Author's Note: Silly little double-drabble(ish) that just randomly occurred.
NO GOOD
When Paul Temple bought Steve Trent a dozen long-stemmed red roses, she thought he was up to no good.
When he bought her a new evening dress, shoes and accessories and told her to wear them that night as he'd booked a table at one of the most exclusive restaurants in London, she thought he was up to no good.
When he bought a bottle of vintage champagne, told the waiter they were celebrating (and then refused to say what) and wined and dined her over a beautifully decorated table complete with elegant, lit candles, she thought he was up to no good.
When he led her out onto the dance floor, held her close and swayed with her to the soft strains of romantic music until the early hours of the morning, she thought he was up to no good.
And when he took her home, ignored all her attempts to find out exactly what they were celebrating (and why, all of a sudden, had he developed a romantic streak) and proceeded to make passionate love to her until she almost forgot her own name, she thought he was up to no good.
But when, the next morning, he brought her breakfast in bed and made some reference to the fact she'd jokingly proposed to him and he'd not said no; and when she cracked open her egg to a beautiful ring nestled in some cotton wool and he'd just looked at her and said, "Every proposal needs a ring," that's when she knew he was up to no good.
And she liked it.