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‘Don’t!’ Kit chuckled. ‘My director would kill me if I did.’

‘All those adoring fans would have to miss out on ogling you on stage,’ she teased.

‘It’s my acting they’re interested in, I’ll have you know,’ he said, grinning.

They made their way towards the rink, where everyone was wrapped up warmly and having fun – teenagers shrieking and messing around, children moving confidently as they hung onto plastic penguins, their proud parents skating nervously alongside. Kit seemed to hesitate for a moment, and Fliss grinned at him.

‘Getting cold feet? No pun intended.’

Kit threw back his head with laughter. ‘Of course not. You?’

‘Never!’

‘It’s OK to be scared,’ he teased her. ‘I’ll look after you, I promise.’

‘You’re the scaredy cat worried about falling over,’ she reminded him.

He held out his hand and Fliss took it, their fingers interlinked, palm against palm. His eyes met hers, desire flashing across them. Then they stepped out onto the ice together, Fliss praying that she wouldn’t fall. But whether it was muscle memory or natural talent, she glided easily across the rink, Kit beside her.

It was exhilarating, and Fliss experienced a moment of pure joy. Life was good right now. She had a job that she loved, and now she had met a great guy. Kit was funny, charming and sexy, and the chemistry between them was electric.

They made a few circuits of the rink, talking and laughing together. Fliss wished the afternoon could last forever, this sense of happiness and the delicious anticipation of what might be to come. She didn’t want the moment to end, but she knew Kit had a performance that evening and would be due at the theatre later.

‘What time do you— Oh!’ Fliss cried, as a guy skated too close to her, showing off to his friends. He almost crashed into her, before speeding off again, leaving Fliss wobbling precariously, her feet sliding under her. She threw out her arms to try and keep her balance but it was no good. She started to slip.

The next moment Fliss felt strong arms around her, holding her up as her feet scrabbled to find their balance. She managed to right herself, her heart racing, as she realised she was in Kit’s arms, pressed against his broad chest.

‘It’s OK. I’ve got you,’ he murmured, his voice low and gravelly.

Fliss gazed up at him, her breath coming fast. A look of longing passed between them, and time seemed to slow. Then Kit’s lips were on hers, soft and warm, a lingering sweetness from the hot chocolate. Fliss felt as though her very core was melting, heat growing low in her belly, spreading throughout her body as the kiss deepened.

Right now, Fliss didn’t want to think about anything else – about Tara, or about where this relationship might go. She felt a warmth flood through her from her head right down to her toes, as she pressed herself closer to him. Fliss’s body had never responded to anyone like this before, fireworks exploding, an ache that filled her whole body.

She wrapped herself more tightly around Kit. She wanted more.

Chapter 15

Tara was throwing one of her legendary parties. All evening, friends, acquaintances and hangers-on had been traipsing up the imposing stone steps of her family’s house in Ladbroke Grove, bringing bottles of booze and assorted gifts. Drawn in by the Oliver kudos, her West End success and her knack of getting all the right people through the stuccoed entrance, it was the place to be and she was the it girl of the moment.

The run of This Is Us had come to a triumphant end last weekend, meaning that Tara finally had a Saturday night off, and she intended to make the most of it, throwing a wild house party in celebration. She was dressed to the nines, her long blonde hair tumbling down her back, her outfit a tiny waistcoat and hot pants that didn’t leave much to the imagination, knee-high slouchy leather boots that accentuated her tanned and toned legs. There was no doubt that this was Tara’s night, and she was laser-focused on making everything go her way tonight, her sights set on the biggest prize of all: Kit Forrest.

So far, he had proved immune to her charms. Whenever they went out with the cast and crew, he would join in but kept his distance from her. If Tara invited him to dinner, or on a date, he made an excuse. She would have suspected there was someone else, but he never mentioned a girlfriend and no one ever turned up in his dressing room after the show.

Tara had agonised over the situation, discussing it endlessly with her housemates. Perhaps he was too professional, Sally had suggested, and didn’t want to ruin their onstage chemistry by dating in real life. Tara had grasped that theory with both hands, telling herself that once the play was over they would have their chance, imagining that when all that pent-up frustration was finally released she would have some of the best sex of her life. And tonight was to be the night.

Tara sashayed through the crowd, teetering on her heels. The house was busy already, and one of her friends had agreed to DJ, bringing his decks and blasting out Basement Jaxx.

‘India! It’s so good to see you,’ she cried, hugging an old schoolfriend.

‘Have you met Damon? My new boyfriend?’

‘No, it’s so nice to meet you,’ Tara said, air-kissing him in welcome and giving India a look of approval.

‘Congrats on the play, Tara,’ interrupted another old friend, Cesca. ‘The reviews were amazing. You’re, like, practically famous now.’

‘Hardly, but it’s a good start,’ Tara grinned. It was true, the reviews had been incredible and although most of them found Kit exceptional, Tara had also been singled out for praise. Her agent had received lots of enquiries about her availability for a variety of projects, and Tara knew she had to pick her next move carefully, to capitalise on the momentum. There was even talk of a revival of This Is Us in the West End or on Broadway, if the whole cast could make the dates work. ‘Have you got a drink?’ Tara asked her friends. ‘Amazing! I need a top-up so I’ll catch up with you later.’

She squeezed through to the kitchen, noticing with approval the large stash of alcohol on the farmhouse table, generous gifts from the guests. Her gaze drifted over the various bottles, and she moved to the fridge where she knew a bottle of Moët was chilling. Screw it, she was Tara Oliver, and she deserved champagne! She popped the cork, much to the approval of the partygoers who cheered raucously. She poured it into a plastic cup – she had hidden her parents’ vintage flutes in a box under the stairs – and moved through the crowd once again, keeping her eyes peeled.