‘Aye.’
‘And he called you claw baws. Which is like saying you’re always touching yourself.’
‘That’s enough,’ I grumble. ‘Keep your translations to yourself.’
Will then sends me an arrogant smirk, one that neither befits his rank or station, but definitely his personality. He’s not done with his interrogation, or so he thinks. But me? My thoughts are on another plane as something catches my eye on the other side of the room.
A cherubic blonde. Petite, pink cheeked, and pale hair that curls around her ears. She looks a little agitated, a little uneasy, but more than that, the dark-haired girl with her back to me seems to be very annoyed.
Maybe it’s her annoyance that throws me off because it takes me a while to realise the girl with her back to me is Paisley. It’s not even as if I recognise her first. It’s her arse I recognise. Excuse me for going all Neanderthal for a minute, but fuck, that arse. You could stick a frame around it and hang it in theLouvre. On second thoughts, I don’t fancy the world and his wife staring at her derrière, even if it doesn’t belong to me.
It. Doesn’t. Belong. To. Me.
It’s a loaner, so to speak.
I’m considering getting my mind out of the crazy gutter when a man arrives at the table. A big fucker—maybe as tall as me but slim built. Dark slicked back hair, he looks like Clark Kent’s skinnier cousin and has clearly read the same magazine as Flynn, given the style of his eyewear. My stomach curls like my fists—like my hand around the coffee cup—as the blonde stands, kisses the big fucker’s cheek, then hightails it out of the place.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect. She’s on a date. She doesn’t look like she’s on a date—that’s not to say she doesn’t look gorgeous. She just doesn’t currently look like she does when she meets me.She looks like someone’s hot PA.
A date.Why did I not see that coming?And more to the point, why the fuck does it hurt? We’ve made no promises, and she’s a stunningly attractive woman, so why would she be holding out for Fridays with me?
‘Oi? Are you paying attention?’ Flynn asks, tapping a Mont Blanc on the small table between us.My Mont Blanc.
‘I was thinking.’ I scowl in his direction, though not because he’s “appropriated” my pen. ‘Stop dickin’ about.’
‘I’d wondered what that burning smell was,’ interjects Will. ‘Who pissed on your lollipop all of a sudden?’
‘I’ve just got shit to do. That’s all.’
‘Oh, right. And I haven’t got the tax man breathing down my neck, demanding my firstborn.’
‘Aye, so. Come on. Let’s move this thing along.’ And so we do, though I keep an eye on Paisley and the prat. And I manage. Mostly. At least until she’s drank half of her wine, when I decide to send her an unfair text.
What’s on the cards for trouble today, Trouble?
I watch as she turns over her phone, reads the text with a worried expression, then places it back down again.
I didnotsee that coming. I turn my attention away from the pair, feeling like I’ve been poked in the chest with one of Agnes’s knitting needles. I can’t look at her. I feel... angry. Betrayed. Hurt. Dismissed. Pissed off. Territorial and irrational. I feel like I could tear off some fucker’s head!
Then, through the red haze, the phone in my hand chimes.
No ballet classes and ice cream afternoons for this girl.I’ve stopped by to help Chastity. With work.
How? How is that work? Unless—maybe she’s taking a meeting for her pal. Though his skinny arse can’t be on the top of many women’s fantasies.Unless he’s like a tripod.
I look up again; he’s touching her arm. I am not overly enthused by her interview technique.
‘Ya, fuckin’ bastard,’ I growl, beginning to type on my phone again.
‘What?’ asks Flynn.
‘Nothin’. Just the sports results.’ They return to their meeting, ignoring me and my sudden sour mood.
You’re working on a Saturday?I type. ‘Better not be under him.’
People have been known to have sex on a Saturday.Some might suggest they do their best work on the weekends.
Is she talking about her or about him? My mind begins to reel as my thumbs go into overdrive.
