Page 22 of Untether

‘Nothing. Just… interesting.’

‘She’s far too smart for me, so don’t get any ideas about us,’ I warn her.

‘Nobody buys that act for a second, Cal, so don’t even try,’ she says. ‘I know you think it’s not cool to show your nerdy side, but you’re wrong. And you made a career for yourself trading weird stuff with scary, mysterious acronyms, so don’t give me thatmy brains are in my bicepsbullshit. I bet you and Aida will have a lot more in common than just chemistry.’

‘You’re a pain in the arse, you know that?’ I tell her. I aim for a weary tone, but it comes out affectionate. Dammit.

‘I know.’ She pats the palm that’s resting on my thigh. Her hand is that particular kind of moistly sticky that can only come from Labrador saliva.

I jerk my head up. ‘Fuck—that’s revolting.’

‘Don’t hurt his feelings.’

‘Get out of here. Go deal with Zach’s abandonment issues.’

She sighs. ‘This conversation isn’t over. I’ll be watching you two witha lot of interest.’

‘You and the rest of the country,’ I say with a groan.

‘Come on, Norm.’ She stands. ‘Let’s go find Daddy.’

‘For fuck’s—’

‘He’s Norm’s daddy. Not mine. I don’t call him that. Well, only—’

I put my hands over my ears in defeat and cut her off before she can violate my brain any further. ‘I don’t want to know.’

14

AIDA

It’s a crushing disappointment to the British tabloid press that Simone Salem and I aren’t mortal enemies. God knows, they’ve pitted us against each other from the outset. Two confident, glamorous, ambitious news anchors, vying for the same top spots at the BBC? It was the stuff their particular brand of poison was made of. Especially when I went on my first maternity leave and Simone, who’s publicly declared her horror at the mere thought of having children, took my place.

Sadly for them, and happily for us, their toxic little shenanigans didn’t work, because I fucking love that woman. And I’m pretty confident it’s mutual, too. When Simone Salem dislikes you, you’re gonna know about it.

Believe me.

I waggle my fingers at her as she sweeps into the White City outpost of Soho House, conveniently located in the Television Centre, where the BBC still films the occasional programme. In her cream silk jumpsuit, immaculate blowout and chunky gold jewellery, she’s the epitome of late-summer chic.

Simone speaks like the late Queen and, even on the home stretch to fifty, looks like a Valentino runway model. Case in point: the enormous gold V on her wide belt that catches the sun as she struts over to my poolside table on the tenth-floor rooftop, revelling in the discreetly curious glances from nearby tables.

The daughter of an outrageously successful Lebanese businessman, she married another outrageously successful, French-born Lebanese businessman. Her multi-millionaire husband, Karim, is short on height, long on Big Dick Energy, and his fabulous wife’s most adoring fan.

She may have three inches on Karim when barefoot, but do you think she ever forgoes the heels when he’s around? No, sir. My absolute favourite thing about my absolute favourite woman is her outright refusal to compromise. On anything.

‘Darling,’ she drawls, swooping down to kiss me on both cheeks and leaving a trail of Le Labo as she collapses into the chair across from me. ‘How goes it?’

I lower my sunglasses and shoot her a coquettish smile. ‘It goes great.’

She arches a perfect eyebrow. ‘Really? Do tell. Fun and games with your new boy toy?’

I smirk. God knows, it’s rare that I’ve had much to be smug about this past year.

But today?

Basking in the golden aftermath of my unexpected orgasm at the capable hands of a sinful man?

You could say I’m smug as fuck.

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