Wiping the mascara tracks from under her eyes, she went to cross the road but tripped as she stepped off the curb, and her script fluttered free of her fingers. The pages came apart and spiraled into the gutter, and Emily, suddenly appalled at the thought that they might fly away, that she might lose her very last chance, cried out and reached for them, stumbling into the path of an oncoming cyclist. The bike swerved, only narrowly avoiding a collision, and Emily gasped, snatching at the paper, desperate now to make it to the audition on time, to prove that she was still worth something after all … but it was too late. Sheets of white paper were cartwheeling over the asphalt and disappearing under the wheels of cars.
She stood up, her vision blurred by fresh tears. Behind her, the man called out again.
“Hey, Emily.”
Shit, she thought, poised to run. Please don’t be a rapist. Then her brain caught up with her ears and she froze.
“Emily,” the man shouted again, louder this time, and when she turned around she was shocked to see a familiar face.
“Mr. Denny?” she managed.
Suddenly, there was a shout and a squeal of brakes, and her peripheral vision was filled with a huge red shape. More shouting ensued, then the blare of a horn, and Emily covered her ears with her hands, but the noise was deafening and the red shape was getting closer and closer, and the squeal was getting louder and her breath was getting faster and—
The panic hit her before the bus did, a great tidal wave of fear pouring down her throat, flooding her lungs until she could no longer breathe. And then a mad flurry exploded inside her, like the flap of a thousand wings. Something invisible was flattening her ribs, and her hands flew out as if to push a heavy object from her chest.
Oh, great, she thought vaguely as she toppled like a tree. Here we go again.
Buildings wobbled and the sky went black as the world turned upside down.
The bus stopped inches from her face—and then, from out of nowhere, Mr. Denny, Emily’s ex-boss, was leaping out of the chaos like a handsome human shield, a superhero, a knight with colors flying. Holding up his hand to the driver, he yelled at a few bystanders to give her some space, and she wanted to laugh because it had to be a hallucination. Surely, none of this could be real: this gentle hand on hers, this jacket under her head, this blurry shape with a halo of hair and an outstretched hand, this voice saying, “Don’t be scared, Emily. Let me help you.”
Surely, all of it was just a beautiful dream.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SCOTT
AS HE pulled Emily to her feet and steered her through the door of a nearby pub, Scott felt dizzy with triumph. If his plan had a flaw, it was that there’d been no real reason for Emily to trust him. The bus had fixed that in a matter of seconds.
Fate. It had to be.
Grabbing a handful of napkins and ordering a juice from the bar, Scott settled into his new role of rescuer. Up close, he noticed that Emily was pretty, in a wholesome kind of way. Blond hair, brown eyes, freckled nose … there was nothing especially remarkable about her, but all the pieces fit comfortably together. However, the effect was currently marred by blotchy cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and a slimy upper lip.
He waited politely while Emily blew her nose. Flushed and shaking, she babbled incoherently—something about an audition and being late, and all the awful things Lara had said to her. He nodded sympathetically, thanking his lucky stars that his hunch had been right. After just ten minutes of listening to her ramble, he was more convinced than ever that Emily was exactly what he was looking for.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, once he could get a word in. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just saw you walk past and wondered if you might need a ride back to work. You seemed upset.”
Emily looked at him askance, as he thought she might. “Work?”
“Yes. Work.” He laughed. “You know that thing you do for Proem? We give you money in return.”
“But…” She shook her head. “I don’t work for you anymore. I got fired.”
Scott put on a show of confusion. “Fired? What do you mean?”
Emily then told him a long and overcomplicated version of how David Mahoney had delivered the news, telling her she was “all out of strikes” and “not Proem material.”
Scott appeared duly shocked. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake.” He chose his moment carefully, waiting until her breathing had returned to normal. He asked if she’d like to be taken to hospital, and when she declined, he offered her a taxi home instead. He then placed his hand gently on her shoulder and told her she was going to be just fine. Everything happened for a reason, he said. Perhaps, he added, they were meant to meet—his only truly sincere words.
Finally, he folded his business card into her palm. Apologizing again for whatever misunderstanding had taken place, he suggested that she give Proem another chance. If she could see a way to forgive and forget, he said, he had another position ready and waiting. She jumped at that, as he knew she would. “Really?” she said, her eyes shining. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll take it.”
He laughed. “You don’t even know what it is yet.” He told her he’d like to discuss it further at the office, if she was comfortable with that. “Why don’t you come in on Monday so I can explain the role more fully?”
He waited for her response, but the way she looked at him in that moment, the way she cradled his card in her hand like a precious jewel—that was the only answer he needed.
CHAPTER NINE
EMILY
BACK IN her dull little flat—all the more squalid after the gleaming interior of the Soho pub, all the more dirty after the pure white of Scott’s shirt—Emily’s heart was still hammering; though how much of that was the residual shock of almost being hit by a bus, she couldn’t say. Yes, she was traumatized. Yes, she’d missed her all-important audition, her swan song. But it was more likely that her persistent breathlessness, dizziness, and rapid pulse were in no small part due to Scott Denny.
Ignoring the unspeakable mess in the kitchen (Spencer had obviously upped his filth levels in protest against their eviction), she went straight to her room, where she sat on the bed and seriously considered the possibility that she’d had some kind of encounter with the divine. The hairs on her arms prickled as she thought again of the moment Scott had appeared, his suit jacket flying open like a cape. She never thought she’d be caught dead falling for that white-knight bullshit, but when Scott had deftly pulled her to her feet as if they were dancers, she’d felt something inside her burst.
At the time, his face had shown nothing but polite concern: the kindness of a stranger. But after he’d picked her up and dusted her off, after they’d sat talking in the pub for what felt like forever and Scott had listened so intently, as though he was pressing his ear to her very soul, he said something about destiny, and she knew he’d felt it, too.
And then, as if it wasn’t enough that he’d just saved her from certain death, Scott Denny offered her a mysterious new job. No interview, no trial run; just a promise that a position was waiting for her if she wanted it. Give me a call, he’d said, flipping a card out of his wallet. Let’s set up a meeting. Shall we say Monday?