by Layla Hagen
"By the way, Mr. Norton is returning tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is Friday. I thought he wasn't returning until Tuesday."
She shrugs. "He didn't offer any explanation." The implication in her voice is clear. She doesn't give a damn why he did it. "I hope I didn't make you nervous by telling you about it. I figured it'd be better than arriving tomorrow and just seeing him here."
"I'm not nervous," I assure her. "Thanks for telling me."
She smiles and leaves my tiny office, her burgundy hair falling in waves down her back. I need a small break, so I grab my cigarettes from my bag and go outside to smoke. I wonder why Fiona thought I would be nervous about Mr. Norton’s return. I guess most people would be. But my boss was the one who hired me, and we clicked unbelievably well during the interview. He was polite and professional throughout it and did his best to put me at ease. Midway through it, I was convinced he wouldn't give me the job, because it was obvious they were looking for someone who had a bit more experience. I very nearly hugged him when he offered me the job and told me he had full confidence that I wouldn't disappoint him. He even allowed me to use one of the office phones to call my best friend to tell her my good news. Serena was cheering with me on the phone. I don't know what made me do it, but I called my parents afterward. I remember the shock in their voices. Mom was almost good at hiding it. Dad didn't even try.
"They offered you a job?" he asked.
"Yes, Dad. A job."
"As what?"
"Assistant for museum operations. You know, that is what I studied."
He grunted. For him, history and art were nothing more than poor excuses to call myself a student.
"How much are they paying you?" he barked. "That's nothing," he protested after I told him.
"No," I said with a trembling voice, "that is a starting salary."
"Well, it would've been much higher if you had studied economics like Serena, wouldn't it? She works in investment banking. How much is her starting salary?"
I hung up.
There's not much I can do better than Serena. I never could. She moved in with my parents and me in San Francisco when I started high school. Her sister had died, and her parents decided she needed a change of scenery. I liked her from the beginning and was determined she would be the sister I never had. Which is exactly what she became. I adored everything about her, from her guarded nature to her British accent. I had had a fascination for that accent forever. My mom had grown up in England, where she and Serena's mom had been best friends, then moved overseas after high school. When I was little, I used to ask my mom to explain things in her British accent; other than a few odd phrases, nothing much stuck. I was too old to ask Serena to do the same thing without looking ridiculous, but I was content listening to her. My parents adored her as much as I did, and Dad never missed an opportunity to tell me I should be more like her. She was smarter, more focused, more organized, harder working . . . simply more than me. I was the party girl. The irresponsible one.
I shake my head, trying to focus on my next task: talking to the gallery. There is no point remembering any of that now; I managed to get a job with no one's help, and I should be proud of that. Hell, I am proud. No one had to put in a good word for me. It's not one of the big museums in London; on the contrary, it's a small museum specializing in art from the nineteenth century. But still . . . I'm so proud every time I read my name on my office door: Jessica Haydn. My mom could not believe it. Not that I blame her—when I was a student the only jobs I seemed to be able to get on my own were the ones where the only thing that mattered were good looks—the occasional promoter or hostess job.
Well, I didn't get this one because of my looks.
Chapter Three
Parker
"The appointment with the ambassador is in one hour, Mr. Blakesley," my secretary's voice resounds through the speaker.
"I know, Olive. Have a car prepared for me in fifteen minutes."
Leaning back in my chair, I glance at the report in front of me for two seconds before closing it. This is useless. Useless. My brother left this company in shambles, and nothing I do will get it out of the deep shit it's in.
Interim CEO.
What the hell was I thinking, taking this position? I have a million other things I could be doing. I had to find someone to care for and manage my regular business activities, since this barely leaves me any time to do anything else. I loathe this company, and it's common knowledge that every single person in it loathes me.
No wonder, a voice nags at the back of my mind. Whose fault is it that your brother ruined it?
Mine. Which is how I ended up sitting on this bloody chair in the first place. I rise from it, stretching my legs on the way to the large window overlooking the business district. I fix the loose cufflink on my left sleeve until it looks perfect on my shirt. I've been wearing dress shirts for so long they're like a second skin now. Something that has everyone convinced I'm the perfect gentleman.
Apart from Jessica.
She saw right through me from the beginning. I don't know what tipped her off, but she's more right than she suspects. I'm not a gentleman. I'm just very good at pretending I am. Except when I'm around her. I realized the very first time I saw her that I wouldn't be able to keep my shit together if I was around her for long. One indicator that self-control around her would be a damn chore was my body's reaction to hers. Her clothing was hugging her curves in all the right places, highlighting her luscious hips and full breasts. I wanted to rip off every single piece of clothing right then and there, in the middle of the damn club.
But the other indicator was even more worrying. The moment she started talking to me, I was glued to her words, transfixed. I don't even remember half the things she was saying, just the way she made me feel. Life poured off her, radiating a warmth and energy I had never seen in anyone before. I couldn't get enough of her—I spent the entire night watching her, while she was dancing with some bloke she'd picked up there. Something about her mystified me, and I was dazed and bothered by it at the same time. That contradictory feeling followed me for a long time—it still does.
I was used to keeping people at an arm’s length, especially women. I had learned the hard way that the only way to keep people from hurting, deserting, or betraying me was by not letting them get too close. It was a lesson my mother taught me when she chucked me out of our house.
But by God, just being in the same room with Jessica made me want to get to know her. From the little I learned about her from Serena and James, I knew she and I were opposites. She was impulsive and chaotic. I liked order and control.
Still, I couldn’t bring myself to look away from her, so I watched her from a distance for most of the evening. Until that guy put his hands where he wasn’t supposed to and Jessica was desperately trying to get away from him.
“Take your hands off her,” I said once I reached them. When the bloke didn’t budge, I put my hand firmly on his shoulder and pushed him away. He looked disoriented, and by the stench coming off him, it was clear he had enough alcohol in his system not to discern between a woman saying yes or no. His eyes narrowed when he met mine, and then widened in recognition, probably remembering that Jessica had talked to me earlier in the night.
“This is none of your business,” he slurred.
“I believe she made it clear she doesn’t want you to touch her.”
“That still doesn’t make it your business.”
“I’m making it my business,” I said, loud enough that not even the deafening music could cover my words. I stepped between them, and Jessica mouthed thank you as I pulled her away from him. I was still looking at her when I felt his fist collide with the left side of my face.
Jessica shrieked, stepping back, tugging at my sleeve.
“You coward,” I hissed. “You’re lucky you sucker-punched me.”
“You think I can’t take you in a fair fight?”
“I know you can’t.”
&n
bsp; And he didn’t. I proved that with less than two strikes. Before long, the whole club was in chaos, and Jessica came out of the whole thing with a broken leg. Jessica was a bundle of chaos. And still, I kept seeking her. I had a good excuse too. What with her accident, she was confined to the hospital and then her apartment for the better part of every day, and incapacitated to do certain things. My excuse for dropping by several times a week was to help her out.
The truth was, I couldn't get enough of her. We rarely discussed anything very profound, and that was fine by me. I wanted to keep things light. I had a feeling she wanted the same.
I kept hoping my attraction to her would eventually fade if I saw her often enough.
No such luck.
The more I saw her, the harder it became to hide my desire. The sexual tension between us grew stronger and stronger, and I knew I should pull away and get out before it was too late, but I didn't. Until one night, when things got heated, and then I left with a sorry excuse. She resented me after that. On the few occasions we did meet, we did nothing more than snap at each other.
Last night, things between us shifted. And even though I know Jess and I are as different as fire and ice, her inner warmth makes me feel warm. I can’t wait to see her again, which is why I pull the phone from my pocket and plot with Dani.
Chapter Four
Jessica
When I enter the apartment, Dani is standing in front of the mirror, dressed in a floor-length white dress that looks like it belongs on the red carpet.
"Oh, Jess, you're finally home. You spend way too much time at work. I tried to call you all day."
"My cell phone died, sorry." I make my way to the couch, thinking of sprawling on it for a few minutes, debating if I should cook tortillas or just make a simple salad. "Why were you trying to call me? Where are you going?"
"Don't sit," Dani warns. "You don't have time. Go to my room and choose a dress from those on the bed, then get dressed quickly. We're going to the opera."
"Oh." That explains the dress. I've never been to the opera, though I’ve always wanted to go. Tickets are expensive. Which reminds me . . . "But we don't have any tickets."
She winks, amused. "Yes we do. We have a balcony box."
"Who's we?" I ask quickly, with the nagging suspicion I already know the answer.
"You, me, and Parker. And before you start protesting that you can't accept the invitation because the tickets are expensive, just know that Parker has rented the box for the year, so no one's paying anything extra for you. Go choose a dress. We're already late."
I hurry to her room, accidentally hitting the edge of a table with my hip and swearing loudly. Our apartment is located in one of London's least dodgy areas, to quote Parker. In my words: expensive. When Dani and I decided to move in together, it was understood that we were going to split the cost evenly. But a little research revealed that the apartments I could afford were either minuscule, in dodgy areas, or both. James made it clear that in no way was his sister going to live in something like that. That's how we ended up here, with Dani—and her very generous trust fund—covering most of the rent. When I'm not too busy feeling like I'm taking advantage of her, I can't help but lavish in the beauty of this place. Built just a few years ago, it still has that new smell. The decor is a weird mix of old and new: the carpets and lighting are on the traditional side, while the furniture is minimalist, with a lot of glass involved. Not exactly sure how we came to this combination, but I like it. Our bedrooms are pretty small, with just enough space for a bed and a closet. But the large living room and kitchen area more than make up for it. The couch especially . . . I love it. It's the largest couch I've ever seen. Dani and I are convinced that at least six people can sleep comfortably on the U-shaped giant.
There are four dresses on Dani's bed. All are floor-length and exquisite, and, I realize, not really fit for me to wear. Dani and I are the same height, but she's much more slender. Her hips are narrower and her chest is a cup size smaller. But there's no way I can find anything remotely appropriate among my clothes. I went on a shopping spree for clothing with Serena before I left the US. I only bought office clothing, nothing I could wear to the opera, especially if I'll be in a balcony box. Serena's face when I told her I needed help shopping was priceless. It’s not a secret that I found her clothing . . . a tad conservative, but even I knew what my strengths were: party clothing. When it came to office clothing, I didn't know jack shit. And I was determined not to show up at work looking like a stripper. Or underdressed, like I had at the interviews.
I choose a black dress that looks to be the least tight of the lot and put it on.
I go into my room to find a necklace to wear, and it takes about two seconds of staring at my jewelry collection to realize I don’t have anything suitable. Oh well, I can do without jewelry. As I leave my room, I notice the ghetto-gold necklace I was wearing that night in the club when I first met Parker, and remember the next days I spent in the hospital.
Serena and my mother were around a lot, with James gravitating around Serena as well. But Parker showed up too, since he is James’s cousin. The first time was the day after I was admitted. I was lying in the bed, my thoughts flicking from the cast on my broken leg to whether the scratch under the bandages on my cheek would leave any marks. There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said. The door opened and Parker stepped in, looking every bit as disheveled as I felt. Guilt flooded me when I noticed his swollen eye and split lip, but I tried to smile.
“Well, well . . . if it’s not my knight in shining armor.”
“I guess I left the armor at home last night in the club,” Parker said, pointing at his lip. He sat at the edge of my bed. His British accent had the same dazzling effect on me it had in the club.
“I am so sorry you got hurt,” I said.
“Don’t worry about me. How are you feeling?” His gaze rested on my cheek, and the obvious concern in his blue eyes tugged at my heartstrings.
“I’ve been better. It’s like everything hurts. The doctors tell me I’ll have the cast on my leg for a few weeks, and I’ll have to stay at home for at least a few days. I don’t know how I’ll survive. I’m already bored out of my mind.”
That made him grin. “Of course you are.”
“Do you have your car here?”
“Yes,” Parker answered, alarm springing in his eyes.
“Do you think you could sneak me out and take me for a short ride?”
“My God, you are serious,” Parker said.
“Yes I am. If you say yes, you’ll definitely be my knight, even without any armor.”
“I’ll have to find something else to deserve that title. There’s no way I’ll sneak you out. You don’t feel well. Besides,” he leaned in, “didn’t they tell you never to get in a car with a stranger? You barely know me.”
“If I took advice of that kind, I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. We can get to know each other later. Let’s go.”
“No chance.” He chuckled. “You look terrible.”
I suddenly became self-conscious, and turned my bandaged cheek away from him. Parker stopped laughing. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Leaning in, he added, “You are very beautiful, you know that?”
We danced on that fine line between joking and flirting for the next few weeks. I saw him almost every day and—as he put it—we got to know each other. I liked being around him, talking to him. He patiently listened to me talking about my doubts about the upcoming interview at the museum where I am now working. I never shared those insecurities with anyone, not even Serena. But with him I didn’t feel the need to put up the shield of self-confidence I presented to the world. Though I generally had no troubles with interviews, I was worried about the one in London, since it was the job I wanted most. Parker listened to me and encouraged me. I’d dare say it felt like we were friends. Friends who desperately wanted each other.
Dani grins when I step back into the l
iving room. "You look gorgeous."
"I look like I belong in a porn movie," I correct her.
"A classy one." She chuckles. "Let me get something that will cover your cleavage. You can take it off once we are in the box, but I'm not sure you should flaunt it on the way there, or during the breaks." She disappears into her room and returns with a red cape that covers my shoulders and my cleavage. I stare in the mirror, feeling more than a bit uncomfortable in the dress. The fabric feels too expensive, the dress too elegant. Slutty elegant. Next to me, Dani couldn't feel more at ease. Of course she is. She's used to this.
"I can't wait to see Parker's face when he sees you," Dani says, her grin even wider.
I narrow my eyes.
"I saw the way he looks at you," she says knowingly. So her comment to Parker last night was on purpose. Looks like innocent Dani isn't as innocent as I thought. Good to know.
The cab drive to the opera is punctuated by a ton of questions from the driver who seems thrilled to have two Americans as passengers and has a special interest in California. I do most of the talking, enjoying hearing his British accent more than the conversation itself. I wonder when I’ll get over the whole accent thing. Dani isn’t half as taken with it as I am, but that’s probably because her mother is British.
When I step outside the cab, I’m momentarily stunned as I gaze at the Royal Opera House. The Roman Renaissance building is a dream for a former art and history student like me. I stare in awe at the columns above the entrance while following Dani, who walks in front of me with determined strides.
Judging by the few people in the lobby, I'm guessing Dani wasn't joking. We really are late.
"Finally," Parker calls, waiting for us a few feet from the entrance. I make a point not to meet his eyes as Dani and I give our coats to the woman in charge of the cloakroom. I steal glances at him, though. The suit he's wearing is more elegant than usual, a tux with a bow tie. He couldn't look hotter if he tried. Unless he was naked. Heat spreads through me as he catches my eye and the corner of his mouth lifts into a smile.
