Settling back in my seat, I sip my coffee and stifle a huge yawn as I watch the scenery whizz past the window. My lack of sleep is my own damn fault. As usual, I’m behind with my deadline. Every fortnight, I vow not to let this happen again, and every weekend before my meeting, I’m left doing a whole week’s worth of work in two days. I suck. It’s my own fault though—always is.
Instead of working last week, I binge-watched a Netflix true-crime drama about innocents on death row. It wasn’t even particularly good. I just got invested, and I’ll admit, I’m also a lazy sod at times. Working from home is hard. Staying self-motivated when you’re squirrelly is harder. I’ve often thought about hiring an office space with strict work hours, even considered getting some form of a boss and taking a proper job rather than freelancing (my publisher is always trying to put me on the in-house staff list), but it’s all too … grown-up for me. Working from my bed is a perk of the job and one of the reasons why I decided all those years ago to become a book illustrator instead of going down the more generic and dependable income route of some sort of design field.
I sigh and run a hand through my hair as I pull my sketchbook from my briefcase and open both packets of biscuits, starting to draw.
I’m lost in my work, so I don’t hear Amy until she stops at my side and reaches out, stealing my last biscuit. “Sharesies,” she states, biting it in half, dropping crumbs down her train uniform.
“Rude,” I mumble, looking up at her as I pull my pre-purchased ticket from my pocket.
She points an accusing finger at me. “You almost didn’t make it again.”
“I had two minutes. Don’t be dramatic.”
She rolls her eyes and takes my ticket, punching it.
“How was your hen party? Did you wear a veil covered in condoms and have to do shots from some oiled-up stripper’s belly button?”
She taps the side of her nose and narrows her eyes. “The first rule of hen night is—”
“We don’t talk about hen night!” we both say at the same time, laughing.
Hopefully, she had a stripper, so at least one of us got to see a professional strut their stuff in a G-string because Jared had strictly forbidden strippers from his stag night. Party pooper.
“How’s Jared?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Still hungover. He barely got off the sofa all day yesterday.”
“Excellent.” I grin proudly.
He was absolutely wasted Saturday night; hell, we all were. I performed my best-man duties perfectly and made sure he didn’t call it a night until he was singing karaoke and dropping pieces of his kebab down himself on the way home.
“I’d better get on; we’ll be arriving soon.” She glances over at my sketchbook and smiles. “Those are amazing, Theo.” She affectionately pats my shoulder and moves on to the next passenger.
Ten minutes later, we pull into the station, and I pack all my belongings, heading out. It’s mid-August, the height of summer, and today is a beautiful, sunny day. It’s much hotter here in London than back home in Cambridge, almost stifling with the lack of breeze. I take a slow, leisurely walk to my publisher’s office.
The receptionist beams up at me as I step in. “Theo! I was just thinking about you.”
I grin. “All good things, I hope?”
“Of course.” She chuckles and slides me a visitor’s badge across the counter.
I clip it on my breast pocket. “How’s your daughter? Did she get her A-level results back yet?”
I always chat with Donna, the receptionist, on my visits. She’s a lovely lady, a mother of five girls … yes, five. Her eldest sat her exams a couple of months ago, and Donna couldn’t be prouder of her and loves to boast and brag about her achievements.
“Not yet. She picks them up this Thursday.” She chews on her lip, her shoulders tightening.
“I’m sure she did great; don’t worry.”
We engage in casual, friendly chit-chat for a few minutes until some bike messenger guy comes in behind me and Donna has to stop to sign for some parcels.
I grin and tap on the marble counter as I send her a wink. “I’d better stop monopolising your time. I can’t wait to hear all about results day next time I come in!” I say as I walk towards the back of the lobby where the lifts are.
When I press the button, the doors open almost immediately. I step in and pull out my phone, mindlessly checking Twitter for anything new or retweet-worthy. Just as the lift doors are beginning to close, sounds of heels clacking quickly on the marbled floor in the lobby catch my attention.
“Oh, wait!” a female voice calls. More clacking sounds, closer now. “Hold the lift, please!”
I act on instinct, absentmindedly shoving my hand out and catching the heavy doors before they close, forcing them back open, my eyes barely lifting from my phone screen for more than a second.
“Ah, thanks so much!” There’s the faintest twang of an accent, but I don’t give it too much thought. The woman huffs a breath and steps into the lift.
“No problem. What floor?” I ask, flicking my eyes up to the panel on the wall.
“Oh, eight, please.”
I nod. That’s the same floor as me. I smile and look over at her, expecting it to be someone I’ve seen before if she works on my publisher’s floor; after all, I’ve been coming here regularly for the last five years, so I know almost everyone.
When my eyes land on her, I feel a jolt of surprise. I don’t know her, have never seen her here before, but oh hell, do I want to!
The girl isn’t looking at me. Instead, she’s frowning down and rummaging through a ridiculously massive handbag that dangles from the crook of her elbow, obviously trying to find something.
I take a moment to study her before she catches me.
She’s probably a little younger than me, mid-twenties maybe. Dark brown, almost-black hair falls in perfect, messy waves down to the centre of her back and frames her pretty face. Big, almond-shaped green eyes turn down slightly at the edges to give her an almost-exotic look; they’re rimmed with impossibly long black lashes. Her eyes are partially hidden behind a pair of designer horn-rimmed black glasses, perched on the bridge of her cute button nose. Glossy, full pink lips pout as she frowns in concentration, trying to locate the desired object from her handbag.
I gulp and let my eyes wander over the rest of her.
She’s quite tall—I’d guesstimate maybe five foot eight or nine with her shoes on. She’s wearing a fitted blood-red shirt, open at the throat, exposing the barest glimpse of cleavage, just enough to set my pulse racing. The shirt is tucked into the high waist of a black pencil skirt that clings to her shapely arse. She’s not too thin; instead, she’s curvy and soft, all feminine angles, with hips to hold on to and an arse to keep you up at night. Long, toned legs lead down to three-inch red stiletto heels that make my balls clench in approval.
Her outfit choice screams confident professional. It’s sexy and sophisticated yet somehow understated. She’s not the usual type of girl I go for. I typically gravitate towards cutesy, petite girls who are a little on the weird side—pocket rockets you can’t ignore.
But this girl … damn.
Dragging my eyes back up her body, I see she’s balancing a cardboard tray containing four takeaway drink cups on one hand. The sweet smell of flavoured coffee wafts up and makes me wish I’d thought to buy myself one from the café on the corner before coming to my meeting. The coffee from the machines here sucks, so I generally avoid it like the plague.