by Alam, Donna
‘The men are the ones that move tables,’ I hiss. ‘How much prosecco have you had?’
‘A couple,’ she protests, glassy eyed. More like a couple of bottles than glasses. And to think I was the one with the nerves. ‘Give it to me,’ I demand, taking the folded card from Mir’s hand.
‘Where’s your favourite place to have sex,’ Heather reads aloud over my shoulder. ‘That’s not as bad as the last one.’
‘Except she said his answer was in the bum.’ Mir sniggers, rolling her lips together to mute the sound.
‘Who the hell would spike the prompts?’ I wonder aloud. Because yes, some utter twat has added a few more prompts to our buckets. So far we’ve had this one, along with:
What is the weirdest thing you’ve ever masturbated to?
Have you ever looked at your own butthole in the mirror, and if so, did you like what you saw?
‘It isn’t someone from E-Volve,’ Heather says in a serious tone. Thankfully, she’s not off her tits on cheap bubbles. ‘They’d have used the same card. It’s been sitting on my desk all week.’ I consider the note in my hand, blue biro scrawled hastily on a piece of paper than appears to have been torn from a notebook.’
‘I bet it was one of the Lust Island guys,’ I say scanning the room for the sight of one of the heavily muscled, darkly tanned, and carefully styled miscreants. They were only supposed to be here for the reception to kiss a few cheeks and shake a few hands. And some publicity shots, of course. Thankfully, these didn’t include the signing some of the attendees boobs.
So much for people evolving.
‘They did seem to have the sense of humour of fourteen-year-olds,’ Heather adds. ‘And to think I was looking forward to meeting them.’
‘They’re hot, though,’ Mir announces, swaying a little.
‘Ew, Mir. One of them is wearing pink pants that don’t touch his ankles! He looks like a Club Tropicana reject.’
‘Pssht,’ her cousin replies, with a heavy wave of her hand. ‘They’re fashionable.’
‘Baa!’ Heather bleats. ‘Only sheep follow fashion.’
‘Miranda, go and sit down, please.’ I point to an empty booth away from the main event before the two get into this any deeper. ‘I don’t have time to deal with you right now.’ With an exaggerated pout, she trots off in the direction I’d indicated.
‘Our so-called celebs; have they left?’
‘No, I think I saw them go downstairs to the other bar.’ Heather shrugs, her expression twisting.
‘No doubt adding drinks to my tab. Just be sure to stay away from them.’ I turn over my phone, which is set to the stopwatch app. ‘The three minutes are up. Do you want to do the honours?’ Heather gives an excited little nod, making her way over to the brass gong framed in a carved wooden stand which we’ve set on the bar. She hits it solidly with the accompanying lollipop sized hammer.
‘Gentlemen,’ she announces following the low shimmering hum, her confident voice carrying just as clear across the room. ‘Please change your tables.’
‘I love bashing the that,’ she admits shyly as she returns. ‘I think we should take it to the office to announce the kettle is on and stuff.’
‘Why not?’ I reply, amused.
‘Where’d you get it from?’
‘It’s Beckett’s. I’ve just borrowed it for the night.’
‘Cool.’
‘Listen, Heather, I just wanted to say that I’m so proud of you.’ I pull her in for a hug because tonight, she’s really stepped up to the plate. She’d swapped her jeans, T-shirt and sneakers for a shirt, blouse and ballet flats, not only looking the part, but embodying it, too. ‘You handled yourself really well when those drunks tried to sneak in earlier.’
‘Not on my watch,’ she says, drawing herself taller. ‘I’ve got three older brothers. I don’t take anyone’s shit.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Speaking of which,’ she says. ‘Do you want to get ready to ring the gong for all change or do you want to chuck that chancer out?’ My gaze follows hers to the door where a handsome blond in a blue suit is sneaking in. Not sneaking exactly; men as good looking as him have no need of being furtive.
‘You do the gong. I think this has something to do with my husband.’ Because behind the hottie comes another piece of hotness, all brooding six-foot-two of him.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, unable to keep my delight from my tone.
‘We thought you might need a little moral support,’ Beckett answers, drawing me in for a quick kiss. ‘And I didn’t want you running away with anyone else.’ His purr is low in my ear.
Ladies and gents, this is your four-minute marker.
‘You’re not getting rid of me that easy.’ I absolutely can’t help my tinkling laugh or the bloom of pleasure radiating through my bones. Reggie was right; this is the Beckett effect. Sniping and arguing, or loving words, I’m mad for the man. And I think it might be time I pull up my big girl panties and tell him exactly that.
‘I want to introduce you to someone,’ he says, his expression warm as he pulls on my hand, leading me across the room. ‘Olivia, this is one of my oldest friends, James Harrison.’ The blond holds out his hand, my gaze flicking immediately to Beckett. He’s introducing me to his friend? Talk about a reversal of plans.
‘Olivia. So lovely to meet you at last.’
‘Harry!’ I’m bursting with what this means. It’s such a little thing on the surface, but it means so much more, I feel. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I add immediately. ‘It’s just, that’s what Beckett always calls you.’
‘That’s perfect,’ he answers with a breathtaking smile. Oh, I just bet he’s a hit with the ladies. ‘All my friends call me Harry.’ And I am a new friend. Check. This. Out!
‘You can let go of her now,’ Beckett grumbles, fairly pulling me away from his friend. ‘You don’t mind if we gate crash, do you?’
‘The photographer doesn’t,’ Harry interjects. As we turn, I realise Beckett and I will also be included in their feature now.
‘The couple of the moment,’ Danielle, the reporter calls giddily. ‘Our readers will love it!’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I answer, still smiling as I turn back to the pair. ‘You can help me out with Miranda.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with her?’
‘She’s drunk.’ I roll my eyes as Beckett’s narrow.
‘While she’s getting paid?’
‘Technically, she’s not. I was just going to give her the day off.’ We’d been planning this event for months and, at that point those months ago, I didn’t have any spare money to spend on overtime.
‘Then she’s getting paid,’ he contends. ‘And the girl is drunk at work.’
‘We can argue the semantics of it later but help me out here. I’ve got enough on my hands without dealing with her.’
‘Point her out and I’ll take her to a corner and ply her with coffee,’ Harry offers.
‘Would you? That would be so helpful. That’s her. The girl in the blue dress.’ I point at Mir, currently weaving in and out of the tables. And patting one of the male attendees on the head. A bald attendee. And then kissing his pate.
‘Consider it done,’ Harry says, already on the move.
‘So, this is this a bit of a surprise,’ I say, turning back to Beckett.
‘Is it really? I seem to be unable to stay away from you these days.’
‘I’m not complaining.’ My hands clasped behind my back I find myself twisting left and right as Beckett follows the swish of the hem of my dress. His thumb taps his pouty bottom lip as though contemplating something.
‘I know that look.’ I’m hyper aware of the way his eyes devour me, warmth flooding my body as a consequence.
‘Do you indeed.’
‘You look like you’re thinking of doing something, which is lucky because . . .’ His eyes widen slightly as I hold out my hand as though in greeting. ‘Hi. My name is something.’
His laughter is deep and pure and he uses my hand to pull me into his broad chest. ‘You still have a little to learn about negotiating.’
‘Yeah? And what’s that?’
‘Never make the first offer,’ he growls into my skin.
The evening passes quickly and when the speed dating part of the experience is over, the singles get to mingling. The photographer takes some candid shots and Danielle interviews a few attendees vox pop style, before she exchanges a few words with the Lust Island guys again. We chat before she leaves, and she promises not to include what has become the comment of the night in response to the prompt cards.
Question: Tell me something fascinating about yourself?
Answer: I don’t have a gag reflex.
It’s not exactly the evolved romance vibe I was going for. And not exactly the sort of thing you’d expect from a woman named Prudence who is five-foot-tall if she’s an inch, and looks a little like an angel, is a kindergarten teacher, and has a very squeaky voice. You certainly can’t judge a book by its cover.
Eventually, the crowd begins to disperse leaving us to pack up our stuff.
‘I’ve grabbed the feedback cards,’ Heather says, ‘And I’m about to order an Uber to take me and Mir home.’
‘Get a cab and let me know what I owe you tomorrow.’
‘Oh, don’t forget this,’ she says, grabbing the gong from the bar top.
‘Is that yours?’ Harry says, suddenly appearing at my side, his gaze anxiously flicking between Beckett and myself. Actually, between Beckett and where I’ve slid the gong under my arm.
‘It’s mine,’ I answer defensively. ‘Well, I just borrowed it.’
Beckett sets off laughing as Harry looks like . . . we’ll, I’m not sure what he looks like. Like he’s going to explode or maybe be sick?
‘Jesus, Beckett.’ He blows out a harsh breath. ‘Only you would be so blasé about something this old.’
‘Oh my God. Is this an antique? I thought it was something you picked up on your holidays.’ Because it’s so ugly.
‘Harry deals in art. He’s got a gallery in Belgravia. I think I told you that?’ Beckett says, still chuckling. ‘He also has a bit of a passion for antiquities.’
‘Here, take it!’ I shove it at Harry. ‘If it’s damaged, please don’t tell me.’ Because suddenly I feel sick.
‘I’ll go and . . . stow this somewhere,’ Harry begins.
‘The car should be outside,’ Beckett answers.
‘Olivia, lovely to meet you. Your drunken employee, too. She was rather sweet.’
‘Thank you for babysitting.’ And I mean that sincerely. ‘I like him,’ I say, looking up into Beckett’s inscrutable expression as Harry disappears through the door.
‘Maybe we’ll have him around for dinner one night soon.’
‘I’d like that.’ Really, I would. ‘I could cook. And you could pretend to wash the dishes.’
‘What is the point of paying someone to do something only to have to do it yourself?’ His gaze slides to a sleepy Miranda as Heather coaxes her out from the booth.
‘If only we were all as clever as you.’
‘Yes, if only. The world would make much more sense.’
‘You keep telling yourself that,’ I reply, patting his chest before reaching for my purse. ‘Could you help them into their cab or whatever? I just need to close out the tab.’ I pull out my company credit card, kiss him quickly on the lips and turn to the bar again. Only, as the cash register has been closed out already, so I make my way downstairs to the main bar. The eyewatering tab settled, I slip a sizeable tip into the tip jar, turning as I pull my purse higher on my shoulder and walk straight into a wall of unfamiliar chest. The thought that crosses my mind before I open my mouth is, it’s so strange how I know this isn’t Beckett without even looking up into his face.
‘Oh, excuse me. I wasn’t watching where I was—’
‘Olivia?’
I don’t know who is more shocked, Luke or myself. He certainly looks shocked. Meanwhile, I think my mouth has become unhinged. At least until this,
‘What are you doing here?’ The words sound more accusatory than they should.
‘I came with some mates for a drink.’ He indicates behind him to where two men sit with talented Prudence and another two women from tonight’s event. So much for our success. ‘How are you?’
‘Good. I’m good.’ I seem to be nodding quite a bit, and quite rapidly, as I try to process his appearance.
‘You haven’t returned any of my calls.’ His words are surprisingly soft and hold a trace of hurt rather than accusation. ‘I thought we were friends.’
‘Yeah, well, I thought that, too. But then I discovered I was just a bit of entertainment for you and your stepdad.’ I never was one to beat around the bush.
‘I’m sorry?’ He straightens, brushing a hand through his floppy fair hair. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Really?’ I wish my words were a rapier because then I’d poke him with it. How dare he make me feel dirty, used and disposable while they laughed, while they played me. Well, who’s laughing now?
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ His answer is low and urgent and there’s something unsettling in his tone, not that I have time to dwell as he hurries on. ‘Is this about me not coming to the party Mark threw? Jesus, Ols.’ He blows out a violent breath. ‘Do you think I want to celebrate you being with someone else? Someone other than me?’
‘That was never going to happen.’ Not seriously.
‘Well, you made that infinitely clear,’ he retorts, matching my anger now.
‘You don’t get to play the injured party.’ Incensed, I punctuate the words with my finger, violently poking the air between us. So much for Regency style social cuts. I’m sure the Duchess of Devonshire didn’t stand around arguing like a fishwife.
‘Really? Because from my viewpoint, things obviously look a little different. But at least I don’t have to watch the bastard swanning around the office like the cat that ate the fucking canary anymore.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Though no need to ask who the feathers belong to.
‘He got rid of me as part of the deal. Didn’t he tell you? Majority ownership of the company for him and a huge fuck off handshake for me. As of this week, I don’t have to look at him ever again. But you know what hurts the most? We’ve been friends for a long time, you and me, but you just dropped me. You didn’t lose any sleep before moving on to the next man who could dig you out of the shit.’
‘That’s not what happened.’ My cheeks sting as though he’s struck me.
‘Anna and I aren’t together—did you know that? We’re going to co-parent and I’ll support her and the baby, but you didn’t even give me a chance to get my head around things before fucked off and married him.’
‘Because you left me no choice!’ I yell.
The who bar falls quiet at my pronouncement.
I know I screwed it all up by the choices I made, but he left me high and dry and in no position to do anything but marry Beckett.
Beckett.
The man standing at the door behind him, his expression murderous.
Chapter 40
OLIVIA
‘I don’t know what he’s been filling your head with, but maybe you should pick up the phone next time I call.’ Luke’s voice is pitched softer, like he knows Beckett is behind him, or maybe like he knows I’m about to leave.
I find myself nodding jerkily, my shoulder brushes his arm as I pass. I don’t look back but sail through the door as Beckett steps aside to let me through.
‘What is he doing here?’
The air outside is crisp with the promise of frost, Beckett’s words just a little puff of white in the air. I wish I’d remember to bring a jacket as I rub my bare upper arms. It won’t be long before sidewalks will be covered in a carpet of leaves, crisp beneath our feet. And then what? We won’t be crunching along these streets together when the snow fa
lls. Will we? I swallow thickly over the riot of thoughts as I notice the ever-present Mercedes parked on this side of the street, a couple of car lengths away. I glance at it distractedly and back at him.
‘It was a coincidence, I think.’ I’m surprised how even my voice sounds. Such a contrast to my noisy mind. He no longer works at JBW and that’s somehow Beckett’s doing. As for the rest . . . ‘Did you say that Luke knew about his stepfather’s plan? My pitch and—’
‘Why are we talking about this now?’ He pivots on the leather soul of his shoe, turning to face me. I do likewise more slowly, my mind still trying to sort through the puzzle pieces.
‘Because we haven’t talked about it before, I guess.’
‘It didn’t matter to you. You weren’t interested in anything but revenge.’
‘No, revenge was your thing. Your hard on.’
His firm huh become visible in the air. ‘You have no idea what makes me hard.’ The hard edge to his words almost feel like a blow. Does he mean that I don’t— ‘Because you don’t understand. You can’t understand.’
‘I understand someone stole the toys from your crib.’ In a motion that’s more him than me, I turn swiftly and begin moving in the opposite direction to the car, away from his horrible words. Away form him.
‘Olivia,’ he growls, then repeats in a yell as my feet thunder against the pavement so hard, I’m surprised the heels don’t snap.
‘Stop.’ Feet scuffle against the sidewalk, his hand reaching out to grab my arm.
‘Get off me,’ I demand, pulling away. ‘I need time to think.’
‘You’re not stomping your way through the streets of London alone, no matter how fearsome you think you are.’
‘Stop telling me what to do. Stop treating me like a child!’ I realise we’re actually tussling. He’s not hurting me, but he’s not letting go of my arms, either.
‘Then stop behaving like one. What is this about? One minute you’re fine, then he turns up and suddenly you’re like this.’
‘Like what? Like angry?’ I step closer, eyes narrowed. ‘Like disobedient?’
