Read Katy Carter Keeps a Secret for Free Online Page A

“No, of course not. Whatever makes you say that?”
    My boyfriend runs a hand through his curly brown hair. “Err, the fact that it looks like the entire house has been ransacked? The contents of the cupboard under the stairs have been emptied out all over the hall? And what on earth’s happened to our kitchen?”
    Ah. The kitchen. Earlier I rummaged through every drawer, examined the oven and even scaled the worktops in my search, but somehow I don’t think he’s referring to my new Olympic sport find the ring . A lot else has gone on in the kitchen since then.
    “I’m cooking dinner,” I say, reaching onto my tiptoes and kissing him, but he’s far too busy gazing around wide-eyed to pay me much attention. Is he looking to see if I’ve found the hiding place? Oh! I can hardly wait! Come on, Ollie! It’s all I can do not to just shriek “Give me my engagement ring!” and jump up and down at him a bit like Sasha does when she thinks we’re off for a walk.
    “Well, that explains the mess in here,” he says with a wry smile, then winces as he peers into the bubbling saucepan.
    “That looks very… err… unusual.”
    It does? What’s risotto supposed to look like? I thought it was meant to have some texture to it, although maybe those lumps and the black crusty bits shouldn’t be there. Oh well, if not we can always pick them out.
    “It’s mushroom risotto,” I announce. “With bacon. And wine and chocolate mousse too.”
    “In the risotto?” He steps backwards in alarm.
    “No, silly! Prosecco to drink and chocolate mousse for pudding.”
    Ollie takes off his steamed-up glasses, wipes them on his sleeve and looks at me long and hard with those amazing brown eyes flecked with gold, which always make me melt just like the spatula did earlier on the Aga hotplate. (Hopefully dousing the house in Febreze earlier has disguised the stench of this disaster. Poor Ol’s only recently finished removing the soldered-on remnants of the last one. I have a very bad track record when it comes to melting things on the hotplate.)
    “OK,” he says slowly. “What have I done wrong?”
    “Nothing!”
    Ol replaces his glasses. “All right then. What have you done wrong?”
    Isn’t that nice? Here I am cooking my (nearly) fiancé a romantic Valentine’s dinner and he instantly assumes I’ve done something terrible.
    “Any lobsters hiding? Giant cactus under a pile of coats? Dog shredded a valuable document?” he asks, pulling me into his arms and tickling me just under the ribs, in the one place he knows is guaranteed to have me pleading for mercy in about two seconds flat. I gasp and writhe while Ollie continues to tickle me and describes the disastrous dinner party I once threw for my ex-boyfriend and his dreadfully strait-laced boss.
    “No! No! Nothing like that!” Managing to pull myself away and escape to the far end of the kitchen, I just about suck in enough air to gasp, “It’s Valentine’s Day!”
    The grin vanishes from Ollie’s face in a nanosecond. He stops laughing instantly and my stomach swoops from excitement to utter crushing despair. I know my boyfriend inside out and I can tell from the horrified expression on his face that he’s totally and utterly forgotten. There’s no surprise and there’s no ring. Mads was right: Ollie’s textmeant he was going to call me, not propose. I’ve been so stupid. Me and my bloody, busy, overactive imagination. Why couldn’t it just have been content with writing blue scenes for Throb Publishing? Isn’t that enough for it? Did it really need to make me believe I was about to get engaged? Or was I just choosing to believe this was possible because I want it so much? I’ve been kidding myself, haven’t I? Nothing could be further from Ollie’s mind. He wasn’t gearing up to propose at all. He can’t even be bothered to remember bloody Valentine’s Day.
    Yes, I know I forgot it too, but that’s different. Totally different!
    “Oh shit!” Ollie