spitting Pepé le Pew – and danced up the escalator to the Louvre with a silly grin on his face… Oh, he'd had a great time.

He was enjoying himself at this very moment. As Imogen grabbed the balcony's railing and flung her head up to the heavens and the grey Paris sky – to ask,
Why
? Why another bloody loser? – he was stuffed into a Chesterfield armchair and tucking into another sodding triple-deck club sandwich, irritatingly picking up each triangular section by the cocktail stick that held it together, and nibbling round the stick like an appreciative beaver. It was his fifth that weekend.

When he was done, he'd probably sniff, scratch his balls, burp and top it all off with a long and loud fart. This man couldn't possibly be The One! He shouldn't even have been a vague
someone
in her life.

He was a waste of space; he was lazy, greedy and quite repulsive. She'd been really stupid with this one. She wanted to get away from him as soon as possible. Their train home couldn't come quick enough.

Imogen's perfect nails dug into the palms of her Shea Butter-moisturised hands, and she silent-screamed again.

Thirty minutes before, she had arranged her legs into an attractive position on the bed. She had adjusted the long tulle skirt of her dress. Fanned her hair out on the pillow. The pillowcase alone probably cost two hundred euros. The suite was how much? Eight hundred and ninety-five euros, for one night. Imogen had thought it would be worth it. To stay in the same suite as Carrie Bradshaw in the last episode of
Sex and the City
. She had thought it would be romantic. It had turned out to be anything but.

Like Carrie, Imogen had been waiting, but not for Aleksandr Petrovsky, fiddling with a trendy light installation in a gallery somewhere across the city, but for Dave Holgate, who had been locked in the bathroom for absolutely ages and was showing no signs of coming out.

What the hell is he doing in there
? she'd thought, picking a down feather off the bed and tucking it under the coverlet.
He's been at it for over twenty minutes
!

She'd sat up and sighed. She was bored and uncomfortable, and beginning to feel ridiculous with her hair fanned out like that. She wasn't bloody Rapunzel. She wasn't even some young, hopeful ingénue – she was a forty-year-old woman who had been there, done that and got several disappointment-stained T-shirts. She should be well beyond hair-fanning. She should be well beyond pinning any kind of hopes on any kind of pathetic man.

At last Imogen had heard the toilet flush and Dave had come out of the bathroom, in his boxers. He'd looked dishearteningly tubby. He'd put on a fair bit of timber since she'd met him, three months ago. As he stood by the window to the balcony and scratched his large bottom, Imogen sighed again. Oh dear. It appeared
she
had turned him into this chubby monstrosity. It was all those meals out they'd had, wasn't it? All those dates. Dates she'd embarked on with a hope that gradually went the way of Dave's greedily guzzled food: down the pan.

Their first month of dating – very successful and full of laughs, actually – they went to mid-range restaurants in London. His choice. The second, they started going to restaurants in hotels. Her choice. They did the rounds of all of them: The Marriott, the Dorchester, the Landmark, Claridge's. Imogen
loved
restaurants in five-star hotels. She loved the whole thing: concierges in top hats showing you in, the clack of heels across marble lobbies, the uniformly attentive waiting staff and the fact there were hotel rooms above you where all sorts of glamorous things were happening – chocolates on pillows, Hollywood stars ordering room service, lovers loving each other, secret assignations. One day she'd be proposed to in one of these hotel restaurants.

It wouldn't be Dave who would be proposing to her, at least she hoped not. By date six and the restaurant at The Mandarin Oriental, she'd realised he was a lost cause, but unfortunately it was too late. On a high, she'd stupidly booked a trip to Paris after their first, misleadingly brilliant month. A month that had ended with an email landing in her inbox advertising Luxury Hotels of the World, and her reaching happily for the phone with unfounded excitement.

She had had to persevere with him. They had Paris; his name was on the damn tickets. She'd thought if they kept going to all those fab hotel restaurants, even after she knew they were wasted on him (though his stomach would have said the opposite), they might somehow elevate their relationship, elevate
him.

They didn't.

Equally and idiotically optimistic, Imogen had thought the romantic setting of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée might magically transform him, after three months of dating and dining, to someone she wanted him to be.

It hadn't.

‘I'd give that ten minutes if I were you,' Dave had said, with another giant sniff and a ping of his straining waistband.

Who said romance was dead?

He'd crossed the room and huffed his backside into an armchair, knocking a book that had been sitting on one arm to the floor. He hadn't moved to pick it up. It was Imogen's:
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
. She'd hoped to instil some culture in Dave somehow, by leaving it lying around. Fat chance.