He turns his scowl into a beautiful smile, the kind my sexy CEO rarely shares. ‘Let’s go.’
‘We’re going together?’ I ask.
He cocks his head to one side.
‘I guess so,’ I mumble, following him to the lift.
We walk out into the biting air, where Kenneth is waiting on the street in the Mercedes. Gregory glares at the driver window and I know he’s thinking Jackson would be out of the car and holding the door open by now. Kenneth continues to tap his fingers on the steering wheel in time to whatever he’s listening to inside and jumps when Gregory flings open the back door. Lucky for Kenneth, Gregory’s phone is screaming for his attention again.
‘Ryans!’ he snaps into the handset whilst inclining his head to tell me to get into the car. Playful Gregory is lost to the white-collar world. ‘Sydney, has Williams briefed you?’
Taking my seat next to him, I scroll through my own emails.
‘Right. Yes. I know. Yes. I’ll give you the rest when I get to the office. Twenty minutes. No, that’s absolutely not acceptable. Sydney, calm down, you’ll handle this in the same way you deal with all other PR, negative or otherwise. Okay, I’ll have Anya clear my calendar for this morning; make sure you’re in my office. My what?The Times?Okay, what time? My office? Well, can’t they do it in my office? It’s an interview; why does it matter where we are? Christ, what kind of photographs? Right, here’s what you’re going to do. Call them, tell them they come to me or we rearrange. The shots can be taken at my desk. It’s not open for discussion.’ He hangs up the phone and presses two buttons, then returns the phone to his ear. ‘Four rings, Anya. Explain to me why you’d answer my call after four rings. Please tell me your job title. Mmhmm, personal assistant to whom? That’s right, which means when I call, you stop talking to Melanie from IT and you answer the phone. Stop, I don’t want to hear it. I need you to clear my diary this morning and my interview forThe Times Magazinewill be in my office this afternoon.’ He hangs up again and repeats the same process of pressing two buttons and putting the phone to his ear. ‘Two rings. Better.’
‘Wow, taking no prisoners this morning are you, Mr Ryans?’
The look he casts in my direction tells me he’s not in the mood to play. He rests his elbow on the window frame and holds his bent knuckles to his lips, looking out at the flurry of suits and briefcases we pass on the street.
‘It’s the glass high-rise building just there, Kenneth,’ I say, pointing unhelpfully out my window.
I rummage through my tote for my security pass and take two pound coins from my purse. It occurs to me that I don’t know what to do next.Do I just get out of the car? Do I lean in and give him a peck on the cheek? Do we kiss?I’ve never driven to work with a man before, let alone a man who’s also my client, and I’vecertainly never driven to work with a man as complex as Gregory Ryans.
The car stops and I decide that just climbing out and saying goodbye is perhaps the best approach. I open the door myself, Kenneth really not getting how this works, and shuffle my feet to the pavement.
‘Where are you going?’ Gregory asks.
‘To work,’ I say, twisting to look at him over my shoulder.
He leans his head to one side and raises a brow. ‘Not without giving me a kiss you’re not.’
I sigh as if to turn and kiss him is the biggest chore of my life but little men in my stomach are dancing in delight. Lifting my feet back into the car, I press my lips to his. ‘Have a good day, Mr Ryans.’
‘And you, Miss Heath.’
I’m still smiling when Kenneth pulls away from the kerbside and honks his horn as he weaves into rush-hour traffic.
‘I sit every day just waiting for my chance and now you’ve found yourself a rich man. Tell me I can still hope?’
I smile at Paul sitting on the ground by the entrance to my office block, his plastic cup empty in front of him. He must be freezing. His sleeping bag is wrapped around him and only a piece of cardboard separates his body from the bitterly cold concrete. He’s shivering but as charming as always.
I crouch in front of him. ‘Did you manage to get a space to sleep last night?’ I ask, placing my two pound coins into his cup.
He nods. ‘Got a bed.’
‘Did you indeed?’
‘Sure did, I’ve been winking at my soup angel. She’s falling for me, I know it. She keeps looking out for me.’
‘So all that business about still hoping for a chance is rubbish; you’ve found yourself a soup angel?’
He chuckles, the kind that lifts his shaking shoulders. Though I’m smiling, my heart breaks for Paul, the young man with no home, no possessions and whose story I don’t know but who can laugh and smile and be polite despite everything.
I open my bag, not at all worried that he might try anything funny because he never has, and hand him my wool gloves. ‘Here, take these. I’m sorry about the bows.’
‘I think they’ll look good on me.’ He smiles.
‘Me too.’
