Page 3 of Surprise Me Tonight
“It’s not a wine fridge.”
“You researched it for three weeks.”
I give him a look. He doesn’t blink.
He gets to his feet, stretching slightly, jacket falling back into place. Always looks like he’s just come from a photoshoot forretired men who have their life sorted.
“I’ll be there Friday,” he says. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t throw your back out pretending you don’t need help.”
“Thanks.”
“Text me if anything goes tits up. And don’t hire anyone who puts ‘people person’ on their CV.”
He disappears through the door, leaving behind that faint trail of reassurance he always carries with him.
The silence that follows is louder somehow. I glance back at the screen in front of me, but the specs have blurred into shapes I’ve looked at too many times. I shut the laptop with more force than necessary.
It's not that I don't want the move. I do. I need it. I’ve built everything I was supposed to build—patents, profits, partnerships. Offices in three countries. But lately it allfeels like noise. Like I'm stuck inside a life that no longer fits but I can’t quite shrug off.
I used to wake up already thinking about what I could build next. Now I just wake up tired.
Everyone keeps telling me I’ve earned the quiet. Like there’s some manual out there that says once you hit a certain number of zeros in your account, you stop chasing. But I don’t know who I am without the chase. Without the pressure. Without the fire.
Maybe that’s the point of moving. Strip it all back and see what’s left.
I lean back in the chair and let out a slow breath.
Am I ready for a change?I’m not sure. I haven’t felt this uncertain about a decision in a long time.
But it’s happening. Friday. One more meeting. Two interviews. Then it’s boxes, vans, and a new postcode.
I run a hand over my face.
A few more days in the city. Then whatever comes next.
Whateverthisis.
Chapter 2
Stella
Ipick up mypace when theSteam & Bloomsign comes into view, already craving the caffeine hit. I didn’t sleep well last night. Again.
I’m almost at the door when it swings inward and reveals a man I haven’t seen in the village before. He’s somewhere around mid-thirties, I reckon. All tense shoulders and scruff, tattoos winding down both arms… and, all right, a bit of a fitty. Cargo shorts and a T-shirt in this weather just underline the vibe. He does what he wants and expects the world to work around him.
The man holding the door steps back letting Janet Morris breeze past in a waft of expensive perfume. Of course she’s here. When she’s not working—which mostly involves leaning on a cross-trainer while men twice her age try to impress her—she’s usually floating between coffee shops and the pub. Her husband runs some big London advertising firm and is hardly around.
“Cheers,” Janet says, and the man gives her a quick grin.
Then it’s my turn. Or so I think.
I step forward just as he strides out, clipping my shoulder on the way.
“Sorry,” he mutters, moving as if he’s late for something important. He disappears down the footpath without so much as a glance at me.
“Charming,” I mutter under my breath, stepping inside before the door swings shut in my face.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Men like that don’t usually notice women who live in cardigans and jeans, hair doing whatever it wants, make-up bag gathering dust in the bathroom drawer. Early forties, divorced, more soft edges than sharp angles. I’m not the sort you notice… it’s easy enough to brush past without even realising I’m there.
