The sun was shining brightly and a breeze blew lightly off the sea. ‘Little seems to have thought of everything,’ Jaxon murmured appreciatively as he uncorked a bottle of chilled white wine before pouring it into the two crystal glasses he had unwrapped from tissue paper. ‘Years of practice, I expect.’ There was a wistful note in Stazy’s voice as she knelt on the blanket, arranging the chicken and salad onto plates. His expression was thoughtful as he sipped his wine. ‘You used to come here with your grandparents.’ It was a statement rather than a question. She nodded abruptly. ‘And my parents when they were still alive.’ ‘I hadn’t realised that.’ He winced. ‘Would you rather have gone somewhere else?’ ‘Not at all,’ she dismissed briskly. ‘I’m sure you know me well enough by now, Jaxon, to have realised I have no time for sentimentality,’ she added dryly. No, Jaxon couldn’t say he had ‘realised’ that about her at all. Oh, there was no doubting that Stazy liked to give the impression of brisk practicality rather than warmth and emotion; but even in the short time Jaxon had spent in her company he had come to realise that was exactly what it was—an impression.
