Page 15 of Surprise Me Tonight
I keep my eyes on the machine. “Yeah, Jess found me a local one.”
“A miracle, I’d say.”
“We were lucky, I guess. But I’m not convinced she’ll work out.” We move to the end of the counter to wait for my coffee.
“Why?” Jasper looks confused.
“Because she is… different. We clashed at the interview already. Something Jess thought was a good sign, but I’m not sure.”
“You had an argument with her?”
“Well, not directly. She… she was all quiet and shy until I asked her where I knew her from. She looked really familiar. Then she turned into this feisty spitfire, bit my head off because I ignored her when we bumped into each other… well, here. Apparently I was distracted by some yoga beauty.”
“Sounds like you,” Jasper laughs.
“No mate, it must’ve been something else. Because trust me, that arse on her? You wouldn’t miss it.”
The barista places my coffee down with just a bit too much force. A splash over the rim before she can get the lid on. She mumbles an apology and grabs a cloth.
“I tell you, it’s an arse I can’t stop thinking about.”
“Uh oh. Hands off the PA, remember.” One of Jasper’s first warnings when he helped me grow my company: do not dip your dick in the company ink. I’ve never broken that rule.
“I know.” I rake my fingers through my hair. “That’s why I’m not sure this is such a good idea. The fact that she seems to think I’m an arsehole just makes me want her more.”
“Your coffee,” the barista barks, sliding the cleaned-upcup — now with a lid — across the counter. I give her a smile. She doesn’t return it.
Jasper smirks into his drink. “You do have a way with the locals.”
I shrug and take my cup.
I need to stop talking, stop thinking, and most of all, stop fantasising about Stella.
Jasper’s right.
No touching the PA.
Chapter 6
Stella
Istare at themirror, arms crossed, like I’m waiting for it to make a decision for me.
I’ve done the prep. Two weeks commuting into London for training, shadowing Jess, learning how to slot myself into the well-oiled machine that is Callum Wright’s business. Not that he was ever part of the training. He showed up once. Didn’t speak to me. Just looked. That look that’s not quite a smile, not quite a frown, just an intensity that makes it feel like he’s seeing more than you’ve said.
And still, it did something to me.
I shift my weight and glance at the dress again. The forest green wrap one I ordered late at night and immediately told myself I wasn’t buying for him.
It’s fitted. Clean lines, a soft v-neck, a bit of leg. Not over the top. But not something I’d normally wear, either. Definitely not for work.
I smooth the fabric over my hips and frown at the mirror.
Am I too old for this?
At twenty-five, this would’ve been confident. At thirty, maybe daring. At forty-two, divorced, with a daughter at university and a wardrobe full of sensible black trousers, it feels like a bloody statement.
Who am I dressing like this for?
