Page 90 of The One That I Want

‘We don’t know, and until we do…’

‘Right. I understand.’ But Idon’tunderstand. This whole thing must be a huge misunderstanding – or just a coincidence.Twocoincidences. In a row. Hmm, not likely.

‘See you there. And Greta? No matter what, I trust you implicitly and I will have your back, all right?’

At least there’s that. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you at two-thirty.’

When the call ends, I sit with my phone in my hands, feeling powerless.

A month ago, I was riding high, smashing it professionally with my own vertical. I was also happily single – okay, that’s bollocks, but at least I wasn’t consumed by dating, desperate to land the perfect man. Perfect forme, that is. By most metrics,Harrisonis the perfect man, and no one is more astonished than me that I didn’t lock in plans for a second date.

‘But there’s “perfect on paper” and then there’s reality,’ I tell myself.

My phone chimes again, reminding me I need to tell Tiggy I can’t meet her for lunch. Hopefully, she hasn’t left already. I head back to the sofa and retrieve my phone. It is a message from Tiggy and I call her immediately.

‘Hey. Sorry, but I won’t be able to make lunch,’ she says.

‘Well, I was just about to cancel on you, so… Out of interest, why can’t you make it?’

She laughs her throaty laugh and someone giggles in the background.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You’re still out.’ This makes me wonder if she’s read my message from last night. I navigate to it, seeing it was delivered but remains unread.

‘Um, yeah,’ she says. ‘But how ’bout I pop over later, for dinner? We can order takeaway and you can tell me all about your date with Mountain Man.’

‘Sure, sounds good,’ I say – though I have no idea if an all-hands-on-deck-including-OH-MY-GOD-Amelia-Windsor meeting will run long.

The giggling gets louder. ‘Apple, give me a sec,’ says Tiggy to the giggler. ‘Sorry, babes. Gotta go.’

The call ends abruptly.

If I were remotely attracted to my best friend – and her to me – I can only imagine the sexual adventures I’d be a part of.

I glance at the clock. I have just over an hour before I need to leave, but I should probably change out of my lunch outfit into something more work appropriate.

I head to my bedroom and stare at my open wardrobe. What the hell do I wear to a meeting with my boss andherboss to determine how to handle a mole sharing our secrets with a competitor?

My ringtone shakes me from my thoughts, and I dash back to the lounge room and grab it from its spot on the sofa.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Greta, it’s Poppy.’

‘Oh. Hi.’

‘Am I calling at a bad time?’

‘Er, no,’ I lie as I think of the multitude of reasons I don’t have the time – or the mental space – to speak to her right now.

‘Oh, good. I was just wondering how it went last night – with Harrison.’

I heave out a frustrated sigh before I can temper my response, and Poppy laughs.

‘That good, huh?’ she asks.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just… Heh…’

‘Was that a laugh?’ she asks.

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