‘You’re wasted in a classroom. You should be in advertising.’
‘Ha, no. Give me children over office politics any day. And I really don’t think I’d get a lot of work done with him around.’
‘What about under him? Tempting, right?’ I roll my eyes at Vee’s suggestion. ‘Or on top of him, hurriedly stripping him out of his suit.’
‘He must’ve been out at meetings today. He doesn’t often wear a suit.’ He’s also not wearing those black framed glasses he sometimes wears, the same pair that make him look like a sexy superhero, ready to whip off his kit at a moment’s notice to satisfy the damsel in distress.Rescue, I totally meant rescue.
‘Um-hmm?’ Vee’s hum sounds like a singular raised eyebrow. ‘He doesn’t wear a suit normally? So tell us, darling Heather, what does he normally wear to the office? Or for that matter, what does he wear in your dreams?’
‘I do not dream about him, and we’re not having this conversation right now.’ I fold my arms across my chest and slide her a stern look. It’s not like I follow his movements or anything, unlike the women in reception or Em, my intern, who I swear almost swoon as he passes. But I do have eyes. ‘Because I’m not interested in having it.’
‘Having it or having him, hmm? Do we think the lady doth protest too much, Dais?’
‘Oh . . . bugger off,’ I retort, pushing back my chair. ‘I’m off to the loo. Would you please make sure you order somepatatas bravaswhen the waitress eventually turns up?’
Without waiting for their response, I take off in the opposite direction of the illicit lovebirds, hoping the restrooms are in the direction of the bar rather than the other way. I don’t want to walk past Archer’s illicit love-in.
I love my friends; they really are the best. But sometimes, I need the space to escape before I say something daft. Or offensive. Or just wrong. Social settings aren’t my happy space, and while I don’t feel on edge when I’m hanging out with the girls, I still get the fleeting sense now and again that I don’t belong. It’s something I’ve worked on, but if I’m tired or frazzled or just down, it’s easy to let these thoughts take hold.
I find the restrooms, and once my hands are washed and my self-talk endured, I pull open the door and step into the dimly lit hallway. I hope I can get back to my seat without Archer spotting me because while see no evil, hear no evil, and take no evil gossip back to the office is how I operate, he doesn’t know that. And I could do without being hassled.
I battle through the Thursday party crowd (who would’ve thought Thursdays were so popular?) when I decide I’m probably being ridiculous. There’s not much chance he would recognise me. It’s not like we work together, and we sit in on very few of the same meetings. Mainly just the Monday meeting of department heads.
‘Hey, hello! It’s Holly, isn’t it?’
I startle at the light touch to my elbow and the deep voice at my ear. And to be honest, startled doesn’t quite cover it as I turn, look up, then look up again to find those brilliant blue eyes staring down at me, a dazzling smile completing the Archer Powell effect. ‘You work at E11even, right? In PR?’ His expression falters a little, the action bringing me back to myself.
‘Digital marketing.’ I shake my head as though shaking away tiny cobwebs. ‘And it’s Heather, actually.’
‘Right, sorry.’ Despite his apology, his demeanour doesn’t betray even a hint of concern. I mean, getting my name wrong is not exactly a great start, but he seems wholly untroubled by it. He also doesn’t seem to be the slightest bit anxious at being spotted.Or rumbled.I also notice he doesn’t introduce himself either, as if I couldn’t fail to know who he is.God, what a big head.‘It’s packed in here tonight.’
‘It seems we’re not the only ones out for a few straight from the office.’ I return his guileless smile with one of my own because two can play at that game.
‘Yeah, I suppose Thursday is the new Friday, right?’ His hand smooths his tie against his torso, drawing attention to the flat planes of his abdominals.I bet they’re like a washboard under that shirt.The thought has no sooner risen and I’m pushing it away.
I’ve never really given myself the opportunity to have a good look at him. Maybe I was conscious of being caught, but also because I’d decided looking at him, really looking at him, would be a bit like looking at the sun.As in dangerous. But I’m looking now, and I’m noticing all sorts of little things. He has the kind of cheekbones you could sharpen knives on, same with his jaw, for that matter, along with a blade straight nose. But these are the very obvious and striking reasons you can’t help but notice him. It would be a bit like trying to ignore the sweet aroma drifting out from a bakery when you’re halfway through Monday of a new diet. Of course you inhale, just a little, but it doesn’t mean your feet will take you through the door to gorge. But then there are the other things, the elements that elevate the man’s gorgeousness. Like he has the most elegant brows I’ve ever seen on a man. They don’t appear be shaped or plucked or waxed, but wholly natural.
Archer Powell is #blessed not to have to suffer through a monthly threading session like some of us.
The shadow of dark hair covers his face, a semi-permanent look for him. Why do we find stubble so attractive on men? The bad-boy look that suggests a devil-may-care attitude.Sorry, it says,I didn’t have time to shave today because I was up late last night doing other things. And by doing things, I mean doing other people.
Charming, right?
And then to round off the ridiculousness, the man has freckles. Not a face full as I did as a kid, but rather a dappling, like a shower of light kisses bestowed from the sun. They seem far too light-hearted and frivolous to appear on such a man, but now that I’ve seen them, I can’t help but think he’d look almost ordinary without them.
He smiles down at me again, and I find myself thinking he’s so handsome, it’s little wonder he has a trail of women following him. I doubt even a wooden leg would detract from his appeal. It’d just make him easier to catch. Because as I understand it, up until now, he’s yet to becaughtby anyone from E11even.And plenty have tried, according to Emika.And though Clara is technically no longer a staff member, that’s not the issue here. The issue is she’s the big boss’s daughter, and this idiot has a reputation that’s risking his career. Which just proves the rumour mill right, because only a true man whore would put his libido in front of his livelihood.
‘I’m off to the bar. Can I get you a drink?’ Ah, the old lady’s man moves. Except I find I have to remind myself that I’m not his quarry tonight. This offer is more in the vein ofcan I detain you for the purposes of sounding you out?Or aplease let me get you a drink to give me the time and opportunity to discover if you’ve seen me with the boss’s daughter sitting in that there very secluded corner?
‘Thank you, but I have one.’ I gesture vaguely in the direction of our table, noting this time the fleeting flicker of concern.Yep, that’s right. It appears my table is in the same space as yours. Who’s a naughty boy, then?‘Do you live out this way?’ I ask, my expression blank.
‘Shoreditch. You?’
I shake my head. ‘Crouch End. You’re a long way out.’
‘I could say the same for you.’
‘Hey, did you eat one of the cupcakes in the kitchen today?’ I ask, because there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Or make the manwhore uncomfortable.
