“All right,” I say.
Sean looks at me again, briefly. Not unfriendly. Not friendly either. He has the expression of someone reserving judgement until the evidence stops being inconvenient.
I accept the coffee from Josh and take a sip.
It is hot enough to remove a layer of tongue and strong enough to qualify as performance-enhancing drugs.
“Good?” Josh asks.
“Very,” I say, once I can feel my face again.
Before I can decide whether this is a test I have passed or failed, footsteps cross the station corridor.
Josh glances towards the doorway.
A moment later, Philippa Hart appears in the kitchen.
I have seen her photograph.
That should have helped.
It does not.
In the article photo, she was in uniform, helmet tucked under one arm, expression calm enough to imply she had once personally negotiated with a burning building and won. In person, out of uniform, she is somehow more intimidating and less intimidating at the same time.
She is wearing dark jeans, sturdy boots and a green jumper under an open jacket. Her hair is short and dark, cropped close around her face in a deliberately messy waythat should probably look careless but very much does not. Soft spikes. Feathered edges. A fringe that looks as if it has been told to behave and has agreed only in principle. It suits her annoyingly well, sharp enough for work, soft enough to make my brain briefly forget why I am here.
There is a hint of makeup, so subtle I only notice because it makes her eyes look even darker. Blue. Not bright. Deep. The sort of blue that makes you realise colours have been underperforming elsewhere.
She is tall.
Not as tall as my six foot four, but tall enough that she enters a room without disappearing into it. Strong, too, in a way that has nothing to do with gym mirrors or vanity. Practical strength. Useful strength.
And she is, unhelpfully, cute.
No.
Not cute.
Cute is a dangerous word for a woman who could probably order me into a ditch and make it sound like policy.
Attractive, then.
Very attractive.
Possibly sexy, if I were a man with no instinct for self-preservation and a spectacularly poor grasp of recent professional history.
Which, given I am currently standing in her workplace because I wrote an article that made her life more difficult, is not a thought I will be allowing to develop. Absolutely not. Personal growth may be in its early stages, but I am trying to water it.
Her gaze moves from Josh to me.
Stops.
I stand straighter, because apparently my body has decided posture might help.
“AJ Hodgson,” Josh says. “Watch Manager Hart.”
She steps into the room.
