‘He’ll sign,’ Derek said quietly, pushing a pen into my hand.
My temper flared immediately, but it quietened just as quickly.
He was right. Butterflies had been my chance to avoid the label’s machinations. They weren’t going to give me another.
I stared over the contract at the woman I was signing away my soul to.
Jessy sighed dramatically, rolled her eyes and pulled the pen out of my hands. ‘I’ll go first. It’s just five weeks,’ she said firmly, clearly avoiding the triumphant glint in her friend’s eye. ‘I can put up with you for five weeks.’
Well. It wasn’t the best start.
SIX
Let me wine you, dine you, align you to the very best of me, the worst of who I could have been but I chose to be here for you …
–from ‘The Worst Best First Date’, by These Exiles
WELL. THIS WASN’T THE best start.
Look, I’d never been someone to forbid someone else from being on their phone all the time. I’d had enough dressing-downs from Karun to know that my phone was rarely out of my hand.
But this? This was just plain rude.
I slowly turned my fork around and around in my fingertips as I stared at the man sitting opposite me, his eyes flickering as he scrolled on his phone.
Patrick Tetlow.
They say you should never meet your heroes, and now I knew why.
It was unfair how hot he was. All chiselled jawbone and effortlessly cool hair. That smile he gave on socials – it always looked so cheeky, so unbelievably easy.
But I was quickly finding that it was all a facade.
ThisPatrick, the real Patrick, was aloof. Cold. And, currently, ignoring me.
Maybe it was because the restaurant was busy, and I’d already noticed people at other tables taking what they clearly thought were secret photos. My chest burned at the way they looked at me. Appraisingly.
What is she doing with him?
I looked back at the man in question. I’d hardly known what to expect from our first ‘date’, but it wasn’t this.
Patrick Tetlow. Party-crashing, hotel-smashing, model-pulling, assistant-hassling Patrick Tetlow. If this evening had been full of manic energy and ended in a visit from the police, then, yeah, I would have believed it.
Instead, we were forty minutes into a meal that felt like it would last forever, and we’d exchanged, what, no more than a dozen words?
‘What are you doing?’
I almost dropped the fork. Patrick was glaring at me from the other side of the expensive table in a restaurant that was so exclusive you couldn’t find it online. ‘What?’
‘You’re counting on your fingers.’
So?‘Just counting.’
Patrick’s glower could stop traffic. ‘Counting what?’
Counting down the minutes until this is over.Was this the type of scintillating conversation I had to look forward to over the next five weeks? I’d had better chats with Cathy.
Instead of answering, I simply shrugged and placed my fork on my almost empty plate. Patrick had clearly lost interest, or perhaps he’d never had any.
