James... Harry... whoeverheis, is standing in my office space, all gorgeous fair hair and twinkling blue eyes. And that suit? Total office porn. Steel grey, summer weight, the fine fabric clings to his strong thighs. A blue button-down open at the neck that brings out the brilliance of his eyes.
God, I bet he’ll make beautiful babies sometime.
Not with me, obviously.
‘Hello, Heather.’ He does a double take that makes me roll my lips together to stifle a chuckle. Of course, this is his first look atoffice attire Heather. At the speed dating evening, she’d pulled off demure with ballet flats and a smart looking shirt and skirt combo, but on a regular day, my cousin is all about graffitied Doc Martin boots and leggings paired with one of a number of brightly coloured tutus. She might even break out a statement T-shirt or ten. This morning’s is a black affair adorned with flowers and cursive script that declares:
Grow a Pair
It’s not until a second look that you see the flowers aren’t in vases but woven into the appearance of a pair of ovaries.
Anyway, I’ll give him credit, whoever he is—Harry? James?—with the manners not to make it obvious he’s surprised.
‘Are you here to see Olivia?’ Heather asks without waiting for an answer. ‘She’s not in today. She’s ill.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he answers smoothly, ‘but I’m actually here to see Miranda.’
‘What?’ I ask sharply as Heather squeaks, ‘Really?’
‘Is there a problem?’ He uses that easy tone of his as he slides his hands into the pockets of his pants, almost rocking back on his heels.
Bastard. He’s enjoying this way too much. What kind of a douche lord turns up to a girl’s place of work when she’s already intimated it’s off-limits? Thatshe’soff-limits? Did the fact that I snuck out of his bed without leaving my phone number mean anything to him at all?
‘I thought I might steal you away for lunch.’
I’m already shaking my head before he’s finished this sentence, but I find I also have to bite my lip against the urge to retort,like you stole my knickers, because they were nowhere in sight that morning.
‘Sorry. I can’t.’ Using the key still in my hand, I bend and unlock my desk drawer again. ‘I have far too much work to do. You know, with Olivia being ill.’ My words fall out in a rush, and I can’t bring myself to look at him because no good can come of this. Because looking leads to touching, and touching leads to all kinds of other things.
‘You just said you were going for a sandwich.’
No, I was going for a pregnancy test—in relation to my relations with that man!
I find I can look at Heather, even if I wish I hadn’t because I can almost see the cogs whirring in her brain, the million questions being formed, questions that I’ll be bombarded with at some point later.
‘Yes. But. Well. That was before. Before I realised I’d already brought my lunch with me today.’
‘You know that squashed cereal bar you found last week at the bottom of your bag can’t be classified as lunch.’ Her expression is a strange combination of reflection and perverseness. You know that saying; give them enough rope? I feel like that’s what she’s handing me. Rope. Yards and yards of it. And whether I leave this office with him or not, I know I’m pretty much hung. Oh, for the love of God—hanged, not hung. That was not a Freudian slip in reference to what he has going on in his pants.
‘I just wanted to make sure you’re okay after Friday.’ His expression firms, a muscle clenching in his strong jaw.
‘Miranda’s very conscientious.’ Her attention turns to him. ‘She’s, like, the backbone of this office. She’s the marketing manager, you know.’ Why does she feel the need to talk me up? Hmm. I suppose because of the way I behaved on Friday night or him being a friend of Beckett’s. Unless there’s something else behind it. ‘But I’m sure she’s got time for a coffee.’
Is she trying to set me up?
‘I have so much to do.’ Some kind of primal sense of self-protection keeps me on my feet instead of leaning over the back of my chair as I wiggle my mouse in an attempt to bring my computer to life. When the screen in front of me doesn’t flicker, I do so again a little more violently. As an encore, I tap it against the side of the desk.
Hell. I already powered my computer down.
And then I realise they’re both staring at me.
‘I’m very, very busy.’
Busy freaking out.
‘Like you were Friday evening?’ Something in his manner causes my head to rise sharply. Was that a threat? ‘Getting busy.’
My fingers now poised over the silver keys, my mind snagging on his phrasing. This is one of those moments when you’repretty sureyou’ve misunderstood what’s been said but aren’t one hundred percent. But doesn’tgetting busymean—then the penny drops. Like an anvil.
