Celia was a whirlwind of nervous energy, a vibrant splash of colour in the muted elegance of the London hotel bar. Tomorrow was the day. Her dream, “Celia’s,” a boutique showcasing her unique, hand-crafted designs, was finally opening on Bond Street. When the bartender approached, she tried calming her pre-launch jitters tonight with a quiet glass of wine, minding her business at the end of the bar.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said, looking up at him, “I didn’t order that.” He was holding a bottle of Dom Pérignon, the champagne gleaming under the soft lighting.
“No, Mr. Chapman did.” He gestured subtly towards a figure seated at the opposite end of the bar, partially obscured by a potted palm.
Celia frowned, her brow furrowing. “Mr. Chapman?”
“Yes, Mr. Kellen Chapman,” the bartender confirmed, his voice low and discreet.
Celia’s breath hitched. “The Kellen Chapman?” her heart suddenly hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
The bartender chuckled softly. “The only one I know of, madam.”
“Oh, my word,” Celia breathed, What was he doing here? In London? In her hotel?
“Would you like me to reply?” the bartender asked, breaking her reverie.
Celia snapped back to the present, a nervous flutter in her stomach. “Yes, please thank Mr. Chapman… would he care to join me?” She smoothed down her dress, suddenly acutely aware of every stray hair and the slight smudge of lipstick on her glass.
The bartender made his way back, his movements fluid and professional. He leaned in and spoke quietly to the figure by the palm. Turning back to Celia, he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “The lady asked if you would care to join her.”
From her vantage point, Celia couldn’t quite see Kellen’s face, but she saw his shoulders shift, a barely perceptible straightening of his posture. The air crackled with unspoken expectations.
Kellen smiled the slow, deliberate curve of his lips. He said something to the bartender, who stepped back.
“Would you like me to reply to the lady?” the bartender asked.
“No,” Kellen said, his voice finally carrying a deep, resonant baritone across the small distance that sent shivers down Celia’s spine. “I’ll take it from here.”
He spoke smoothly, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. He rose from his chair and walked towards her, the potted palm no longer obscuring his path. He was even more handsome than she remembered.
Time had etched lines of experience on his face, adding a layer of gravitas to his youthful charm. He was the same, yet different. What was he going to say?
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C Langley
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