‘Shit, I haven’t spewed on alcohol since university,’ she mumbles, her arse plonking to the floor clumsily. She rubs her palms on her cheeks. ‘Yes, please, water.’
‘I’ll get some,’ I tell her, rushing to the kitchen. I’m back a few seconds later, smiling as she glugs the lot back, gasping before collapsing to her back, dropping the glass to the floor.
‘Come on. Up you get.’
‘Just leave me,’ she slurs. ‘I’ll be fine here.’
‘You can get in my bed.’ I use all of my might to heave her up, looking out the bathroom door to assess exactly how far I need to drag her. I calculate roughly eight metres. Doable. ‘Just don’t vomit in my bed,’ I beg, cringing at the potent stink of Lucy’s sick creeping out of the bathroom behind me.
I practically carry her across my apartment and let her collapse on my bed like a sack of spuds. I don’t need to worry about tucking her in. She grabs my quilt and rolls over, taking it with her.
‘Perfect,’ I sigh, standing back and glancing around my new home, wondering where the hell I’m going to sleep. ‘It’s you and me,’ I say to the couch, taking the fake-fur throw from the base of my bed.
After flushing the loo, squirting nearly an entire bottle of bleach down it, and emptying a can of air freshener, I flop on the sofa and snuggle down. And when I hear a cute murmur and a few snorts, I can’t help but smile at the ceiling. I might be jobless, but it seems I’m not friendless any more.
Welcome to London indeed.
Chapter 3
One of the things I love most about London is the readily available coffee. Back home, there were no bustling coffee houses. But here, every corner I turn presents the opportunity to have one, and I’m going to indulge in it.
As I push my way through the door of a coffee house the next day, I find it buzzing with activity, and I inhale the rich smell of coffee beans, letting the air stream out with my order. ‘Medium flat white, please.’
‘Drink in?’
‘Takeout.’ I juggle my phone and my purse to retrieve a fiver, sliding it across the counter as I check my emails after getting more data this morning, hoping the job agency has sent through some potential positions. It’s all I can do not to screech my delight when I see an email for a rare and exciting opportunity. The whispers were true. ‘Oh my God,’ I breathe, frantically reading through the information. They’re offering me an interview at three o’clock today. That’s only an hour away. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of notice.’ But then I’m frowning at my screen. They’re not in a position to disclose the company name at this present time? ‘What?’ I question my phone. Why? So I have no idea who I’m dealing with? I read on, being advised to look for a sign that says ‘The Haven’ once I arrive at the address given, before it gives me a rundown of the position, at the same time telling me that the firm is established and renowned in art and antiques. ‘Then tell me the damn name of the company,’ I mutter, as I tap out a reply, accepting the interview anyway. It’s not like I have the luxury of options. There aren’t companies throwing job offers at my feet.
I dial my mum, needing to hear her voice, not that I can tell her how miserably everything is going.
‘Eleanor,’ she says, so happy to take my call. My despondency fades a little, and, grabbing my coffee, I spin around, set to walk and talk, but as I turn I’m met with something I became all too familiar with yesterday.
Something navy wrapped loosely around a stubbled throat.
What the hell?
My coffee cup starts to shake, like the slight flutter of my heart has travelled down my arm to my hand, making it vibrate, and my phone sits limply at my ear as my mother repeats her hello a few times.
Him.
Cab thief.
Scarf thief.
Job thief.
The gorgeous, angel-eyed specimen.
‘I’ll call you back, Mum,’ I squeak, letting my phone slide down my cheek. I faintly hear her ‘okay’ before I end the call and slip my phone into my mac pocket. And that’s all I can achieve in the movement stakes right now. What is it with this guy? Three encounters in two days? London is huge. My gaze lifts, being pulled up without instruction, until my eyes find and root themselves on his lovely hazel orbs.
His handsome face breaks into a grin. ‘You shouldn’t have cut your call short on my account.’
‘I didn’t,’ I mumble, taking my eyes from his before they haul me under his spell.
‘We should stop meeting like this.’ He reaches over my shoulder to hand the barista a note. His voice. Good God, his voice. It’s stupid, but the only way I seem to be able to semi-function in the presence of this man is by keeping my eyes off him.
So I do just that, glancing around the coffee house. ‘Are you following me?’ I ask, switching my coffee into my other hand in the hope that movement might lessen my quivers.
‘Don’t flatter yourself, princess. I’m simply getting a coffee.’
Princess? ‘I am not a princess. And where’s my scarf?’
‘What scarf?’
His question flattens my sass, and I suck in a shot of air, my eyes flying to his. I’m not sure if it’s because of shock, or that they’re simply greedy for more of him. He’s smirking. ‘The one you stole from me,’ I remind him, my head tilting, trying to read him. He’s smug.
On a shake of his head and a feigned confused look, he glances up to the sky. ‘I don’t recall.’
I laugh sarcastically. I’m in no mood for his games. Not today. He ruined my day yesterday, wrecked my chances of getting my dream job, and I’m not letting events repeat themselves today. ‘Have a nice day,’ I say tightly, turning and walking away.
‘What are you reading?’ he asks, pulling me to a stop. I look down at my bag, seeing the book I’m currently lost in poking out. ‘Miller’s Antiques Encyclopedia.’
He nods, approvingly. ‘The bible of the antiques world?’
‘Yes.’ I frown, studying him, thinking how familiar he is again. ‘Do I know you?’
‘You wish.’
Oh, the cocky bastard. I’m about to put him straight, but he steps towards to me, stamping out my intention with his closeness. My body locks up, I lose all sensible thought, and my words abandon me. He takes his coffee and walks closer to me. I’d move, but I’m too busy trying to keep my composure. He drops his mouth to my ear, and my eyes clench shut, my lungs going heavy, challenging my breathing. ‘I would ask you to dinner,’ he whispers provocatively, clearly aiming to sound sexy as fucking hell. It works. Despite my irritation at this man, I’m trembling in my heels, pulsing down below, and I’m really quite annoyed about it. ‘But I’m inclined to avoid women with stalking tendencies.’ He breaks away, turns, and saunters out, leaving me with my mouth hanging open.