Page 42 of The Player

“Not really, Frankie. Joan had a little accident last night.”

“What?” I say shrilly, struggling up and losing the phone. Con retrieves it and puts it on speaker.

“George, you’ve got Con too,” he says. “What’s up?”

There’s a brief startled silence, and I know George is wondering why we’re together this early in the morning. I feel a blush on my cheeks, and Con reaches out and caresses the hot skin with his thumb.

“Joan fell last night. She’s in hospital.”

“Oh my god, is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” he says immediately. “She’s broken her wrist, but they kept her in because she banged her head.”

I slump. “Thank god,” I breathe.

“We’re coming back today anyway,” Con says.

“Can it be as soon as possible, Con? We’ve got the Palmers coming in to pick up their order, and I’ve got to be at the hospital to pick up Joan.”

“No problem.”

I stand up and slide off the bed. Con gives me an impossibly hot look as I stand naked for a second and then focuses back on the phone.

“What time are they coming in?” he asks.

“Nine.”

He checks his watch. “We should be able to make it.”

I throw my clothes on. “I’ll go and pay the bill,” I whisper and leave him talking to George about the last-minute arrangements for the order.

When I get back to the room, he’s in the shower.

“I’ll pack for you,” I say into the bathroom, trying to ignore the way the water flows in rivulets down that marvellous body.

He removes his toothbrush from his mouth, where he’s currently multitasking. “We need to talk,” he says through a mouthful of foam.

I pause, feeling my stomach dip. “Yes?” I say nervously.

He puts up a hand and rests it on the glass enclosure. “Yes, but nothing bad. Promise, Frankie.”

“Okay then.” I nod nervously. “I’ll pack your stuff.”

However, we’re obviously doomed not to talk because my phone rings just as we get into his truck. I look down and groan. “It’s Mr Simpson.”

“No,” he says crossly. “We need to talk.”

“Will we be paying several thousand pounds for the privilege?”

He slumps. “No.”

“I’m sure he won’t be long. He’s a windbag, but even he can’t talk for the entire journey.”

A couple of hours later, we pull up outside work. I finally say goodbye and massage my ear.

“Okay,” I say, seeing Con’s wry look. “I was wrong. Hecantalk for the entire journey. If I’m honest, I think he could go all day.” I smile nervously at him. “Sorry,” I say.

He reaches over and kisses me, and my predominant emotion is surprise because it’s as easy and natural as if he’s been doing it for years.

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