In the bar, Miles greets the barman with uncharacteristic warmth and orders two glasses of champagne.
‘That okay?’ He pulls a low chair out for me and I sink into it with a groan, tugging off my coat. He glances down my body before quickly averting his eyes and throwing his outdoor clothing onto a spare chair.
‘Lovely,’ I say. ‘You seem to know the competition well.’
‘Always. It’s a small world at the top of the hotel industry. My parents used to drag us relentlessly round the best hotels in London so they could check out what everyone else was doing.’
‘Did you always know you wanted to take over from them?’
He cocks his head and considers. I feel like even more of animposter here than I did in Selfridges, but I push the feeling firmly down. I’m with Miles Montague, who’s presumably one of the hottest and most eligible entrepreneurs in London, and right now, I have him to myself. So all the gorgeous women out there who’ve set their sights on him will have to wait.
Enjoy it, I tell myself sternly.Loosen up and enjoy this for what it is: a pleasant, friendly drink with your generous, and impossibly gorgeous, boss. The champagne arrives, and I take a sip. It’s cold and refreshing and delicious.
‘I was always interested,’ he says slowly. ‘They would have been pissed off if I hadn’t wanted to take over, yes, but I wanted it enough that I didn’t feel pressured. To be honest, I was itching to get my hands on our hotels business before I even left uni. There were too many things I disagreed with them on.’
‘Really? Like what?’ I lean forward, clasp my hands over my knees.
‘They were old-fashioned. Not in terms of aesthetics, but thinking. They were good at investing in what they saw as the showpieces: bars and restaurants. They didn’t see the wellness trend coming, not even when it was firmly established. I had to push them.
‘But the main trend we disagreed on was couples versus families. Take the Montague. It’s always been a family hotel, but families with a large travel budget want more. They don’t just want a babysitter; they want their kids to have as good a time as them and they want to spend quality time together. My parents lost that traffic because they rested on their laurels.’
‘Was The Playroom your idea?’
‘Yeah.’ He grins. ‘First thing I did when I took over the reins. They thought I was insane, giving that gorgeous corner of the hotel over to kids. But we’ve reaped the rewards.’
‘It’s an amazing space. So, you came up with that even before you were a dad yourself?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s not rocket science. You just have to look around you. Pay attention. And stay humble. I’m not sure my parents were very good at the latter. Oh, and never, ever get comfortable. Which leads me to ask you: what are we missing?’
He’s talking to me like an equal, for probably the first time. It’s heady stuff. No wonder he gets model-grade women. No wonder he’s the CEO of a super-successful global hotel chain. Right now, I’d do whatever he said. Whatever he wanted.
The weight of his attention goes to my head a little, and it gives me the confidence to answer as if he’s seriously asking, as if he’s really interested in my reply. And so I tell him about my experiences in The Playroom, and my suggestion that the hotel has so much behind-the-scenes magic to offer the children of VIP guests, based on Bea’s morning in the pastry kitchen. And he listens. He listens and interjects and asks questions and even pulls out his phone to take notes.
And all the while, the warm glow of his conversation and proximity and of the champagne grows, and a bubble of happiness expands inside me, and when he laughs and flashes his dimples just for me, I consider how easy and yet insane and inappropriate and impossible it would be to climb onto his lap and tuck my head into the crook of his neck and put my hand on one of those firm, hairy pecs that I haven’t remotely been able to forget.
My thoughts must be showing on my face, because he frowns at me.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ I blush. Put down my glass. ‘Just hot. It’s boiling in here, isn’t it?’ I reach down for the hem of my polo neck, which I put back on before we left Selfridges but whichis far too hot to wear in here, and pull it off in one move. And when I get it off and blow my hair away from my face, his gaze slides up to my face, as if it’s been somewhere else entirely, and he squirms in his chair, and grimaces as if he’s in pain, and crosses his legs.
‘It is hot.’ He tugs at his tie to loosen it and undoes the top button of his shirt, and damned if my jaw doesn’t fall open at the tiniest glimpse of his collarbones. I look down at my lap in embarrassment. My skirt really is quite short when I’m sitting down like this, even though I have opaque tights on. I tug it down and pat it and avoid his eyes while he flags down a server.
‘Two more,’ he says. Excellent. Because another glass of champagne is going to do wonders for my soaring libido and ability to hold myself together in front of this man.
And then I start babbling. ‘This is the problem at this time of year. Layers. You have to wrap up so warm outside, and then the shops and hotels are sweltering, and you have to strip off as soon as you get inside. Not stripoff. I mean—that would be inappropriate, obviously—but remove layers. And then you’re trying to shop with your arms full of coats and scarves.’ I pause and shake my head primly. ‘It’s a nightmare.’
‘Indeed.’ He frowns. He still looks like he’s in pain.
‘You know, Miles.’ I’ll do anything, now, to keep the conversation flowing and avoid thinking about how much I would like to undo the rest of those shirt buttons, and why, if I’m so hot in here, my nipples are now pinched to the point of pain under my t-shirt and my bra. Anything. I push on.
‘I’m not trying to angle for overtime, but while you have me, you should make good use of me.’
Oh, good Lord.
Not the right turn of phraseat all.
His eyes widen.
