The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights

by Sarah Lefebve

  ‘Okay,’ I tap my finger on my chin. ‘You’re the CEO of a worldwide organisation, so … what’s the funniest thing someone’s ever done to impress you? Or the weirdest interview you’ve ever conducted?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Relaxing back in the chair: ‘All right,’ he smiles, ‘but you asked, just remember that.’ Does he curve his lips slowly and sexily on purpose or does it just come naturally?

  ‘I will. I’ll remember if I wake tomorrow scarred by your stories that you’re responsible for the trauma.’

  One corner of his mouth curls up further. ‘I can live with that if you can.’

  ‘Oh, I definitely can,’ I spark, before sitting back in shock. I’m flirting. Inappropriate and Not a Good Idea. Then another thought. Dread seeps through me. What if I did do the same with Tony? That despite saying I wasn’t interested I actually led him on? Hot nausea rolls in my stomach, so I take a deep breath to deal with it, tucking the notion away. The horrible feeling is soon forgotten as Alex shares some of his funniest and strangest experiences, ending with one particularly close to my heart, given my co-dependent relationship with sweet food.

  ‘Then there was the woman who wanted to work in our PR department and sent in handmade baked goods every day for two months.’ He takes a swig of water and I’m hypnotised by the movement of his strong throat muscles as he swallows, the dark stubble just under the skin.

  ‘No! Two whole months?’

  ‘Yes. Pies, cakes, fresh bread, cookies. The staff in business support were ecstatic.’

  ‘I bet they were, but how did sending all of those things in relate to her application?’

  ‘She wrapped everything in copies of her CV.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘I’m not. I think she wanted to prove how successful a targeted PR campaign could be.’

  ‘Well it’s an interesting approach.’

  ‘And a tasty one.’ He pauses, straightens his face. ‘Unfortunately she hadn’t read the job details properly.’

  ‘Oh no, what?’ Propping my elbows on the table, I lean in.

  He shifts closer and shares in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘The post was based halfway across the world and she wasn’t looking to relocate.’

  ‘No,’ I groan, laughing, ‘after all that?’

  ‘I know. But if she couldn’t even read the ad properly there wasn’t much hope was there?’

  ‘Everyone makes mistakes.’ My comment somehow changes the tone of our conversation because his eyes fix on the darkness outside the window, face paling.

  ‘That’s right. People do,’ he rattles out, like unrelenting hail striking glass.

  ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. I wasn’t talking about you. Are you all right?’ My hand creeps across the tablecloth, wanting to comfort.

  Swinging his attention inside, he looks down at my fingers, blinks, tucks both hands away under the table and forces a smile. ‘I’m fine.’ Meaning he isn’t. ‘Apologies. Right, I’ve shared my war stories. Your turn now.’

  The most recent battle can’t be mentioned yet. I need more time before mentioning Tony. ‘No war stories. Ask again.’

  ‘Tell me where you grew up then. What was it like?’

  This is easy. ‘I was born in a pretty little village, Holmes Brook, which I always think sounds like a nursing home. It’s on the Dorset-Hampshire border. It has the one pub, a village hall and a few shops. It’s surrounded by fields and has a river looping around it. In theory I had a good amount of freedom.’ Describing it takes me back to sunny summer days filled with the smell of hay and a wide expanse of blue sky, the taste of sweet crunchy apples and evenings that took forever to dim.

  ‘Sounds idyllic,’ he murmurs, echoing my thoughts. ‘So why freedom in theory?’

  ‘I’ve got three older brothers and one of them was always following me around keeping watch.’ I smile fondly. ‘It drove me nuts. I know they were just looking out for me, though.’

  ‘I can understand that. What else?’

  ‘Our family home is massive and on the outskirts of the village, with a duck pond next to it. My favourite part is the apple tree at the bottom of the garden. I used to love climbing it and throwing apples at my brothers’ heads.’ I laugh, then halt. Too much information, Charley, his eyes will start glazing over soon, wrap it up.

  But he sighs and shares, ‘Sounds great to me. We had olive trees, but we weren’t allowed to climb them.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I have a younger brother.’

  ‘Oh. Well I’m sorry if I’ve given you tree envy,’ I joke.

  ‘So you should be,’ he smiles.

  There’s a silence and I realise we’re staring into each other’s eyes. ‘So er, anyway,’ I bluster, ‘I ah, met my best friend Jess when I started primary school and we ended up buying a flat together in the city.’

  ‘And what do your parents do?’

  For someone so fiercely private he’s very interested in my life, but the more open I am, maybe the more he might trust me. ‘Dad was something in Defence for years, used to commute, got retired young, so chairs lots of committees on a voluntary basis. Mum devoted herself to us but took on charity work as we got older, running the WI, organising local events. I guess part of it is there’s family money and those are some of the expectations.’

  ‘Are your family well known in the village?’

  ‘You could say that!’ Laughing, I attempt to push the bitterness away. ‘They’ve always been the centre of everything. The spotlight was always on them. And on us.’ I didn’t mean to mention it, but he’s a good listener.

  ‘That was a problem?’

  ‘It taught me to be cautious,’ I admit, picking up my napkin and smoothing it out, ‘what people think of you matters in a small village. They don’t let you forget your mistakes in a hurry, that’s for sure.’ Absently, I fold the napkin at the corner, then back in on itself. ‘So you don’t take many risks.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’ I look up at him, fingers still working the napkin, folding and refolding.

  ‘Yes. Indulge me.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I tried to make Mum and Dad proud, but disappointed them when I moved to London. It was the only real risk I’ve ever taken, but I had to do it. As beautiful as the countryside is, staying in a rural community wasn’t for me. I wasn’t happy,’ I sigh, realising I’ve folded my napkin into a swan shape. Setting it aside, I laugh self-consciously. ‘I worked as a silver-service waitress in the next town over when I was seventeen. Anyway, me wanting to move away caused ructions and my parents spent months trying to talk me out of it. They’d rather I lived locally and got engaged to a nice village boy.’

  ‘So how did you manage to leave?’ Alex shrugs out of his suit jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair.

  I won’t let my eyes wander down to check out his broad shoulders in the crisp blue shirt. Staring at his face, I admit, ‘In hindsight I could have been more mature, persuaded them it was my risk to take.’

  ‘And in reality?’ There’s a twinkle in his eye. He knows what’s coming.

  ‘I was eighteen. Let’s just say there was some bad behaviour.’ I roll my eyes, recalling my teenage flouncing and yelling. ‘They finally backed off when I declared I wasn’t going to live my life according to what other people wanted and was moving to the city whether they were happy about it or not, even if I had to live on the streets. I started packing a rucksack to make my point. Mature, hey?’

  ‘You were young,’ he excuses.

  ‘Yes, well … they didn’t exactly give me their blessing, but we stopped arguing at least,’ I smile wryly.

  Too personal to share is that it’s still there between us. Going home is always tense. My parents love me but still don’t agree with my decision. The distance hurts but I’m not sure how to bridge it. It’s the reason they don’t know how broke I am or how close to fa
iling. The plan is to tell them only if I absolutely have to. I don’t want them to think they were justified in the opinion that staying home would have been best for me. Whatever has happened, I’ll never regret making my own way in the world.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Alex confides, a shadow crossing his face.

  ‘You ran away from home too?’ I try and lighten things, scrub the glint of unhappiness from his eyes.

  ‘No. Not quite.’ He goes still. ‘I never talk about it.’

  But he needs to. ‘Well, I’ve trusted you with my teenage angst. Why not tell me about yours?’

  ‘It’s nothing controversial. Neither is it something exclusive to my teens. And it’s hardly angst. It was just what you said about the spotlight being on you.’ He picks the napkin swan up, turning it over between his long fingers. ‘I understand. Being part of a family-run organisation as successful and wealthy as ours doesn’t exactly give much opportunity for privacy. It’s always bothered me. That’s why I do the press conferences for the business when I have to, but don’t give interviews about anything else.’

  I’ve got something in common with a billionaire. Who’d have thought it. Gazing into his gorgeous eyes, a shared moment of understanding flows between us and I gulp. I can’t do this.

  ‘That was pathetic,’ I tease to break the connection. ‘Tell me one of your actual secrets.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be secret if I told you. And besides,’ he says po-faced, ‘you’d have to sign a gagging order if I did.’

  I’m not entirely sure he’s kidding.

  ‘You went to a state secondary school, right?’ Alex moves the subject on swiftly before I can comment on his surreal remark. ‘Why didn’t you go private?’

  ‘Mum said it would be good for us, give a better grounding in reality. I wouldn’t have wanted to go to a boarding school anyway.’

  ‘And why London rather than anywhere else?’

  ‘I left school with respectable grades, and took a Business Studies NVQ and a few A levels at the college in the nearest town. In the first year, I went on a theatre trip and fell in love with the city. After that it was just a question of time.

  ‘It’s great, so full of hustle and noise and people and shops and different places and experiences. It’s such a change after my childhood, was exactly what I wanted, no … needed. I wouldn’t want to raise children there but I’m a long way off that yet, so it’s not an issue.’ Woah, where did that come from? Why would he care about my plans to start a family one day? He doesn’t comment, but his expression goes shuttered and distant. TMI?

  ‘Did you go to uni?’ he simply asks. ‘Or have a gap year?’

  ‘No, straight to London. I did plan to go to Africa as a volunteer, help build schools and see a bit of the world.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I missed the application window.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  I glance away and mutter something.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ he asks.

  I sigh. ‘I got glandular fever.’

  Alex throws his head back and laughs, ‘The kissing disease?’

  ‘Yes, okay, I’ve heard that one before.’

  ‘Sorry. So was it? Down to kissing?’

  It’s like he’s completely forgotten himself. That this is just work. Worryingly, I like it.

  ‘No comment,’ I reply cheerfully.

  ‘Fair enough.’ He drops the swan and traces a finger on the tablecloth. I wish for a flashing moment it’s my skin. ‘Did you know we send our managers out to Africa for charity projects?’

  ‘Yes, I—’ almost applied. I manage to stop in time. Too close. ‘I saw it on the internet.’

  He frowns. ‘You said earlier you hadn’t managed to research the company.’

  Damn, caught out. ‘That’s right,’ I think fast, ‘but I’m talking about when I was looking into it at college, surfing the net. I remember seeing something about Demetrio doing it as part of a corporate programme.’

  ‘Really? I can’t remember when we started it.’

  ‘Well I’m twenty-seven, so this was about nine years ago. ’

  ‘That makes sense. I went out there for the pilot scheme around that time, whilst my father was still in charge.’ Suspicion slides from his face and I let out a breath.

  How funny. Would we have met under different circumstances if I hadn’t become ill? Mind you, Africa is a huge country and what would be the chances of us volunteering in the same village? I don’t know why I’m even thinking it. We occupy different worlds. And there’s the giant issue of the reason I’m here, along with his glaring mistrust of women.

  He isn’t for me.

  Alex clears his throat. ‘Charley?’

  ‘Yes, Alex?’

  ‘You went somewhere else.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Time for bed. Standing, I grab my bag from under the table and shove my pad and pen inside it. ‘It’s late. We should call it a night. Everyone else has.’

  Alex blinks and unfolds himself from the chair, glancing around the restaurant. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ Looking puzzled, he pushes his shirtsleeve back to check his watch. ‘It’s almost eleven!’

  ‘Still an hour away from turning into a pumpkin, though?’ I tease.

  ‘Something like that.’ He shrugs back into his suit jacket, rubs a hand over his emerging stubble. The rasping sound makes my pulse kick and my hands tighten around my handbag.

  We meander back to reception and the silence is companionable enough as we wait for the lift, but there’s a tension about him; in the line between his eyebrows, the way his hands are shoved in his pockets. I wonder what he’s thinking.

  Once in the plush interior of the lift, I lean against the wall. ‘Thanks Alex, it’s been a nice evening. I know I upset you earlier, but I’m looking forward to working with you this weekend.’

  Shifting away, ‘Yes,’ he says in a clipped voice, staring at the lift doors, ‘I think we covered all we needed to.’

  Huh. What did I say? I don’t understand the super-formal censorious tone after we’ve got on so well. I wish he’d stop running hot and cold. It’s unnerving. He’s like two different people: one the stern CEO and one the normal, down-to-earth guy. Trouble is, I never know which he’s going to be.

  I dart out into the corridor as we arrive at our floor, pawing through my bag for the key card. ‘What time do you want me?’ I ask over my shoulder.

  ‘Pardon?’

  My cheeks burn. Did he think I was making him an offer? ‘In the morning, what time do you want to make a start?’

  ‘Seven please. Let’s meet at main reception.’

  ‘No problem.’ Running the card over the reader, I shove the door open. Stepping into my bedroom, I turn and look at him as I clutch the door handle. ‘Night.’

  ‘Yes, goodnight.’ His reply is muted by the door as I swing it shut, but his magnetic blue gaze is the last thing I see.

  Chucking my stuff onto the dresser beside the wide bed, I start stripping off with a suspicion it’s going to be a long night.

  Chapter Nine

  I’m not wrong. After texting Jess to explain why I cut short our call earlier and say I’m off to bed, she responds with a simple message.

  Oh dear! Okay Cee, talk in the morning x

  Trying to settle, I flick through the channels before turning off the TV, pick up a fashion magazine but hurl it on the floor within minutes, grab my e-reader and shut it down after a few pages. Deciding to attempt sleep because I need to be at least semi-human tomorrow, I’m frustrated by twisting restlessly into the early hours, sheets wrapping themselves around my sweaty body. I switch on the air-con, but get too cold, so I switch it back off. Nothing feels right. At one point I’m so irritated I shout a string of swear words into the dark.

  It’s no good. My physical state’s not the problem. Working with Alex is bringing up all sorts of conflicting feelings. I find him so compelling but who’s the only one left who can help me, meaning he’s off limits.


  Like oil bubbling from an underground well, the memory of my last horrible night at the casino, the reason for my current situation, rises to the surface.

  Then

  Slotting confidential papers into the cabinet, I tilt my head from side to side to get rid of the kinks in my neck. Time for home and a hot bath. Tony should be filing this stuff away, but I don’t trust him. The thought’s no sooner there than he swaggers into the room, shutting the door behind him decisively.

  ‘Not gone yet? You’re free to call it a day, Tony.’ Go away.

  He doesn’t answer, but is suddenly right behind me, trapping me against the drawer. Not particularly tall, he is nonetheless stocky, built like a real British rugby player, and it makes me feel crowded. Feeling the heat of his body against my back, a needle of fear pierces me. We’re alone in here with the door shut. I rapidly calculate how many members of staff are out on the casino floor. Not many, it’s a Tuesday, one of our quieter nights. It’s unlikely anyone would come up here at gone eight.

  ‘You’re working late,’ he says in my ear. ‘Why can’t I?’

  ‘I’m expected to cover some of the late shifts. You aren’t,’ I answer stiffly. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ Orders aren’t my usual management style, but my patience is razor-thin. When he doesn’t move I grind my teeth. ‘Is there something in particular you want?’ Slamming the drawer shut with a metallic bang, I turn to elbow past him.

  Before I know what’s happening, he grabs my ponytail and throws me roughly against the cabinet. ‘Hey!’ I squawk. He’s too close for me to plant a knee between his legs.

  ‘You know there’s something I want,’ he breathes, making horror jump in my chest, ‘but you’re so stubborn! Little Miss Boss in her tight suits and high heels, taunting me with her sexy body every day.’

  A hot hand runs over my left hip and squeezes hard. I wince and try to back away as the hand continues a path upwards. In that moment, outraged and scared after weeks of uncertainty, I come alive. This can’t be happening. No way. I won’t let it. Scorching anger rockets. Bringing both arms up in the few inches between our bodies I thrust them apart and break free. ‘Get off me! Now!’