“I know. But if I wanted a Twinkie, I wouldn’t be able to have one.”
“We can get some shipped over. Just on the off-chance. I get my first paycheck tomorrow. We can start going out and doing fun stuff—all the things we talked about when I first told you I was coming over. I haven’t even seen Kensington Palace yet.”
“It’s really pretty,” she replied, her voice wet and wobbly.
“Exactly. I need a tour guide. And a wingman. I want to see some of the nightlife London has to offer.”
Natalie nodded. “I know, but honestly, I don’t. I just want to go home and see fire hydrants and the New York skyline and . . . I just miss it. London’s great and everything but . . . I’m a New Jersey girl. Work had been keeping the sads at bay, but now that I’ve stopped, I can’t ignore it anymore. I want to go home.”
I slumped back on the sofa, devastated that my best friend was leaving me just when things were looking up. Now I didn’t have to worry about finding a job, we could have so much fun together. But the look on her face told me her mind was made up. I knew that expression, because it was the same one I wore when I decided I was going to come to London, find my father, and make him pay for my mother’s new knee. “When do you leave?”
“Friday night.”
“Tomorrow?” I groaned. “We don’t even have one last weekend together?”
“I’m sorry. I told my mom, and within an hour my dad had booked me the first flight he could get me on. They can’t wait to have me back.”
I got it. I missed my mom really bad. I missed being in our cramped apartment, sharing three-day-old pizza and watching reruns of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. But I had to be here. Natalie didn’t. “I’m going to miss you,” I said. “Don’t forget about me.”
“How could I forget about my best friend?” She pulled me into a hug. “The good news is that there’s two months’ rent paid up on this place. At least you’ll have a bed to sleep on.”
“I’d rather have you here than a good night’s sleep.”
We started to laugh.
“I’m going to miss you so much. I just can’t handle being so far away from home. You’ve just got to promise me one thing. Don’t take any shit from Andrew Blake.”
There was no way I was going to be able to make that promise, because I was certain I couldn’t keep it. I couldn’t do anything but eat whatever Andrew served up. Now more than ever, because I had to worry about paying rent and bills.
“And whatever happens, don’t start thinking the guy’s attractive. He’s a douchebag.”
“I’m afraid that ship as sailed.”
She pulled back and squinted. “You can’t possibly. He’s awful.”
“His personality is awful. If he never talked, he’d be god-level hot. It’s not like I want to marry him and have fifteen Italian babies. I just like to ogle. His good looks are actually helpful. I try to tune out what he says and just look at him. It’s a good distraction. Better than being turned to stone by his icy stare, or ignored to death.”
Andrew was rude and demanding and arrogant as hell. But he was paying me, and that was all I needed from him. The Blake Enterprises salary would keep a roof over my head and the possibility of helping my mom on track. That’s what I had to focus on. Natalie leaving wouldn’t break me. It couldn’t.
Seven
Andrew
Bob fucking Goode. I scrolled up to the interview he’d just given to Times Money. Every time he was within a fifteen-meter radius of a journalist, he mentioned my family’s connection to Verity, Inc. just to wind me up. It was like he thought there was still some connection to the publication of integrity that my grandmother founded and the gossip rag he’d reduced it to. The only thing the two had in common was the name. I’d tried more than once to get him to change it.
I’d put in three calls to him this month and he hadn’t returned one. Arsehole. Fourth time might be the charm. I pressed Call. Usually, I checked in on him once a month. I offered to take him through some strategy ideas or offered to come in and do a ground-up consultant’s report. Sometimes he’d agree to a lunch but as soon as the conversation turned to Verity, he found an excuse to steer us in another direction. I thought I’d have my hands on Verity months after I started Blake Enterprises. It was one of the reasons I’d gone into business for myself at twenty-five. That, and the fact I never wanted to put myself in a position where I could be fired again.
My grandmother’s death six months ago had renewed interest in my family’s connection to Verity. It was mildly embarrassing to me professionally, but I could shrug that off. It was the way Goode continued to sully my grandmother’s brilliant career and then my mother’s continuation of the legacy that I had a problem with. Verity Blake wasn’t the founder of a meaningless source of gossip. Her reporting had changed the political and social landscapes in Britain. Now the magazine that had meant so much to her and her readers was reduced to peddling celebrity gossip.
Short of taking out a hit on Bob Goode, I didn’t know what to do. I rose from my desk and turned, facing the window and St. John Street below. Fuck. I needed some inspiration. I shoved my hands into my pockets and tried to think.
A knock on the door stopped my Thinking Time before it could start. I checked my watch. It was only ten to twelve. Who the fuck was bothering me? I didn’t need to wait long to find out. Before I’d answered, my door was flung open and Sofia appeared.
“I know it’s not twelve but if I leave it, Douglas will be in here and I can’t risk you flouncing out as soon as he leaves.”
Flouncing? I never flounced anywhere. My eye was drawn to her chest. The buttons of her blouse had come undone and her bra was on display. Was it deliberate? Was she coming on to me? She seemed borderline contemptuous most of the time, which was fine as long as she did her job. But it confirmed my suspicion that her wardrobe malfunction wasn’t deliberate. A good thing, since it would save me the trouble of telling her I wasn’t interested. I never mixed personal and professional, never shat on my own doorstep. I’d learned my lesson the hard way. The women who worked for me were as non-sexual as a loaf of bread. That was the way it ought to be.
I didn’t know much about Sofia, but I knew she was book smart. And she came across as a little more street smart than most of the assistants I’d had before her. Surely she was too good at reading people to believe coming on to me was the right idea. That meant she was accidentally showing off her bra to everyone she met.
I mentally went through my options.
If I told her, she’d think I was an arsehole for taking a peep. Already, my gaze had lingered a little too long where it shouldn’t have. Bronzed flesh pushing against black lace, bulging over it, visible through it . . . For a flash, Sofia was more than bread. If I had less self-control, less-strict rules about how I saw women in the office, I’d be salivating.
For just a moment, the sight of her transported me out of the office and into some far-away hotel room, a beautiful woman at my side. I’d strip her naked and trail my tongue across her skin from ankle to temple before fucking her. Hard. Long. So deep I might never come back.