Me and Mr Jones Read Online Free PDF Page A

didn’t budge. ‘But I’m not just any bloke,’ he replied, deadpan. ‘I’m Charlie Jones. And you’re . . . gorgeous.’
    From anyone else’s lips the words might have sounded cocky. But somehow he said it in a way that made his confidence stunningly attractive. Judging by the collective raised eyebrows and hushed attention of the ballet mums in the vicinity, they thought so too.
    ‘Sorry,’ she said firmly, meeting his blue eyes full-on. She might look like a wisp of a ballerina, but he needed to know that she was pure northern steel underneath her leotard; more than a match for a Dorset boy. Then she swivelled her gaze briskly away and smiled at Bella Hardcastle’s mum, as if that was the end of it. ‘Mrs Hardcastle, did you want to speak to me?’
    It turned out that Charlie Jones wasn’t the sort of person who took kindly to the word ‘no’. He appeared the following week as well, this time with a bunch of red tulips, which he proffered at the start of the lesson. ‘I promise I’m not a freak,’ he said, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled. ‘And I’m not a dodgy stalker type, either. I just have this feeling about me and you. That we’re meant to be.’
    ‘Oh, Uncle Charlie, please stop it, you’re embarrassing me!’ Matilda cried in mortification, pulling a face at her friend.
    ‘You’re not the only one,’ Izzy told her drily, ignoring both the flowers and the glint in his eye.
    He was back at the end of the lesson with a punnet of strawberries, like an offering of bright jewels. ‘Just in case you’re hungry,’ he’d said, handing them to her with a flourish. ‘And if you happen to be thirsty as well, then maybe . . .’
    ‘Here we go again,’ she heard one of the mums mutter. This was turning into a soap opera.
    She accepted the strawberries. ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to keep her composure.
    ‘Ooh, yummy,’ Hazel said at once, selecting the plumpest and cramming it into her mouth.
    ‘And if you’re thirsty . . .’ Charlie repeated, raising one eyebrow meaningfully.
    ‘I’m not thirsty,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
    He pantomimed exaggerated despair, his shoulders flattening, his head falling. God, he really was attractive. She couldn’t help a flutter of desire.
    Matilda tugged at his hand. ‘Come on , Uncle Charlie, stop it, or I’ll tell Mum.’
    ‘But . . .’ Izzy said before she could help herself. Damn it. He’d got to her after all. ‘I might be later on. And so might my daughters.’
    She flung in the mention of the girls like an explosive, watching his face carefully for his reaction. He grinned. ‘Sounds like a party to me,’ he said.
    ‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘Not a party. Just a quick drink at the Pilot Boat, before I take the girls home for tea. Take it or leave it.’
    ‘I’ll take it,’ he said instantly.
    ‘I’ll see you there at five o’clock then,’ she said, hoping she wouldn’t live to regret it. Nothing could happen at five o’clock in the afternoon, could it? Surely it would be safe: broad daylight, plenty of people around, the girls as her chaperones. Besides, she didn’t have anyone to babysit for a drink later on without them. Mrs Murray from the flat next door kept an eye on the girls while she took her Adult Beginners class on Wednesday evenings, but that was work – the sort of thing that her neighbour, a retired nurse, understood and appreciated. Izzy wasn’t sure if she could ask the same thing in order to go for a drink with this strangely persistent man. Mrs Murray had already taken a nosey interest in any prospective ‘gentlemen callers’ Izzy might have, making it quite clear that they were not to be tolerated. ‘Fine by me,’ Izzy had said, meaning every word.
    This was just a drink. Nothing was going to happen. Nothing whatsoever.
    ‘Why are we going out now?’ Willow wanted to know later that afternoon as they prepared to head to the pub. ‘Isn’t it, like, teatime soon?’
    ‘Are