Free Millie's Game Plan by Rosie Dean

lopsided cream.
    ‘God, I could eat the lot,’ I announced, wincing at my blasphemy as I reached for the over-jammy one. As if to gag myself, I took a large mouthful, which dislodged two crumbs that tumbled onto my plate.
    He gave me a look then, which I couldn’t work out. Maybe he liked women with a hearty appetite. He smiled. ‘You’ve some cream on the tip of your nose.’
    Bugger.
    He saluted me with his scone. ‘Occupational hazard with these,’ he added, before stuffing half of it in his mouth and making noises of appreciation that unnervingly put me in mind of sexual ecstasy.
    Josh offered me a napkin and I wiped away the offending dollop of cream.
    Did he fancy me? And if he did, had my reaction to his vocation hurt his feelings? Finally, when my mouth was empty, I asked, ‘How do people usually respond when they find out you’re a vicar?’
    With a lump of scone halfway to his mouth, he paused and smiled. ‘Depends who they are. But, you pretty much reacted the way I thought you would.’
    He’d thought about my reaction?
    I pulled a face of apology, but not for long. It’s not a good look. ‘Sorry. That’s really naff of me, isn’t it? People probably aren’t very impressed by what I do. That doesn’t mean…’ I gave up. Nothing I was going to say would sound right. Stupid, stupid me. If he’d been half his size and plug-ugly, I’d probably have entered into a serious debate on divinity; which made me wonder if there was any scientific evidence to support the theory that lust negates intelligent thought.
    He was still smiling at me. Maybe he’d done a course at theological college on How to Handle Members of your Congregation. In fairness, he did it very well, because I felt as if he still quite liked me. After all, he wasn’t giving me the cold shoulder or switching his attention to Sacha. But that didn’t alter the fact he was still a vicar. He probably came with all the religious dogma and sanctimony that I’d battled with for years. There were times when my mother resembled Father Riley’s puppet, a groupie from the order of St Barnabus.
    No, Josh was not a self-made business man; not a forwardly-thrusting, upwardly-mobile corporate dynamo; not even a reasonably successful, safe-pair-of-hands on the middle tier of senior management.
    I blustered on, feeling the need to explain what I did for a living. ‘I work in marketing. It’s hardly saving the world, is it?’
    ‘Depends what you’re marketing.’
    ‘True.’
    ‘Which is?’
    How did I tell him I was currently working on launching a new, silicon filled, push-up bra? ‘Ladies undergarments,’ I finally said in a silly, posh voice – letting him know I fully recognised the lack of humanitarian merit.
    ‘Nice,’ he said, suggesting red-blood coursed through his veins like any other male. ‘Well, if your campaign’s successful, you’ll be keeping people in jobs. I guess that’s saving somebody’s world.’
    ‘Wow! You’d be good in marketing. Putting a positive spin on things.’
    He laughed. ‘Isn’t that another definition for bullshit?’
    ‘Are you saying I’m a professional bullshitter?’
    ‘No. I was talking about myself.’
    A harsh voice called from the doorway. ‘Come on gents, let’s put these Marshalhampers out of their misery.’
    Josh put his empty plate on the table. ‘Are you sticking around?’
    Did he want me to? ‘For a while. Are you batting?’
    ‘Nope. I’m afraid I’m out – caught in the gully.’
    ‘Ouch.’
    Sacha rejoined us. ‘Yummy tea. Are we off now?’
    For someone who spends her working life caring for the welfare of others, you’d think she’d have more sensitivity, wouldn’t you?
    ‘I was planning on watching the game for a while,’ I said, ignoring the way her eyes expanded in disbelief. ‘You know – wander round and take a few more pictures. This location is really beautiful.’
    Josh made to move past us, touching me lightly on the arm with his hand as he did