Peony and Alex have taken some time out to enjoy a lunch away from the prying eyes in Willow Waters.
Excerpt from Game of Thorns by Nancy Warren
I wound down the window and let the crisp air whip back my hair. I’d worn it down with a denim dress and a green cardigan to keep warm. Lush trees and swathes of green hills rushed past in a pretty vista until a village of thatched cottages rose up ahead.
“Welcome to Kingham Village,” Alex said. “One of my favorite places in the Cotswolds.”
After a few minutes, he pulled up outside a gorgeous pub called The Orange Tree. He stepped out of the Jag and came to my side to open the door. I loved his old-school sense of chivalry, even though I could have opened that door myself without lifting a finger. I took his hand and we walked through the door into the bar. At one end, a log fire was flickering, a few patrons drinking ales relaxing in leather armchairs around it. It was warm and cozy, with exposed brick and wooden floorboards, soft yellow lights illuminating the corners. Already busy, the sound of laughter and chatter rose above clinking glasses.
Alex had chosen well, as he always did.
The maître de greeted him warmly and took us to a table in the back dining room of the pub. I inhaled deeply. The mouth-watering scent of slow-cooked meat, a stew maybe, making me hungry. I smiled as I saw Alex scent the air. As a werewolf, his sense of smell was heightened and I knew he’d be appreciating it even more than me.
Alex pulled out my chair and once I was seated, sat down opposite me. I smiled at him, unable to conceal my happiness. I just adored sharing a good meal with Alex. He was an excellent conversationalist, a connoisseur of all things food and drink, and handsome to boot. If you hadn’t already guessed, I suppose I’m a little bit smitten.
I glanced down at the menu. It was a perfunctory gesture. I knew exactly what I was going to order.
“Two of the beef and ale pies?” Alex enquired.
“Absolutely.”
He examined the wine list and then ordered two glasses of Burgundy along with a basket of freshly baked bread, some olives, and our pies. It was our last date for a little while, after all.
With the waiter gone, Alex leaned across the table and took my hand. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment all week,” he said.
I felt the same and told him so. There was something about having to steal away from Willow Waters which made our time together even more special. Every date felt like a treat. When the waiter brought the wine, we clinked glasses, and I took a long sip. I looked around the room. There was a nice mix of families, people who were clearly locals and the inevitable tourists. “This is nice.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Alex smiled. “I’ve brought a couple of business clients here and the food has always been great but it’s much more fun sharing these places with you.”
“Thank you,” I said a little shyly. Since Alex always chose his words carefully, I was often a little floored when he paid me compliments. Each one felt like a birthday and Christmas gift all rolled into one. I sat back in my seat and took in the room. And that’s when I saw someone who looked familiar. I felt my body tense, desperate to hold on to the privacy of our budding relationship. But as I narrowed my glance, focusing in on the attractive brunette and noticing her sharp cheekbones and intense expression, I realized the face did not belong to a fellow Willower.
To Alex, I said, “Do you recognize that woman?” I gestured to the corner of the room where a petite woman, who looked to be about thirty with short, stylish brown hair, was deep in conversation with a handsome man of about the same age sporting a striking mop of reddish-brown curls.
He turned his head ever so slightly, always conscious of being discreet.
Turning back to me he shook his head. “I can’t say I do. Should I?”
And then it clicked. “It’s Tamsin Mortimer. That’s who it is. She was a ranked tennis player, retired now, but the last I heard she was on the latest season of British Ballroom. I saw a few of the episodes. She was an incredible dancer.”
I paused, at Alex’s confused expression. I’d become as hooked as half of Britain on British Ballroom, the show that paired professional dancers with celebrities from other walks of life. It was great fun watching a famous comedian do the tango or a soap star kick up her heels in a foxtrot. Of course, Alex had no idea who Tamsin Mortimer was—the man had zero interest in popular shows and didn’t even own a TV. I’d lost count of the times I’d started a sentence with, Did you ever watch…? before remembering that the answer was always, No.
“Ah,” he said, a little bemused. “Right then.”
“Well, she was in all the papers for a while because she left the show early.”
“Is that one of those reality shows where they get voted off?”
“Yes.” At least he knew the basics. “But during filming she developed an obsessive fan who was then arrested for stalking. After she was off the show, she disappeared from the limelight. It was rumored that she’d moved with her husband to a small fishing village in Argentina.” I looked again at the table. Tamsin’s complexion was as creamy as a glass of whole milk. “Though she probably holed up somewhere much closer to home.”
“What a horrible thing to go through.” He shuddered, and I knew a wave of deep empathy was coursing through his body. “Honestly, I don’t understand the cult of celebrity at all. We should just allow talented people who just happen to be in the public eye to live their lives as normal.”
I agreed, and then we paused, both glancing over again at the table. Although the couple weren’t touching, I could feel the intensity of their connection across the room. Those two had passion. Even though I didn’t know Tamsin Mortimer personally, I was happy she’d obviously moved on from a bad experience.
Then our pies arrived and I forgot all about the former tennis star and dancing contestant as Alex and I fell into a blissful silence as we savored the flakey, buttery pastry and the first bite of succulent slow-cooked filling.
“Perfect,” he murmured, and I knew his cultivated taste buds were doing their own special dance—deserving their own spot on British Ballroom.
We slipped into easy conversation about the week, and I told Alex a little more about the upcoming flower arranging course. “I think there are eight people signed up, which is a good number for our first weekend workshop. If it’s successful, I imagine we’ll do more.”
I was about to go on, when the man who’d been in intense conversation with Tamsin Mortimer suddenly jumped up, left the table and strode out of the room. I didn’t think he’d left to go to the bathroom. Tamsin looked distraught and if it was possible, she turned even paler. Her gaze stayed fixed on where he’d been, and I could tell that she was hoping he would walk back through the door. But the only person to arrive at her table was the waiter, brandishing two plates of what looked to be lemon tart. Pulled back to the present, Tamsin shook her head at the dessert and instead motioned for the bill.
