Harlequin E New Adult Romance Box Set Volume 1: Burning MoonGirls' Guide to Getting It TogetherRookie in Love

by Jo Watson

  “Not even your friend Scarlett.” She slips off my desk and heads for her own.

  Not even Scarlett has got this much confidence! Olivia Bright was right all along. I am a strong, confident woman!

  Now all I have to do is carry out the next seven points.

  Chapter Eight

  I’m on my way to work the next time I see Bublé-Face.

  Considering Scarlett’s obviously said something to him, I was hoping that I’d somehow manage to avoid him forever and never see him again.

  But, as soon as I’ve gotten off the bus, there he is.

  He’s standing outside the newsagents in the bus station, peering at the newspapers neatly lined up on the display.

  I study him for a moment, then lose sight of him after a hefty woman, who looks like she’s going to a fancy dress party as Cruella De Vil, plods past me.

  What’s he doing here? I can’t figure it out. I’ve never seen him here before. I know he doesn’t catch the bus because I’ve seen him getting into a blue BMW in the company car park once or twice (okay, three times, and I only noticed because he nearly ran me over one day).

  The exit in front of me is blocked by people hurrying in and out, a blur of woolly mittens and warm winter coats. I surge through the early morning crowd, trying to walk on my tiptoes to see above the bobble hats and fashion berets.

  But he’s gone.

  I kick one scuffed shoe against the pavement in defeat.

  Oh, God. I’m a stalker, aren’t I?

  Not the lurk-outside-your-window kind of stalker, but one desperate enough to risk getting trampled to death.

  Perhaps that’s a bit dramatic. But I was definitely running the risk of having someone’s coffee spilt all over my fur coat.

  And for what? Why do I even care?

  I trudge along the icy pavements to work.

  Ahead of me, I catch sight of a tall man in a familiar thick jacket walking alongside a skinny blonde wearing a skirt much too short for the current freezing weather conditions.

  I catch up to them while they’re waiting to cross the road.

  “Hello, Megan,” Bublé-Face says.

  “H-hi,” I stammer.

  I’m still desperately trying to recall his actual first name when he nods towards his companion. “Have you met Charlotte from reception?”

  The blonde gives me a tight-lipped smile, and I realise that I do recognise her from work. “I don’t think we’ve met.” She gives me a brief once-over.

  “I work in HR,” I explain.

  The traffic slows to a halt, and we cross the road together.

  “So you work for Nora, do you?” asks Charlotte. “God, that woman is such a bitch!”

  “She’s not that bad,” I counter.

  Charlotte smirks and grabs Liam’s arm, blocking me from their conversation. “She must be new,” she whispers, though I catch every word.

  I stare at my feet as we walk, concentrating hard on my marked patent shoes and pretending not to hear what she’s saying. But then I think about my recently earned pay rise. The one that not even a girl like Scarlett would dare to ask for.

  “Have you ever worked for Nora?” I lean forwards, over Charlotte’s shoulder.

  She stops walking and flashes me a quizzical look. Then she tosses back her head and laughs. “Of course not. Why would I want to work in the HR office? I’m front of house!”

  “Sure.” I echo her smug smile. “But then you wouldn’t have any idea what she’s like to work for, would you?”

  That’s a confident thing to say, isn’t it? It just shows that I can stand up for myself.

  Except I wasn’t. I was sticking up for my boss.

  But I’m sure it’s nearly the same thing.

  It certainly shuts Charlotte up, anyway, and when we reach the Window Shine building, she totters off to her reception desk without looking back at me or Liam (whose name I have now remembered).

  Liam and I take the stairs in silence. After what I’ve just done, I shouldn’t be expected to think up witty conversation starters, as well.

  I’m still feeling pretty pleased with myself when Liam reaches the top of the stairs first and turns to look at me, still a couple of steps behind. “You shouldn’t have said that. Charlotte’s my friend.”

  I stare at him, blinking rapidly. “She had no idea what she was talking about! I was setting her straight.”

  “And since when are you Nora’s number one fan?” he retorts.

  I climb the last two stairs quickly, until we’re standing face-to-face. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Really? I know that you and Scarlett are constantly complaining about her. I know that you hate white wine, but you’ll drink virtually anything else, and your favourite hobby is handbag shopping.”

  My body is rigid; my face flushed.

  I want to run away, back down the stairs, back out of this building, back home to the comfort of my duvet, where I can hide from all of this like it isn’t happening.

  Where I can pretend he isn’t reciting stupid things about me like that gives him some superior hold over me—or that he has any idea who I am.

  I swallow hard. “How do you know all this?” I already know the answer, but I close my eyes and wait for him to say it.

  “I think it’s pretty obvious what game you and Scarlett are playing. But you can count me out of your matchmaking plan.” He turns away from me and disappears down the corridor.

  I don’t know how long I stand there at the top of the stairs thinking about how much I really need this job with colleagues who embarrass me and a hot guy who has no interest in me. Why would Scarlett do this to me? What did she think she’d achieve by telling him about my addiction to handbags and booze?

  Now Liam thinks I’ve engineered the whole thing myself. Like I told her to say those things, as if they were quirky personality traits designed to make him fall in love with me.

  But they’re not. Those are the things that I wish I could hide under the duvet every day.

  “Megan? Are you okay?” Shelly from accounts puts her hand on my shoulder as she passes me at the top of the stairs.

  I paint a smile on my face. “I’m fine.”

  And I could keep wearing that false smile, walk into the office and pretend everything’s fine just to avoid confronting Scarlett. Maybe that’s what the old Megan would have done.

  But I’m not her anymore.

  As soon as the door opens and I see her at her computer, I know what I’m going to say.

  The trouble is I can’t do it now, with Nora and Helen here.

  So I wait until lunchtime when I suggest Scarlett come with me to Starbucks.

  Our short walk there is silent, owing to the fact that I deliberately walk at a pace Scarlett can’t match in her new Kurt Geiger platform heels.

  When we get there, I realise that I can’t delay any longer. I’m going to have to say something. But I think I’ll take a few sips of my caramel latte first to calm me down.

  “He’s cute.” Scarlett nods at the barista who served us.

  I shrug in response and take another drink of my coffee.

  Okay. I can do this. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  “What’s up with you?” she asks, adding liberal amounts of sugar to her espresso.

  “Scarlett,” I begin confidently, but my voice starts to waver. “I know that you told Liam some things about me. Personal things that you had no right to share.”

  “Personal things?” She takes a sip of coffee, pulls a face and adds another packet of sugar. “What are you talking about? I only told him the things he needs to know for when you two go out! You know, things like which flowers you like and not to buy you white wine. Oh, and I told him which subjects not to bring up, like all the boring things he likes.”

  “He thinks the whole thing was my idea.”

  “So? Did he ask you out yet?”

  “No.” I across at her. “Look, Scar, this whole matchmaking thing is stupid. Liam’
s not interested, and neither am I. I don’t need a boyfriend, okay?”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.” She lifts her coffee cup to her lips.

  And I am sure. Confident women don’t need men holding them back.

  At least I don’t think they do.

  * * *

  I’ve made plans to go out for a meal with Zara after work. When she suggested it, I wasn’t sure if she was hinting that she’s sick of doing all the cooking, but I suppose I’m going to be learning how to cook soon, aren’t I?

  I picture myself wearing a polka-dot apron, my hair styled in glamorous waves like a fifties housewife, mixing bowl in one hand, vacuum cleaner in the other.

  Well. That might be going a step too far. Olivia Bright never said I had to learn any other domestic skills.

  We meet at Zizzi in The Light shopping centre. Zara’s standing outside the entrance, her hair in a messy knot on top of her head. She looks stunning in tight black skinny jeans and a red satin jacket to match her peep-toe wedges.

  I thought I’d done a good job of my day-to-night look by adding a long silver necklace to my navy dress, but seeing Zara makes me feel underdressed. I self-consciously comb a hand through my tangled tawny-brown hair—as though that will make me look any better.

  “You look great!” I tell her as we follow the waiter to our table.

  “Thanks.” She slips off the jacket to reveal a tiny black top that shows off her bronzed shoulders and makes her look like Olivia Newton-John in Grease.

  I narrow my eyes. “I’ve never seen that outfit before. Is it new?”

  “Charity shop new.”

  “You didn’t go to Oxfam, did you?”

  “Of course I didn’t. You weren’t there,” she jokes. “Are you staying on there, then?”

  “I don’t know.” I chew on my bottom lip as I glance over the menu. “Maybe retail isn’t for me.”

  “You don’t have to do all this stuff, Meg. It’s obvious it’s not working.”

  “What?” I look over my menu at her.

  I haven’t told her, have I? Zara doesn’t know that speaking to Nora actually worked. She’s been so busy I haven’t seen her, never mind spoken to her.

  “I thought you were trying one more thing and that was it?”

  “I did try one more thing. I asked Nora for a pay rise.”

  “I bet that didn’t go down too well with the old witch.” She chuckles.

  “It was fine,” I say airily. “She said no one else had ever asked her before.”

  Zara drops her menu and stares at me. “You mean she’s actually going to pay you more money?”

  “Well it’s not really her money, is it? It’s the company’s.”

  “Even so.” She turns back to the menu as our waiter approaches, ready to take our order.

  When he’s gone, I say, “I really think it’s working, Zar. I already feel more confident.”

  “That’s what they want you to believe. These magazines.” She fingers the rim of her wine glass.

  “You write for them,” I point out.

  Zara shrugs. “I get paid to write crap like that.”

  I want to ask her if that means she doesn’t believe all the things she writes, but a familiar high-pitched voice sounds from somewhere off to my left.

  And there’s Bryony Hudson with her black hair pulled up off her bony face, scowling at one of the waiters.

  She sees me as soon as the poor guy’s scurried out of her way, and her expression changes into one of a startled rabbit.

  “You know that chick?” Zara nods towards Bryony. “She doesn’t look thrilled to see you.”

  Bryony heads our way, having moulded her face into a tight smile. “Megan,” she says in greeting.

  “Bryony,” I respond, mimicking her tone.

  “What brings you here?” Bryony looks at Zara.

  “This is my flatmate, Zara,” I explain. “Zara, this is Bryony, a family friend.”

  I can’t remember if I’ve ever told Zara much about the Hudsons, but she picks up on the icy atmosphere between Bryony and me and offers her a brief, false smile.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Are you here with Jeremy?”

  Her gaze drops from mine. “No, I’m here on a sort of student-teacher conference thing. Terribly boring.” She rolls her eyes.

  How could I forget that Bryony is a medical student? And when she graduates, Auntie Wendy will have a doctor and a lawyer for children.

  “Are there a lot of you?” I scan the restaurant, looking for a large group of people.

  “I’m waiting for some others to arrive.”

  I have no desire to continue this conversation any longer than it needs to be with pointless small talk about our mothers. Anyway, Bryony probably knows more than I do about my mother, considering she’s practically her second daughter now.

  Bryony’s eyes dart towards the door, where a fortysomething man in a brown jacket is waiting. “Well, I hope you have a good night.” She dashes towards the entrance.

  Zara frowns. “That was weird.”

  “You think that was weird?” I lift my eyebrows. “Be grateful you haven’t met her brother.”

  Chapter Nine

  After a busy day at work with Scarlett off sick, I’m finally released at five o’clock. I take a shortcut out the back of the building and across the car park.

  Well, okay. It’s not technically a shortcut. But I like to think of it as “the scenic route,” meaning it takes me past loads more shops than the normal walk to my bus does.

  Plus this way it means I won’t bump into Liam. I heard (after texting Scarlett to see how she was feeling and getting a Liam-related response) that his car has broken down. That’s why he was at the bus station yesterday.

  I’m about halfway across the car park when I hear someone shout my name. Thinking that it might be Anna from marketing, who’s been promising me a spin in her banana-yellow Audi RS 4 since she bought it six months ago, I turn.

  And there’s Auntie Wendy’s worn-out Punto in place of the shiny convertible I was expecting to see. And Tim is leaning against the bonnet with his arms hanging by his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

  “Tim?” I squint and walk towards him. “What are you doing here?”

  He looks up at my office building. “This is where you work, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but why did you come?”

  “To pick you up!” He moves to open the passenger door of the old car.

  “You drove here?” I ask. “Through Leeds with all the one-way systems?” I don’t know a thing about roads, but apparently they’re a complete nightmare in the city centre.

  “I do know how to drive, Megan. Anyway, I miss it. It’s a hobby I seldom I had time for in London. Hence why I don’t own my own transport.” He runs a hand along the car’s blue paintwork.

  Tim thinks driving is a hobby? How do I respond to that?

  He stares at me for a second his mouth hanging open. “Get in, then.”

  I slide into the passenger seat, fastening my seat belt while Tim starts the engine.

  “Did my mum ask you to pick me up?” I glance at the window as we drive off, checking that there’s no one I know around.

  “No. I just thought maybe we should talk.”

  I swallow. “About what?”

  We haven’t spoken since the night of my mother’s horrible party, and I’m living at peace with that. What is there to talk about?

  “I’ve quit my job in London.”

  “You’ve what? Tim, you love that job!”

  “My mum loves it,” he corrects. “I don’t. I realised that after you and I talked.”

  “Wendy thinks it’s my fault.” I recall my recent telephone conversation with my mother. “What did you say to her?”

  “I told her that you’d opened my eyes.” Tim turns to look at me as we stop at a traffic light, his hands still in their fixed position on the steering wheel. “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
/>
  I lean forwards, rubbing my forehead. “After your sister put on that little show with her engagement ring? She hates me enough as it is.”

  “She doesn’t hate you! And that’s all forgotten with Bryony, anyway.”

  “I’m not sure your mother agrees.”

  “She’ll come round.”

  “And Bryony?”

  “Like I said, it’s forgotten. I think Bryony’s a bit embarrassed, to be honest.”

  Embarrassed is not a word I would use to describe how she was acting last night.

  “Speaking of Bryony,” I say, “I saw her yesterday at Zizzi in town.”

  “Did you?” Tim furrows his brow, drawing his eyes even closer together. “She never said she was going. Was she with Jeremy?”

  “No, she said it was a student-teacher thing.”

  “So she was there with her friends from uni?”

  “I don’t know, Tim!” I massage my temples. There was a man there. Probably one of her teachers.

  Tim slows the car as we reach my road, carefully obeying the speed limit. “She may have forgotten to mention it.”

  I nod and curl my fingers round the door handle, ready to make a polite escape.

  “Who were you out with?” His eyes narrow as he looks at me.

  “Just Zara.”

  “Oh. It’s just that I…well, perhaps it would be nice if you and I went out for a drink.”

  I turn away from his hopeful face and stare out of the window at the sloping garden outside my block of flats.

  How am I supposed to answer that? What would Olivia Bright do?

  Confident women do not accept dates with men they have no romantic interest in, simply because they’re too nice to say no.

  That’s something she’d say, isn’t it?

  I turn to face Tim with a tight smile on my face. “I’m actually really busy this week. Maybe some other time?”

  It doesn’t have the same effect as storming out of the car after telling Tim that his chances of getting a date with me are about the same as my chances of winning that 99p Lulu Guinness handbag I’m bidding for on eBay. But I’m sure he gets the message.

  Or at least I think he does.

  * * *

  Saturday morning starts off the way it always does. I wake up at my usual weekday time, clinging to my pillow with the desperate hope that I might be able to nod off again for half an hour.