Page 2 of For Fake's Sake and other stories

Would I get away with hitting Monty? Before I can put my thoughts into action, a hand lands on my back. I look over my shoulder. Shit, sexy-hot guy. But hang on. He’s here. With me. Why? What’s going on? Am I on some dumb reality show like The Only Way Is… whatever the fuck it was? Monty doesn’t seem to have noticed because his wife is still berating him.

This is the perfect time to make my escape. I step backwards, keeping my eyes on my enemy like an antelope watching a lion. Sexy-hot guy takes my hand, and we cautiously make our way to the front of the bar, yank open the door, and rush out onto the street.

We burst into laughter, hanging on to each other as tears stream over our faces.

“Oh my god! Did that just happen?” The door opens again, and the large shape of my nemesis comes through. “Shit, he’s coming. I’ve got to go.” I look around for a cab, but Monty calls my name. Fuck!

Then hands are in my hair, and hot, incredibly soft lips are pressing onto mine. Wow! Any thoughts are chased away by a tongue slipping over the seam of my lips. Automatically I part them, allowing this god of an incredibly sexy man to kiss me.

And what a kiss it is. The best kiss I’ve ever had. And that includes the kiss I shared with Archie Dawes in the locker room when I was in lower sixth. I grip his hips way tighter than Ishould, especially in the middle of the busy street. But he doesn’t mind, it seems. In fact, he leans in, and his hard erection nudges my equally aroused dick. One of us moans. Hopefully, it’s him. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day. It’s time to break this moment before I show myself up even more by coming in my pants.

His eyes are still closed, and he licks over his now swollen bottom lip. “He’s gone,” I whisper. My hero opens his eyes. His pupils shrink to reveal a pair of intense azure irises. Damn, he’s fucking perfect.

“You’re welcome.” He winks and steps away.

“Thanks. Can I have your number?” I ask. To my surprise, he nods. His phone rings.

“Fuck!” He holds up one finger to ask me to wait. “Yes, I’m on my way. I lost track of time at work. I’ll be there before the curtain goes up.” He shoves his phone back into his trouser pocket. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you.” He’s already jogging away.

“You don’t have my number,” I call after him. God, I sound like a petulant child.

“I’ll find it. There can’t be many Ollie Blinkhorns around.” He grins and darts off.

Fuck! I can’t get a break.

Three weeks later

“No phone call from your hot kisser?” Jack, my flatmate and best friend, flops down on the sofa and lets out a groan. “I hate my job.”

“No, you don’t. You love your job, and the small chance of bunions after standing on your feet is outweighed by theamazing discount you get and the chance to dress the rich and famous.”

Jack works at Tom Ford in Sloane Street, and I get to use his discount too, which means he is never allowed to leave.

“Damn. But Alfonse was sacked today,” he says with faux sadness. They are rivals, and Alfonse would try to steal Jack’s best customers.

“He can’t get sacked for stealing your clients, however much you want him to be.”

“No, I know that. But he can be sacked for telling a certain spoilt little girl that she resembled a bale of rags and to make the outfit look good, she should eat a decent fucking meal.”

“No waaaaay!” I’m a gossip whore, so sue me. “Wait, let me get wine. And then I want the whole story, including accents and stroppy fits that ensued from skinny-malinky and Alfonse.”

Jack doesn’t hold back. “You should’ve seen the histrionics. She was crying. Her sugar Daddy was yelling at Tory, who then turned to Alfonse. So while she’s eviscerating him, I, like a knight in shining armour, sweep in and tell the girl she’s beautiful and direct her to even more expensive outfits and bag a hefty commission and a huge tip from the Daddy. Alfonse is crying as he walks out the door. Tory calls me a treasure. Can you believe it? A treasure.” We’re both rolling around laughing. Then he sobers. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“That’s because it’s the same answer I’ve given you for the last two weeks. Nope, nothing from the incredibly cute and very sexy-hot arsehole guy.” I’m trying not to get too unhappy about it and failing miserably.

“Oh, maybe you had bad breath or something stuck in your teeth. He said he’d call, right?

“Fuck off.” I push him, but he laughs again.

“By the way, did you see the letter you got? I put it on the table.” Jack points to the small dining table.

“Okay.” I push up from my prone position on the sofa and wander over to the table in the alcove at the front of the room. The smart envelope, all posh cream-coloured paper looks like a wedding invitation. “Who do we know who’s due to get married?”

“Oh, god. No more weddings. I hate them. Smug couples who shove happiness down your throat along with cold salmon or overcooked chicken are not my idea of fun.” Jack collapses back theatrically.

I unfold the piece of paper, and my blood runs cold at the sight of the ostentatious crest at the top. Monty fucking Atkinson. “No, it’s worse. So much worse.”

“What is it?”

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