I sit up and reach for a water bottle on the bedside table, fortifying myself for another round. With a mischievous smile, she gathers a rope of her long, disheveled blond hair and trails it down my chest. I set the water aside and pull Brigitte close, rolling her beneath me.
My kisses are halfway down the path from her neck to one of those luscious pink nipples when my doorbell rings.
I ignore it, but when it rings again, Brigitte lifts her head. “Should you not…?”
“That’s correct—I shouldnot,” I tell her, sliding my knee between her thighs.
My mobile chimes and the doorbell rings a third time.
“Alexandaaaire,” Brigitte groans in frustration. “Allez! Make it stop…”
I sigh, leaning on an elbow and reaching for the mobile. “One moment, my dove—don’t you dare move your delectable arse.”
The line of text on my preview screen reads,Get up and open the door.
I slide a hand down my face. “Fuckin’ hell. It’s my mother.”
Brigitte yelps, leaping from the bed and scrambling to gather her clothes. “It is Nefeli? Mon Dieu…” She struggles into her jeans, not bothering to put on knickers first, and yanks a pale blue jumper over her head.
I pull on a dressing gown and knot the sash. “Just stay in here and she’ll never—” I fall silent as I hear the front door slam. “Scratch that. I forgot she has a key.”
Combing my fingers through my hair, I hurry toward the sound of clicking high-heeled shoes, hoping to cut her off at the pass. Suddenly she’s framed in the bedroom doorway, all five feet one inch of formidable terror, hands on her hips.
“Jesus wept,” my mother says with disgust. “I thought you promised ‘no more fishing off the company pier’? Bloody hell, we’ll lose another good freelancer.”
Brigitte looks near tears, clutching her wool coat and knee-high boots against herself. “My apologies, madame. Please—”
“Save your breath, love,” my mother interrupts. “You’re a talented photographer, and the magazine is lucky to have you.Just… please don’t quit when this turns into a disaster. There’s a good girl—see you Monday.” She waves in the general direction of the front door, and Brigitte rushes to leave without a backward glance.
As the front door slams, my mother turns on her heel and strides to my kitchen, opening and closing cupboards until she finds a box of PG Tips.
“I don’t need any myself,” I tell her.
“I’d not make you tea were you dying of thirst, so you’re in luck.” She splashes just a touch of water into the electric kettle—making it clear it’s only for herself—then flicks it on. “You’ve got the magazine threatened with a lawsuit.Again, I might add.”
“Oh? What now?”
Her icy look skewers me. “Wipe that smirk off your face. You’ve disgraced us with the blog I allowed you to link to theAuto Racing Journalwebsite—consolation, mind you, because you pouted like a child over Natalia Evans getting theARJ BuzzYouTube show.”
“That?” I scoff. “It’s all in good fun. Someone took offense?”
She straightens from digging in my fridge, milk carton in one hand. “Good fun?Are you thick? You said Emerald’s new driver fucked her way into the job. Neither she nor Phaedra Morgan will take this lying down.”
I pull a grape from the fruit bowl and pop it into my mouth. “Rumor has it Sage Sikoradidtake it lying down.”
“They want me to fire you, and I’ve half a mind to do it.”
My smile wilts. “You won’t.”
“No? Oh,dotell me more, Alekos.” She taps her sternum.“I had a Pulitzer before you could tie your shoes. Your father and I rescued a dozen magazines from the nineties print-media slump. What haveyoudone? You’re like a parody of a spoilt only child. You spend money and write when it suits you and noodle on the piano and chase women.” She points at my bedroom, then the front door. “Specifically and unhelpfully, screwing your way through my best talent, after promising not to.”
“Brigitte is freelance; I have no authority over her. And I haven’t so much as winked at an intern in months.”
She gives a sarcastic clap. “Congratulations on having cleared that low bar. Smartarsed thirty-one-year-old idler.” The kettle light flicks on, and she flips the switch off before pouring hot water into a mug. “My Godhow you test my patience. When we get on that call with Emerald today, if they—”
“Steady on,” I cut in, holding up a hand. “Whatcall?”
“With Emerald’s team principal.” She pours milk into her tea, then turns her wrist to peer at her watch. “In three minutes. Why do you think I was hanging on your bell?”
