The New Guy
KATHRYN FREEMAN
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Kathryn Freeman 2020
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Kathryn Freeman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008365820
Ebook Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008365813
Version: 2020-01-23
About This Book
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
About This Book
Part One: A Chance Meeting
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part Two: The New Guy
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Three: A Matter of Trust
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Four: The Idea
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part Five: A Secret Affair
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part Six: The Unscheduled Visit
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part Seven: The Conclusion
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
PART ONE
A Chance Meeting
Chapter 1
Sitting alone at the bar in her local pub wasn’t how she wanted to spend the evening. Only a few hours ago, Sam had been with her family in Cornwall, saying goodbye to her grandad. And by saying goodbye she meant watching, tears streaming down her face, as his coffin slid behind a heavy velvet curtain.
She wanted to be back in Cornwall now, celebrating his life with her slowly-turning-hippy parents, her beautiful, slightly crazy sisters and her raucous but salt of the earth brothers. Drinking too much and laughing too loud, because when you’d lost the head of the family, the linchpin, the man they’d all turned to for advice at some point in their lives, what else was there to do?
Full of misery, she downed the rest of her glass. She could at least drink. And while she was drinking, the dark, brooding guy who’d eased onto the stool to her right was a welcome distraction. Catching the barman’s eye, she smiled and signalled for another glass of champagne.
‘I’m celebrating.’ Sam turned to find brooding guy’s dark brown eyes looking at her; wary, a little irritated. Surprisingly magnetic. When she realised he wasn’t going to say anything, she laughed. Sober Sam would have been embarrassed, but two glasses of fizz had given her a buzz. ‘Celebrating isn’t the right word, but Grumps would appreciate the sentiment.’
Brooding guy kept his eyes fixed on hers. Come on, she willed him. I’ve given you a neat opening.
He turned his attention back to the half-drunk pint in front of him. ‘Enjoy.’
Enjoy? Had she lost her touch? She wasn’t a woman whom men tripped over themselves to talk to; her hair was too red, skin too pale, eyes abnormally large and her mouth too big. All on top of a body that might have the height of a model but had the size of someone who enjoyed her food. Still, she was a woman most people, male or female, responded to. Charisma, her parents called it, but they were hardly unbiased. She preferred empathetic. Sensitive and perceptive worked, too. Actually no, scratch that last one. Perceptive implied an ability to assess, to judge a person’s character. History confirmed she was lousy at that.
‘Not interested in who Grumps is?’ Again, sober Sam wouldn’t have pushed, but tipsy Sam was determined to prove she still had the knack of getting others to talk.
They guy’s eyes flicked back to her and he gave her a dark look, annoyance radiating off him. ‘A weird dwarf?’
She blinked, then burst out laughing. ‘Grumpy, Snow White, I see where you’re coming from.’
He gave her a brief, false smile – if she read it correctly, it said bugger off and leave me alone. Then he hunched back over his pint.
With a sigh, Sam took a gulp from her freshly filled champagne. It tasted sour now, the bubbles too joyful. Against her will her mind circled back to the last week, and the sorrow of sitting uselessly by her grandad’s side as she watched him bravely lose his battle against cancer.
Oh, sod it. She wasn’t going to wallow. ‘Grumps was my grandad.’ She didn’t care if the guy next to her didn’t want to listen. She was going to talk. ‘He died a few days ago and it’s gutting to think I won’t get to talk to him again. We cremated him this morning.’ Shamefully she realised she hadn’t even changed from her funeral suit. Too desperate to escape the four walls of her flat. ‘I want to be drowning my sorrows with my family right now, but I had to come back.’ She shrugged, aware of his dark eyes on her. ‘Work, you know? So here I am, drinking to celebrate his life, because it’s what he’d have wanted. I seem to be doing a lousy job of it though.’ Her voice wobbled and she paused to take a breath. No more tears. ‘I know you’re dying to ask but are too shy, so I’ll tell you. When I was little I couldn’t say Gramps, which was what my brothers and sisters called him. I’d say Grumps. I kept the nickname because I loved the irony. He was the least grumpy man I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a few.’ Her eyes flicked towards him.
He glowered. ‘What?’
She smiled sweetly. ‘Nothing.’
He grunted and turned away again, swivelling the pint glass round and round in his hands. Elegant, she realised with surprise. She’d expected hands that fitted his face. Hard, blunt. Not that he wasn’t good-looking, but his attraction was more that of the boxer than the artist. A nose that she’d like to bet had been broken and not set properly. A square, stubborn jaw. Very short brown hair, cut in a way that was more about practicality than style. Deep, dark eyes that were the focus of his face. Lips that could have been described as sensitive but seemed permanently turned down in a scowl.
‘So, what’s your story?’
A
nother glare from his expressive eyes. ‘No story.’
‘Come on, give me something. Doesn’t even have to be the truth. Just talk to me for a while. Take my mind off losing my grandad.’
‘Jeeze,’ he muttered. ‘No offence but piss off and find someone else. Talking isn’t my thing.’
Though the words were harsh, alcohol had dulled her sensitivity. Besides, his expression was more resigned than angry. Noticing his eyes still on her, she made an exaggerated scan of the pub. ‘Shame, I can’t see anyone else sitting by themselves. You’ll have to do. And anyway, talking is good for the soul. You’d be amazed how therapeutic it can be, even if it’s with a stranger.’ When she once again failed to get a reply, she waved a hand towards his face. ‘Do you box? Your nose looks kind of crooked.’
Other than an almost imperceptible shake of the head, which could have been an answer, but could equally have signalled that he thought she was nuts, he remained silent.
‘It’s still a good nose,’ she added. ‘I was just making conversation. You said talking wasn’t your thing, so I thought you’d find it easier if I asked questions and you answered them.’
‘Frigging unbelievable.’ He shook his head more forcefully this time, but there was no heat to his words.
‘So, do you? Box, I mean?’
‘No.’
‘How did you break it, then?’
He exhaled, the sound bursting with frustration. ‘Lady, you don’t need to be in a ring to fight.’
‘Ah, got it. Somebody punched you. What had you done?’ The sharp look he gave her was loaded with warning. ‘Okay, touchy subject.’ She indicated his now empty pint. ‘Let me buy you a drink while I think of another question.’ Signalling again to the barman, she fought to hide her smile. She was actually starting to enjoy this game, teasing snippets of conversation from a moody, attractive stranger.
It wasn’t how he’d wanted to spend his evening. The pub was okay, if you liked the posh gastropub type. Ryan was more of a traditionalist, but the beer was good. Bloody expensive, but good. Guess he’d have to get used to London prices now he’d moved here. Just as he’d have to get used to the shithole of a flat he’d come to the pub to escape from.
It wasn’t all doom and gloom, mind. Some fancy lady was now buying him a pint. Not bad-looking either, he thought as he watched her giving her order to the barman. He was a fan of big blue eyes and high cheekbones, wasn’t sure about pale skin and red hair but it looked good on her. He even dug her sexy wide mouth, though she could do with keeping it shut more. She was clearly one of those chatty, life-is-full-of-rainbows-and-unicorns types. The ones who believed all the world’s problems could be solved by people being nice to each other. They really did his head in. Life was hard and people were gits. Accept it and get on with it.
Who the hell drank champagne in a pub anyway – and to celebrate the life of a man called Grumps?
Still, he wasn’t going to turn down a free pint at these prices, no matter who bought it.
‘Thanks,’ he said when the warm, slightly too frothy pint was put in front of him. As she’d bought it for him, he could at least be civil. ‘Cheers.’ He nodded to the full glass of champagne she was being handed by the barman. ‘Still celebrating?’
Her eyes, already too big for her face, widened a fraction before she twigged. ‘I think I’m more drowning my sorrows now. Do you have a grandad you’re close to?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Undeterred by his monosyllabic answer, she gave him a bright smile. ‘Grandads are really special. When all the world is rushing, they always have time for you.’
Slowly her cheery smile faded. Bizarrely, Ryan found he missed it. Sure, she irritated him. He’d come to the pub to escape his shitty four walls. Not to become embroiled in polite conversation – something he was pathetically poor at. But now she’d gone quiet, her spark dimmed, and he had this weird compulsion to see it back again. ‘You want to talk about him?’ Her eyes widened. Christ, they were amazing. He’d never seen the like. Blue pools big enough to dive into. Now her smile was back, her eyes sort of … shone, he guessed, was the word.
‘You mean that? You’d seriously listen if I told you all the Grumps anecdotes burning through my brain right now?’
Shit, maybe this was a bad idea. Then again, it wasn’t like his other options – staring at his pint, or at his crappy four walls – were thrilling alternatives. ‘Two. I’ll listen to two stories.’
Her smile racked up another watt, those eyes sucking him further in. ‘Ten.’
He blanched. ‘Give me a break. Four.’
She held out her hand. ‘Let’s shake on five.’
Before he knew what was happening, he was holding her hand. Okay, he was shaking it, but the jolt of unexpected desire that shot through him at the contact made it feel just as intimate. The way her eyes darkened and her smile froze told him she’d experienced it too.
He dragged his hand away, aware that suddenly everything between them felt different. For the first time that night he noticed what she was wearing: a fancy dark suit – had she come straight from the funeral? Noticed too the subtle, yet he’d like to bet stupidly expensive, perfume she wore. And the hint of cleavage revealed by her white silk blouse. No longer was she a random stranger sitting on a bar stool. Now she was a warm, vibrant, sexy woman. All those ditzy rainbows and unicorns aside.
Clearing his throat, he nodded at her to start. ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’
‘What? We didn’t agree a time limit.’
He smirked, glad to feel his control returning. ‘So, I play dirty.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Nine minutes, thirty seconds.’
She looked like she didn’t know whether to laugh or throttle him. Then she took a sip of her drink, rolled those ginormous eyes and began to talk.
Did he listen to a word she was saying? Nah, of course he didn’t. He’d asked because she’d looked like she wanted to talk, not because he was interested in some dead old guy he’d never met. With a ridiculous nickname. Although while he wasn’t listening to the words, he did enjoy the sound of her voice. Almost as much as he enjoyed watching her talk. The expressive face, the self-mocking laughter, the seemingly random movement of her hands which appeared to ‘talk’ almost as much as she did. Yeah, watching her was as good a way as any to spend the evening.
Except maybe touching her.
He lunged for his forgotten pint and took a deep swig. Did he have the guts to chat her up? It wasn’t his usual MO. Not being good with words, he tended to wait for women to come on to him, though it meant he attracted a certain type. Classy, champagne-swigging ladies were a serious upgrade.
Chapter 2
Sam was on a roll. Halfway through her fourth anecdote about her grandad and the words were flying, her misery temporarily forgotten. Somehow this taciturn stranger had realised exactly what she’d needed. Sam knew the guy wasn’t listening, but it didn’t matter. Only that he was pretending to be interested, so she didn’t look like a total nutter, sitting here talking to herself.
‘Three more minutes.’ His gruff voice sliced through her flow.
‘You’re actually timing me?’
‘A deal’s a deal.’
She wanted to argue, press her point that she’d not agreed to a time limit, but it would cut into the precious minutes. ‘Fine. Last one. Grumps was the one who told me I could do whatever I put my mind to. He’s the reason I took a business degree.’
His eyes swept her face, assessing her. ‘He is, huh? Well, good old Grumps.’
Amusement glittered in the dark eyes that stared back at her, and the flutter she’d felt when he’d clasped her hand returned with a vengeance, sending a rush of desire surging through her. Raw, primal, it was unlike anything she’d felt before. She was used to the slow burn. A building attraction that morphed into desire over time, once she’d got to know someone. Friends to lovers. And then to enemies, she remembered bitterly, before shaking away the thought.
&
nbsp; She’d never be friends with this stranger. He was too dour, too surly, but heaven help her, she fancied him. Clearly champagne had lowered her threshold for finding men attractive. Either that or her libido, after being thoroughly decimated eighteen months ago, was starting to pull itself together.
The guy continued to stare, his amusement fading. ‘I don’t care what degree you did.’
‘Right, okay. Of course you don’t.’ The heat from his eyes was making her skin prick.
‘Don’t care what your name is, either,’ he added roughly.
‘Fine.’ The dismissive tone was at odds with the intense expression on his face. She started to turn away, confused by his mixed messages and her acute reaction to him, when he cleared his throat, his lips curving in a half smile.
‘All I care about is whether your bedroom is less of a shithole than mine.’
Shocked, she almost fell off the stool. As her heart bounced against her ribs, she grabbed hold of the bar. ‘Pardon?’
His mouth opened, as if he was about to reply, then slammed shut again. God, what was wrong with her that, despite his crude statement, she wanted to feel those lips on her skin?
Suddenly he grabbed at his beer and swallowed the rest down in one, long, gulp. ‘Forget it. It’s been fun, Champagne Lady, but I’m off.’
‘That’s it?’ Disappointment crashed through her, making her blurt the next words without thinking. ‘What about my bedroom?’
His cheeks reddened. ‘Dumb move.’ He shifted off the stool, his movements tight and jerky. ‘Blame the beer.’
She could blame the champagne for what she was about to say, but Sam knew that would be a lie. The alcohol only made it easier to be brave. ‘So, you’re not interested in how my bedroom stacks on the shithole scale?’
His eyes flashed. ‘Piss off.’
He snatched at the brown leather jacket draped over the back of the stool. Sam had a brief sense of height and bulk – hard, muscular bulk – before he turned and headed for the exit.
She should leave it at that. He was embarrassed and she’d compounded it by making it appear like she was teasing him, when actually she’d been trying to come on to him. Looks like they were both useless when it came to the art of propositioning.
The New Guy Page 1
