Weight Till Christmas Read Online Free

worrying about my weight, none of these things matter any more.  Even Luke’s nasty comments fade away like mist in the sunshine.
    “Let’s go for a drink later on,” Drake suggests.  “Just you and me.  And not to the Coach either.  How about I drive us out to Henley?  We could sit by the river and watch the party boats.”
    I love the idea of this.  Ickenham is great with its duck pond and ancient church, but the busy main road and tube line can’t compete to the slow majestic waters of the Thames and our themed pub with its fake beams is a far cry from the white fairy lights and elegance of a Henley hostelry.   For a split second I’m sitting there at a window watching the light bleed from the sky while chinking glasses with Drake.  My stomach turns a slow and delicious somersault.
    “We could even grab a bite to eat,” he continues. “I know this little bistro in Taply.  They do the most wonderful steak.”
    And pop!  Just like that the dream evaporates.  I can’t go out tonight with Drake, I said I’d drop in on Mum.  She texted earlier on to say she’s made macaroni cheese for supper, my favourite, and I can’t let her down.
    So, of course, I say no and Drake just shrugs and drifts away, back across the office and over to Vicky who is all smiles and giggles.  Is she off to Henley to celebrate instead of me?  I bite my lip and look away.  
    Then I reach into my desk drawer for my chocolate.
     

Chapter 3
     
     
    “And so I’d just like to finish by saying that you guys have been fantastic to work with.  Please keep in touch. I’m going to miss you all. Very much.”
    There’s a ripple of applause as Drake concludes a leaving speech that I’ve hardly been able to hear over Vicky’s sniffing and Sam’s sarky asides.  To be honest I’m getting a bit tired of hearing Sam run down everything Drake says and does.  Just because he’s having a rubbish time at home – judging by the cottage cheese and Ryvita in his lunch box Lucy is persisting with the diet – doesn’t mean we should all suffer. 
    Take the ‘goodbye’ flowers Drake sent me earlier, for example.  I was thrilled when a massive bouquet arrived at the office.  Apart from the sad fact that never before in my life has anyone sent me such a bouquet, it was just as good to see the look on Sticky Vicky’s face when it arrived.  She was a perfect match for the lime green Beetle she was selling at the time. 
    “Who’s sent you those?” she’d asked incredulously as the guy from Interflora staggered across the showroom and practically collapsed at my desk.
    “Drake,” I replied, half thrilled and half disbelieving as I scanned the card.
    “Drake?” Vicky echoed, in the style of Lady Bracknell discussing handbags.
    I’d nodded and had had to focus very hard on the flowers until my heartbeat slowed.  Drake had sent me flowers!  Me !
    “Why on earth would he do that?” Vicky asked.  She sounded stunned which was fair enough.  I’d been pretty stunned myself.
    “He’s saying thank youfor all the help and support I’ve given him over the time he’s worked here,” I told her.  At least that’s what the card said.  But these were red roses, their petals velvet soft smelling better than anything at the perfume counter.  Red roses were symbolic, weren’t they?  Everybody knew that.  Was Drake trying to tell me something?  I wished men came with a manual.  They’re harder to read than Chaucer in the original.
    I’d buried my face in the roses and allowed myself a few milliseconds of believing that Drake Owen, he of the Levi 501-blue eyes and gillette-sharp cheekbones had sent me flowers not because I was a valued colleague but because he actually liked me. Wasn’t this exactly what happened in all the pink books I loved to read?  The hero saw beneath the bad hair/clumsiness/pirelli-belly to the heroine’s true worth and the rest was history.  Why shouldn’t this happen in real life?  Drake