“That’s my favourite.”
He winks. “I know. I have to say it took the chef back a bit. It’s not exactly the sort of food he usually prepares.”
I recognise the logo on his satchel now. It’s a famous restaurant in the west end with several Michelin stars. “I bet,” I say faintly. I wonder how often he has to deliver to a petrol station. I’m betting never.
“But he took a phone call from Mr Reilly and immediately set to making your dinner. Mr Reilly said you were working. Do you want it dished up?” he asks chattily.
We both stare down at the humble toastie. “Erm, no. I think I can manage it, but thank you anyway.”
Once the toastie has been served, he gathers the containers together. “Enjoy your meal, sir.”
“Wait,” I say as he goes to move away. “What should I do about the plates and everything?”
He waves a careless hand. “Someone will pick them up later. Enjoy your meal.”
He’s gone in seconds, the door closing silently behind him, leaving Andy and me staring at the counter now covered in expensive food and flowers.
Andy clears his throat. “Yeah, I stand by what I said. Someone likes you.”
He says something else, but I’m eating too hungrily to pay attention.
A few hours later, I shoulder my rucksack and walk onto the forecourt clutching my vase of roses like they’re the crown jewels. The SUV is there, and I walk quickly to it, my heart racing. I slump when the door opens, and I realise it’s just Robert. For some reason, I thought Mac would be here. I realise Robert is watching me, his eyes twinkling.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks at the roses and gives a small smile. “Let me help you with those.”
“Thank you,” I say fervently. He comes around the car to me and I lean in to whisper, “This vase is worth a bloodyfortune.”
His lip twitches. “Of course it is.”
He takes the vase from me until I’m settled in the back seat and then hands it back to me. I cradle it carefully, watching as he shuts the door behind me and then moves around the front of the car.
After climbing in, he starts the car and turns slightly in his seat. “Mr Reilly sent you a hot chocolate,” he says, handing me a tall Starbucks cup. I take it from him, and he winks. “Congratulations on your degree.”
“How did you—?” I stop and shake my head. “Mac.”
“He’s that pleased, Wes. Almost beside himself. He told a whole table full of business colleagues about it.”
I stare at him, feeling a welling of emotion inside me that is so strong that I’m surprised I don’t burst. “He told them about me?”
He nods. “Pleased as punch. Not that they quite got his celebratory mood, but they need his business, so you were toasted many times.”
“Many times?”
He winks. “Manytimes. Mr Reilly believes in getting value for his money.”
We start to laugh, and when I sober, I sit back, sipping my hot chocolate and staring at my phone.
I bring up his messages and gently run my fingertip over his contact picture, tracing the arching eyebrows and thin lips. Then I type.
Would you like to come to my graduation ceremony?
The reply is instant—almost as if he’s been waiting for me.
Darling, I’d be honoured.
eighteen
