by Leah Ashton
She excused herself and exited the Armada building just as briskly and professionally.
And to look at her, absolutely no one would ever know, or even suspect, how much she was shaking inside.
What had she just got herself into?
CHAPTER THREE
THE next day, Ella stepped out of one of the Armada building’s high-rise elevators onto the charcoal-flecked white marble tiles that paved the lobby of Jake’s floor. Armada shouted out to her in foot-high mirrored letters above the reception desk, and every piece of furniture in the vicinity seemed to be made out of glass or chrome. It was all very...shiny.
Somehow she’d expected something different of this space—something different from the rest of the corporation’s building. Jake’s PA had explained that it was the developers’ floor—basically the place where all the geeks like Jake worked. Although, of course, his PA hadn’t called them geeks. She’d used words like software engineers and system architects, all of which had whizzed right over Ella’s head.
But effectively, this was Jake’s domain—and it just wasn’t what she’d expected. With all its hard edges and heavy aura of obscene wealth, it didn’t seem to fit with the guy who’d worn faded jeans to an executive board meeting.
This whole building just wasn’t where she’d imagined Jake would end up—the boy who’d first earned her awe with his skill with those ancient computer games they’d played on his mother’s unreliable, flickering TV. Even back then, in the early nineties, he’d dismantled and tinkered—always needing to know how things worked. He’d built things, too. As soon as their school had internet, he’d been there at the library, figuring out how to build a web page. And then software that actually did stuff. Although she’d never really understood how it all worked—she’d been so easily impressed—a little counter on his web page that counted down the days to her birthday had wowed her far more than the pages and pages of programming code he was so proud of.
She gave her name to one of the handful of efficient-looking receptionists, and then took a seat on an uncomfortable white leather couch—with shiny chrome feet and armrests, of course. Beside her, floor-to-ceiling windows gave her a clear view down to the Royal Botanic Gardens, although she could see only glimpses of the harbour, what with the surrounding skyscrapers acting like splayed fingers across her eyes.
The sound of footsteps drew her gaze back into the room, and there was Jake.
In a variation of what he’d worn yesterday, but this time his jeans were dark grey, and his white T-shirt had a complicated logo splashed across the front of it.
Without thinking, she smiled—not a businesslike, work-appropriate smile, but a big, cheesy grin. Even if his outfit broke every one of her executive style guidelines, this was the Jake she remembered. It was an unexpectedly reassuring contrast in this environment of austerity and high gloss.
For an instant—so quickly gone that she was almost sure she’d imagined it—he smiled back. And then his gaze drifted to the camera bag at her feet, and his lips thinned.
‘Let me guess—you’re not carrying that camera around for the fun of it?’
No hello, no nothing.
Bringing her grin down a lot of notches—to determinedly cheery rather than genuinely cheesy—she replied, ‘Nope. You and this camera will be seeing a lot of each other over the next couple of hours.’
His lips managed to get even thinner. ‘Fine. Let’s get this over with.’
The cool words were just the reminder she needed. Jake was no more the boy who’d once lived in the fibro house with the overgrown lawn than she was the girl in the multicoloured weatherboard cottage next door. And right now, he was not pleased.
She toned down her smile even further—to bland—and smoothed her palms down the back of her skirt as she stood. She grabbed her handbag and hooked the heavy camera bag over her shoulder.
Jake muttered something under his breath that sounded something like total waste of time.
She simultaneously bristled and ignored him.
His conviction that he didn’t need her was, almost, a little endearing. He really had absolutely no idea. But he would—very soon.
So she didn’t bite.
‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘Lead the way.’
Without a word he led her down a corridor lined with meeting rooms, all but one empty. Through the nearly opaque glass she could see an enthusiastic meeting in progress, and, from what she could surmise given her blurry view, all attendees were dressed just as casually as Jake.
‘So the dress code on this floor is “jeans”?’ she asked Jake’s back as he strode ahead.
‘My staff can wear whatever they like,’ Jake replied. ‘What they achieve is more important to me than what they look like.’
‘Dressing professionally is about more than just looking good,’ she pointed out.
Jake didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. ‘They’re just clothes,’ he said, in a frustratingly dismissive tone.
But again she held her tongue. After today she’d have many opportunities to change his opinion.
At the end of the hallway, Jake opened a heavy door, holding it open to let her walk in ahead of him.
It wasn’t a small door—quite the opposite in fact—and yet Ella found herself hesitating.
Why?
He wasn’t crowding her, he wasn’t doing a thing but stand there. But he was tall, and broad—just big—and even in jeans his presence felt far from relaxed. Literally and figuratively, he filled the space around him.
You’re being ridiculous.
But it was as if suddenly every cell in her body were aware of him and, as a result, she’d apparently lost her ability to move.
If she waited another nanosecond, he was going to notice. And that would hardly help the situation if he knew exactly how effortlessly he pushed her off balance.
So she took a deep breath. And walked past him.
There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
She mentally smacked herself in the forehead as he closed the door and his deep voice directed her to take a seat.
She really needed to pull herself together. She was as jittery as...well, whatever was jittery enough to overthink walking through a doorway.
She sank into a red leather chair across from a glass and stainless-steel desk. The whole office looked like an explosion of dot-com clichés—multicoloured couches grouped in a corner, a mini basketball ring above the bin, a football table in front of the panoramic windows. There was even one of those magic eight balls on the desktop.
‘Great office,’ she said, because it was. Although, once again, she had an odd sense of incongruence, as if Jake didn’t quite belong.
He shrugged, arranging himself in his chair across from her: one shoulder propped against its back, his backside dangerously close to the edge of the seat, one leg thrown out stretched, the other bent haphazardly at the knee. Sprawled would be an apt description.
All dark and broody, he did sprawled well.
‘Armada hired some fancy interior designer,’ he said with derision, dismissing the room with barely a glance
Ah. That made sense. And again she was oddly reassured that this wasn’t Jake—a crazy reaction, given her role was to help Jake fit better into exactly this type of environment.
Ella tugged at the houndstooth fabric of the hem of her skirt, her knees pressed together primly, her back ramrod straight.
She was acting as if she were at a job interview, she realised.
All nervous and fidgety. All Eleanor.
And that just wasn’t on.
Once again, she repeated that reminder to pull herself together.
This was not a big deal. He was just another client.
A brilliant addition to her growing list of success stories. As she’d reminded herself repeatedly in her middlingly convincing pep talk on the train that morning.
If she focused on that—and not their past—she’d have no problems at all. And with that in
mind, she deliberately smiled her most welcoming smile.
Jake raised an eyebrow, but she chose to ignore that.
‘So, what we’re going to do this morning is have a mock interview. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and film your responses. Then we’ll watch the footage back together, and I’ll identify areas where I can assist you.’
Jake looked less than enthusiastic, but at least he didn’t argue.
He continued to convey general lack of interest as she set up the tripod, although he did perk up a little when the camera came out.
‘What kind of camera’s that?’ he asked as she bent and fiddled with the equipment.
Ah. Always such a techno geek. Trust Jake to be interested in this shiny, state-of-the-art example of technological wizardry.
‘It’s a digital SLR that also shoots video,’ Ella said. ‘Normally when I do these shoots with clients I have a proper set-up with a journalist, lights and a cameraman. Helps to create the sense of a real interview. But for today, this will do.’
He frowned. ‘There wasn’t time to organise all that?’
‘I thought you’d prefer something a little more low-key,’ she said, although until right this second she hadn’t truly considered why she’d thought that.
‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly, surprising her.
She finished securing the camera and met his eyes across the wide glass table. ‘No worries.’
He didn’t manage to crack a smile—but something had definitely softened in his gaze. Well, at the very least, now he looked marginally less likely to grunt his way through the upcoming mock interview.
Soon everything was in place, Jake remaining behind his desk with Ella and the camera across from him. She’d considered relocating to the comfy-looking couches across the room, but figured that a desk between them was probably the better idea. She didn’t need a repeat of that awkward moment at the door. Or even her reaction to his touch when he’d shook her hand yesterday. Maximum distance between her and Jake could only be a good thing for her sanity.
‘Let’s start with a few warm-up questions, just to get you started. Pretend I’m interviewing you in a television studio.’ Ella put on her best interviewer voice. ‘So tell me, Jake, what did you have for breakfast?’
He blinked. ‘Is this really necessary?’
Ella nodded. ‘Trust me. It’ll help you get used to the camera.’
‘Toast,’ he said.
‘Interesting. And what did you have on your toast today, Jake?’
‘This is riveting,’ Jake said, with absolutely zero expression. ‘Surely we can do better than this?’
In reply she just watched him steadily, and finally he sighed, and then spoke. ‘Vegemite and cheese.’
Obviously, some things never changed.
‘Tell me a little more—’
‘What are you grinning about?’
Ella hadn’t even realised she was smiling. ‘Pardon me?’
‘Come on, share the joke.’
He didn’t sound defensive—a welcome change. Just curious.
‘Oh. I guess I was remembering you and your breakfast feasts. I thought you had hollow legs, the amount of bread you went through.’
Ella carefully rearranged her face back to serious interviewer. They needed to focus—plus she was not in the habit of talking about old memories. Ever. ‘As I was saying, tell me a little—’
‘Do you still have the same breakfast? It was Froot Loops, right?’
He’d remembered. Before she could stop herself, she smiled again—but bit her lip as soon as she realised.
How dumb to be pleased he remembered something as stupid as her favourite cereal.
‘Of course not,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s pure sugar. I’m careful to follow a low-fat, low-sugar, whole-food diet.’
‘That sounds terribly boring.’
To be honest, it kind of was. But it was the only possible way she could stay a size ten. And she wasn’t about to give that up.
She shrugged. ‘You’d be surprised how varied and satisfying it is—and it’s so good for my health and well-being.’
Now she sounded like a rather dodgy advertisement for a miracle weight loss solution.
‘Look, let’s get back to the questions. Tell me—’
‘New breakfast. New name. What’s with the Ella thing, anyway?’
She sighed. ‘Jake, I’m not the one being interviewed here.’ She tilted her head in the direction of the camera beside her. ‘Remember? This is about you.’
He shrugged unapologetically. ‘Consider this part of the warm up? Besides, I would’ve thought you’d like me to build a rapport with my interviewers.’
She couldn’t really argue with that. Then he put his palm to his chest. ‘Hand on my heart, I promise I won’t interrupt you again.’ And then he smiled a knee-melting smile that made her seriously glad she was sitting down.
Words tumbled from her mouth. ‘I never liked the name Eleanor. I changed it by deed poll years ago.’
She blinked. Damn. She shouldn’t be talking to Jake like this. After all, he’d lost the right to ask her personal questions a long time ago.
More importantly, she reminded herself, he was her client.
Armada wasn’t paying her to sit around and chat.
On the plus side—if he smiled like that at a female interviewer, Ella reckoned he could make anyone forget whatever curly question they’d thrown at him.
Ella dismissed the way her body instantly tensed at that idea as pure frustration, and not ridiculously placed jealousy related to hypothetical future interviews.
He nodded. ‘And you changed pretty much everything else, too, I’ve noticed.’ His gaze travelled over her—her hair, her impeccably made-up face, her perfectly fitted outfit.
Though she knew it was terrible, she all but preened under his gaze.
See, I can scrub up okay. I’m not a clumsy schoolgirl with bad hair any more.
But—strangely—he didn’t look all that impressed. If anything, his expression was...disappointed?
Which was crazy. No one could possibly argue that she hadn’t improved every single aspect of herself since the last time she’d seen Jake. She’d changed everything—and for the better.
She shifted awkwardly in her seat, then stilled her fingers when she realised she was plucking absently at the fabric of her skirt.
‘Jake, can you tell me what makes the new Armada phone so special?’
He raised an eyebrow at the swift change of subject, but, thankfully, didn’t call her on it.
Instead, almost instantly, he became more animated. He launched into a detailed—far too detailed, really—description of the phone, and his pet topic the operating system, which, she knew from Cynthia’s briefing, was his brainchild.
For the next few minutes, Ella absorbed all she ever—ever—needed to know about multi-touch capability, near field communications, API support and the team’s focus on usability. His detailed description went on and on—and eventually, she yawned.
‘Am I boring you?’
She nodded emphatically.
‘Lots of people are interested in that stuff,’ Jake said, back to being just the slightest bit defensive.
‘Not the average consumer,’ Ella said. When he opened his mouth—to argue, she was sure—she took much enjoyment in being the one to interrupt this time. ‘Put it this way. Do you want to hear me wax lyrical about my whole-food diet?’
He blanched.
‘Exactly. Your multi-field-API whatsit...’ her deliberate mangling of the secret language of software developers made him flinch ‘...is like my discussion on the health benefits of spelt. Only a very specific type of person is interested. And that person is not the average Australian.’
He nodded—reluctantly.
‘How about I ask you a question that people will really want to know about “Sydney’s reclusive millionaire”—’
‘I’d rather you didn’t call me that.’
&
nbsp; ‘I’d rather you didn’t interrupt me. You promised, remember?’
He gave the slightest of grins, and again she needed to bite her lip.
It was unexpected—this...what? Friendly conversation? Banter?
No. No. They were building a rapport, just as he’d said. That was all.
She took a deep breath. ‘You’re renowned for refusing to do interviews. What’s changed?’
Jake immediately swung back to the defensive—this time, very defensive. ‘I’m here to talk about the Armada phone. Not about myself.’
Undeterred, Ella carried on, now sticking determinedly to her interviewer persona. ‘But, Jake, all our viewers are equally interested in you.’
‘You know the answer, Ella. I’m sure Cynthia told you.’
‘Pretend I’m an interviewer, Jake. Not Eleanor.’
Jake stared at her for a long moment. What?
‘Eleanor?’
Too late she realised her mistake. One she’d never, ever made before.
‘Ella,’ she said. ‘Of course that’s what I meant.’
As he watched her Ella felt her cheeks grow steadily warmer, until she was very glad she wasn’t the one with the camera pointed in her direction.
She bit her lip, trying to refocus. Remember where she was. And, more importantly, who she was. She was Ella Cartwright—successful, confident, popular.
Ella Cartwright: businesswoman, friend, girlfriend, even—sometimes. For very short periods. Her career always came first. Always.
But what she was not—not even in the slightest—was Eleanor.
‘Freudian slip?’ Jake asked.
‘Not at all. My subconscious is obviously a little confused. When I knew you, I was Eleanor.’ She shrugged, attempting nonchalance despite the tomato-hue of her cheeks and the whirring of her brain.
‘You act like Eleanor’s an entirely different person.’
‘She is,’ she said. Firmly. ‘Now. I’m doing the interviewing, not you.’
‘I liked Eleanor,’ Jake said, ignoring her.
‘No, you didn’t,’ she said, quickly, before her distracted brain could halt her tongue.
But it was true. He’d made his dislike quite clear that night, in his bedroom. And then confirmed it when he left Perth, and her life, without a backward glance.
