Page 24 of Rough Around the Hedges

I had to meet him to clear this up.

I’d been too pissed off when he’d handed me the closure notice to hold anything resembling a civil conversation with him, but I was smart enough to know that I needed to find out where we stood before speaking with him.

It was easier if I could justify my rage.

Otherwise, I was just a crazy, angry woman.

It was more acceptable to society to be ajustifiedcrazy, angry woman.

Not that I gave two hoots about what society thought of me, but it was nice to give off that opinion every now and then.

It confused people when I was reasonable, after all.

I tapped my fingers against my steering wheel and stared at my phone screen. I didn’t have a direct contact number for him, and that was both very pleasing and very irritating in my eyes.

Pleasing because I didn’t actually want his phone number—for more than one reason—and annoying because it meant I had to go through God only knew how many people to get hold of him.

If there was anything I wanted less than Oliver de Havilland’s personal phone number, it was having to jump through hoops to speak to him.

Such was the conundrum of my life.

Did I get the phone number of the person I’d hoped to never see again? Or did I force myself to go through hell every time I needed him for something?

Either way, I was sure to suffer.

Ugh.

Why had I let my inner slut take over that night?

No. I was all for letting my inner slut out whenever she pleased, but I really needed to set some ground rules with my horniness.

For example… Why hadn’t I even bothered to get his name? Or ask what he did? Or find out anything about him before I’d stripped myself naked and fucked his face?

Names, at least, were apparently very important when there was feral face fucking going on.

If only that was the only feral thing I did that night.

Sigh.

Sitting here ruminating about some of the best sex of my life was not going to solve this problem.

I dialled the number I’d been given with a stab of my thumb against my screen and set it on loudspeaker, resting my wrist on top of my steering wheel.

“Hello, you’ve reached the office of the Duke of Hanbury,” a male voice I didn’t recognise crackled down the line.

“Oh, hello. I’m looking for Luke Butler,” I replied.

“Speaking.”

He could have started with that. Wasn’t it polite to introduce yourself when answering the phone in a workplace?

“I’m Rose Matthews, the allotment committee chair. I’d like to arrange a meeting with the duke.”

“Of course, Miss Matthews. I’ve been expecting your call.”

It felt like I was talking to a Bond villain’s secretary right now. Was he sitting in an overly tall-backed leather chair stroking a very fluffy cat?

If so, I didn’t care for the chair, but I was pretty jealous about the cat thing.

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