A Heat of the Moment Thing Read online

  “No. Don’t change the subject.”

  It had been a poker game, I was sure. I snatched the remote out of his hands and turned the TV back on, double-checking it hadn’t been a DVD. Nope.

  He tossed up one, two, three maltezers in quick succession and caught them all in his mouth.

  Show-off. I pointedly ignored his exhibition, channel-hopping in search of the evidence. A-ha. No poker. That could only mean one thing.

  I stood over him, brandishing the remote in his face. “Have you got something to tell me?”

  He reclaimed the remote and hid it under his backside. Farted on it, in case I was tempted. “I made the Olympics. Maltezer Tossing. It’s a new field event.”

  “As in, caber tossing for puny boys?”

  “Mock all you like. Maltezer Tossing is huge. People were desperate to get on the squad.”

  “I’ll give you bloody desperate.” I snatched his precious sweets off him and held them aloft. “What’s with the cable TV? Own up, white guy.”

  He folded his arms. “Bite me.”

  I wrinkled my nose, then gagged. “Jeez Jim, that’s disgusting.”

  He smirked. I lunged for the remote. Lunged away again, cursing his backside. He cackled.

  “Ha!” I pointed at the decoder box. “What’s that?”

  “Anti-terrorist device. Compulsory issue. David Cameron’s watching our every move.”

  “Funny.” Cameron would be gutted he hadn’t thought of it himself.

  Jim brought the remote out from under. The card game reappeared.

  “I am not helping fund your entertainment.”

  “Why not?”

  I looked at him in exasperation. “Why should I?”

  “Fine. Fuck off, then. I’ll get another house-mate.” He stole back his maltezers.

  “Like anyone else would bother. You stink. Your farts kill small children. You have no social graces. You don’t cook. You don’t clean. In fact,” I expanded, “you wouldn’t know a bottle of Cif if it leapt up and hit you in the head. You leave your shite all over the flat. You have bad B.O. You eat all my food . . .”

  He burped. “You love me.”

  “And by the way, it was my flat first. So you fuck off.”

  “Man. It’s only Sky. What’s your problem?”

  “You.” I slammed the door on him, knowing full well what—who—my problem really was.

  Matt.

  Since Day One he’d spelled danger for me, and I’d known it. But it was my dream job. I’d thought I could handle it, keep things professional. But keeping things professional wasn’t proving as simple as I’d thought.

  Turned out I couldn’t trust the lift. Or Matt.

  Or myself.

  Poor Jim. I was a snarly, bad-tempered old cow, and he didn’t deserve to be my sacrificial lamb.

  I’d better apologise.

  * * *

  “Here.” Dani thrust a glass of wine at me. “You look like you need this.”

  “Do I ever.” I unbuttoned my coat and sank into the lounge chair she’d saved for me. Took a large mouthful of Sauvignon.

  “Hey.” She looked at me more closely. “Is everything okay?”

  I made a moue. “Not enough sleep.” Which didn’t even begin to cover it, but what was the point? Dani wouldn’t understand.

  “Poor you,” she chirped. “Sounds like you need a couple of early nights.”

  Early nights wouldn’t help one bit unless I found a way to banish Matt from my head.

  She skim-read the bar menu and passed it my way. “Want to order some food?”

  I shrugged without looking at it. “Whatever.”

  Matt. He’d taken over my mind like a rash. Scratching just made it worse.

  She exhaled. “Put a smile on your face, would you? You look like you’ve been slapped with a wet fish.”

  “Sorry.” I straightened in my chair and made a determined effort. “What movie do you want to see?”

  “A thriller.” She held out her flawless fingernails, blood-red tonight, and inspected them. “I’ve got revenge on my mind.”

  I jollied her along. “In that case, let’s go chick flick instead. I don’t want to be an accessory to whatever you’re planning for your Ex.”

  She grinned. “Okay, a tame old chick flick, then. And we’ll work out how you can snare Matt.”

  I grimaced. “Or not. How about . . .” I scanned the feature list. “. . . ooh, Not The Marrying Kind? I hear it’s good.”

  Her mobile rang. She glanced at the number. “Sorry, it’s a work call. I’d better take it.”

  “Sure.”

  “Dani Jordan speaking.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Get the tickets,” she mouthed. Then, into the phone, “Oh, hello. That’s strange. Didn’t you get my email?”

  I joined the ticket queue. What to do about Matt? This whole situation was getting out of hand. I couldn’t hide at home forever: I had lectures to front up for, a job to do. A great job. And honestly? Anti-commitment boss versus job-of-a-lifetime? It was a no-brainer.

  “Next, please.”

  Fine. I just needed to decide he was ugly, nasty-minded and a total turn-off. None of which were even close to the truth.

  Tickets bought, I returned to my chair. Sipped at my wine.

  Hypnosis, maybe?

  I shuddered. No. What if the hypnotist slipped up and I ripped off my clothes every time Matt appeared?

  With an apologetic smile, Dani stood and walked to a quiet alcove where she continued her conversation in low, urgent tones.

  Maybe I should ask Dani for advice. She’d been there done that with men. If anyone would know what to do, she would. And if not . . . well, at least she’d have a box of tissues.

  On the other hand, look at her. The tilt of her head, the agitated gestures, the tension in her body. She had enough stress in her life already, without taking on mine as well. Besides, somehow it felt all wrong to be crying on her shoulder when it usually worked the other way.

  Phone call over, Dani returned and tasted her wine. “Nice,” she decided. “Sorry about that. Another cranky client.”

  “Speaking of cranky clients,” I ventured, “how’s it going with your Ex?”

  “As in, has he begged forgiveness and promised to be eternally mine?” Dani downed the rest of her wine. “Hardly. Not that I’d believe him, anyway.”

  She stood and pointed at my glass. “You want another?”

  I shook my head. Jim would’ve been proud of me.

  When Dani returned from the bar I told her about my quasi-stalker. “You won’t believe who it is.”

  “Prince William?” She flicked open her mobile.

  “Charlie Hollingworth.”

  Her focus snapped back to me. “What?”

  “From school. Remember?”

  “I remember.” She compressed her lips, snapped her mobile shut. “You’re right. I don’t believe it.” Then, after a sizeable swig of wine, “What was he ringing for?”

  “Just to catch up, I think.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “After all these years?”

  She shook her head. Her talons click-click-clicked against her wine-glass. “He’s got a freaking nerve.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  Abruptly she stopped tapping. She stared down into her sauvignon with the sort of intensity she usually reserved for shoe-buying. “Did he mention me?”

  I frowned. “No. Was he meant to?”

  “No.” Her foot started that annoying bouncy thing she always did when she was agitated.

  My frown deepened.

  “Forget it.” She looked away. Click-click-click went her nails again. She scanned the room with jerky movements.

  What was going on? Our mums had been friends, so she would’ve known Charlie, but she’d been several years behind us in school. He’d barely have known she existed. Unless . . .

  “Dan, did you have a crush on him or something?”

  “Don’t be bloody stupi
d!”

  I blinked. Settle, Petal. Sure, she knew about the Dog Breath thing, knew I disliked him . . . but if this was purely sister loyalty, wasn’t she taking it a bit far?

  The silence grew.

  I reached over and gently shook her arm. “Hey. Dan. Don’t be like this. He didn’t have time to mention you, that’s all. I hung up on him.”

  For a few heartbeats the only sound was the staccato of nails on glass.

  “Good,” she said. “That’s all he deserved.”

  Her face darkened. “What a bastard. After everything he’s done, he turns around and pulls a stunt like this.”

  “What do you—”

  “How dare he!” she exploded, and so did her glass as she slammed it down on the table.

  I jumped.

  Heads turned. She stared balefully back at the patrons.

  What the . . . ? Dani’d always had a temper, but even for her this was over the top. Blushing on her behalf, I scrambled to pick up the shards.

  What had just happened? Why had Charlie’s name triggered such an extreme reaction? I frowned up at her.

  She intercepted my gaze. “What?”

  “Would you like to smash mine as well?” I pasted on a grin, trying to diffuse the tension. “Maybe I could line up half a dozen? You want them full or empty?”

  After a moment, her shoulders eased. She managed a wry smile. “Good idea.”

  Another pause, then her lips twitched. “I’ll wait ’til you’ve cleaned up that one first.”

  Our eyes met, and we both laughed.

  “Look at them staring,” she said.

  We laughed harder. The more people stared the harder we laughed, until our sides ached, tears streamed down our faces, and we were no longer even sure why we were laughing.

  I gasped for breath. “Is it PMT or post-man-itis?”

  “Probably both.” She dabbed at her eyes, then reached over and stole my wine-glass. I decided her need was greater.

  “Anyway,” she said, all calm-after-the-storm, “forget Charlie. Have you snogged your hot boss yet?”

  The inevitable blush rose in my cheeks and I looked away. Too late. She’d seen it.

  “You dirty dog! Tell me everything. When?”

  “Ten days ago.”

  Another eyebrow twitch. “Not that you’re counting. Where?”

  I hesitated. “The lift at work. It was crazy but . . . we got stuck.”

  “You what?”

  “Stuck. As in, mechanical breakdown. Stuck between floors. Doors wouldn’t open.” I shuddered. “It was awful.”

  “Why? I thought you said he was gorgeous.”

  I sighed. “He is. Easy to talk to, too.”

  “Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “that’s good. At least you’ve got him out of your system.”

  “Mmm. I don’t think it worked. Getting him out of my system, I mean.”

  “Why not?”

  “It felt too right,” I said miserably.

  “Go for it. You’re both consenting adults.”

  “Yeah, but he’s my boss. And I’m not about to screw up this job on an office fling.”

  “Who kissed who?”

  “What?” Then, catching up with her, “Oh. I kissed him.”

  This time the blush flooded all the way down to my toes. Why on earth had I thrown myself at him like that? I looked at her, stricken. “Oh God, you’re right. He just put up with it because he couldn’t escape. What must he think of me?”

  “He’ll be thinking you made his day.”

  “Hardly. Not after I got claustrophobic and had the screaming panics on him.”

  Her amusement turned to horror. “Did you really? You poor thing. Was it bad?”

  I nodded. Hid my face in my hands. “I’m so embarrassed. He’ll think I’m completely unbalanced.”

  “I doubt it. Did he kiss you back?”

  “Well, yes . . .”

  “Did he enjoy it?”

  “How should I know?”

  She raised an eloquent eyebrow.

  I remembered the hard feel of his body against mine, the look in his eyes, the urgency of his lips. I chose a fingernail and bit it. “I guess so.”

  “Then stop being silly. Have you seen him since then?”

  I folded my arms, huddling deep in my chair. “I’ve been avoiding him.”

  Agitated, I unfolded my arms, rasping my palms back and forth along the chair arms. “We’ve talked a couple of times, but only about work. Only when I have to.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Chicken.”

  “No, realistic. The less I see of him the better. This job is too good to walk away from, and no way can I let him do a Mickey on me. So I need to get over him. Fast.”

  I stared glumly at my wine-glass in her hand, then leaned over and swiped it back, emptying it in one greedy mouthful. “Any suggestions?”

  Dani looked at her watch and stood. “The movie’s about to start.”

  We linked arms and walked into the theatre.

  “For what it’s worth, Becs, I think you need a man to get over a man. Get out there and have sex.”

  She would say that.

  “Yeah. Lots of it. Don’t be fussy. Get laid,” she instructed. “You’ll soon forget your horny old boss if you’re getting plenty elsewhere.”

  Casual sex? No. This was me we were talking about. I’d probably choose a complete jerk and have to fend them off with pepper-spray.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I graded the essay I’d just read, glanced at my bedside clock, picked up the next. Matt’s face swam across the words, and I sighed. Knowing I needed to stop behaving like an obsessive, lust-ridden teen was all very well; it was the actual stopping that counted.

  Easier said than done, of course.

  I played pen acrobatics as I read. Made it to the end of the paragraph before my eyes glazed over. Was Matt marking, too? Lecturing, maybe. I bet he was a charismatic lecturer. Confident, funny, friendly, attentive, warm eyes, hot body . . .

  Enough already! Who cared what Matt was doing? Not me.

  Okay—lie. I did care. But I shouldn’t. And I wouldn’t, once I’d worked out how to wipe him from my mind.

  Essays, Becs. They weren’t going to mark themselves.

  Jim’s voice drifted up the stairs. Talking to himself again, eh? I listened for a moment but couldn’t quite make out the words. Was he arguing with the TV? Pretending he was Shakespeare? Talking dirty with the dishes?

  Whatever. I scribbled a comment in the margin, turned the page. Actually, this essay was good. Maybe I’d be able to award an ‘A’ today, after all.

  Jim rapped on my door.

  “What?” I kept reading. “If it’s not critical to life as we know it, go away.”

  “Does coffee count?”

  I started. My pulse galloped. That wasn’t Jim. That was Matt. What was he doing here?

  Crap. I looked down at my sloppy tee and sweats (disastrous), around the room (tornado), down at my hands (shaking). The window wasn’t an option; the drop to ground level would be a bone-breaker. Could I hide under the bed?

  Sure, but I’d already spoken so it wouldn’t look good for my sanity. I was screwed.

  The door opened and there stood Matt, bearing two takeaway coffees and the sexiest say-you-love-me smile.

  “Cappuccino, no sugar,” he said. “Just the way you like it.”

  I blinked. He knew that?

  “Thanks.” I tried to keep the suspicion out of my voice but the fact was I was suspicious. Matt visiting me at home smacked of . . . something. I wasn’t sure what.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Maybe this was his way of saying let’s-be-friends, of acknowledging things had gotten out of hand in the lift?

  Then again—his body language wasn’t begging for remorse. Far from it. Nervous anticipation tickled my throat.

  Nuh-uh. We weren’t going there. I deftly magi
cked my anticipation into annoyance, and directed it straight at the threat. “How did you get my address?”

  “You gave it to me, remember?”

  Um . . .

  “After drinks at Little Tuscany? You texted? Invited me over?”

  It didn’t ring even the teensiest little bell, but I wasn’t about to let him know that.

  “It wasn’t a lifetime invitation,” I said, which sounded plain rude, even to my ears.

  Amusement tugged at his lips, and my jaw tightened. Didn’t he see the whole point of me marking from home had been to avoid him? We needed professional distance, yet here he was, standing in my doorway with that come-to-bed look in his eyes and that coffee fix in his hand, and if he thought his being here was conducive to me getting any work done . . .

  “Come on, then. A five minute break won’t kill you.” Matt headed back downstairs, coffees in hand, apparently confident I would follow.

  Tempting as it was, staying in my room would have been petty, so I trailed downstairs after him. Purely for the cappuccino, of course.

  I found him in the living room, feet up, already reclining in Jim’s favourite chair and looking like he owned the place. Why couldn’t he do the boss thing properly? Be formal . . . wear a suit . . . stay at work . . .

  Hands on hips, I eyeballed him. “What exactly are you doing here, Matt?”

  “Checking you’re still alive.”

  I perched on the arm of a chair and folded my arms. “I’m still alive.”

  “So I see.”

  “Job done, then.”

  His eyes creased at the corners.

  I toe-tapped. He sipped his coffee, completely unperturbed, watching me watching him.

  I broke first.

  “I’m not bunking off work, you know. I am marking. Ask Jim. I’ve been at it all day.”

  “Hey, no problem. I’m not bothered either way.”

  “Then why are you here?” Because I doubted house calls were in his job description.

  “I just wanted to . . . make sure you’re okay.”

  The sudden solemnity in his voice echoed along my veins. My determination faltered. I met his gaze, wondering where he was going with this. Because if he was about to talk kisses and lust and office flings . . .

  “That bout of claustrophobia was bad,” he said.

  My jaw relaxed. Claustrophobia I could do.