Kitabı oku: «The Complete Red-Hot And Historical Collection», sayfa 5

‘Well, no, but—’

‘So your architect is the finalist?’ More wide-eyed I don’t understand innocence.

‘Yes, my man Waldo.’

‘Oh, your man. I see. Scott’s client is leaving the honours to him. Credit where it’s due, right?’ Kate asked, and hoped Scott’s client wouldn’t embarrass her by appearing out of nowhere!

Hugo chuckled, oblivious to any insult. ‘Ah, but I had considerable input into Waldo’s design,’ he explained. ‘So when I asked if I could come along this evening, of course Waldo was only too happy. Especially when I told him there would be a little friendly family rivalry for the prize.’

Scott, whose eyes had frosted in a way that did not look at all friendly, raised his eyebrows. ‘Waldo let you have a say? Waldo Kubrick?’ He turned to Kate. ‘Waldo is brilliant—actually, the best. But he’s more temperamental than a busload of French chefs.’

Hugo gave Scott another pitying look. ‘Yes, he is the best, isn’t he?’ Then came an apologetic and yet not at all apologetic cough. ‘Sorry, Scottie.’

‘Sorry?’ Scott asked. ‘Why?’

There was something in Hugo’s eyes that Kate didn’t like. Something malicious.

‘Let’s just say Knightley is pretty special,’ he said. ‘The buzz is there.’

Kate felt a laugh building and had to bite the inside of her cheek hard. Knightley? His house was called Knightley?

‘Yes, it is,’ Scott said coolly, and gestured towards the ballroom. ‘Well, good luck, Hugo. We’re heading in.’

And then Scott turned to Kate—who was trying not to laugh and at the same time silently communicating to Scott that she knew why the name Hugo would stop him in his Play Time tracks—and something lit in his eyes as he took in the expression on her face. And his smile, for the very first time, was in his eyes.

And it was absolutely devastating.

Scott felt a little off-balance.

It had been a lightning-fast emotional shift—from the normal feeling of inadequacy he always experienced around his brother to wanting to take Kate in his arms right there in front of Hugo, to whom he never, ever introduced anyone. And not only take her in his arms but breathe her right into his body. All because she’d wanted to laugh. It didn’t seem to matter that he didn’t even know what had amused her. Not that Kate didn’t usually laugh—she did, a lot, and he loved that. But there was just something different about it tonight.

‘What’s so funny?’ he asked as he pulled out her chair.

She sat. Waited for him to sit beside her. ‘Not that I want to disparage your brother, Scottie—’

He groaned.

‘Sorry, but I owe you for all the Katies,’ Kate said.

Wince. ‘Yeah. I get it. No more Katies. Hand-on-heart promise.’

‘But what is with that house name? Is Hugo an Emma fan? Or maybe his wife? Naming the house after Mr Knightley, perhaps?’

‘Emma who?’

Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Never mind. I think the explanation is simpler. He named it after himself, didn’t he? Like one of those British stately homes?’ She was biting the inside of her cheek again. ‘Maybe he got the idea at med school…’

‘Knightley,’ Scott said slowly. ‘Knightley. Oh, my God. I didn’t even think—It never occurred—I mean—God!’ He sat, stunned, for a moment, and then he started laughing. ‘God!’

‘It’s not a laughing matter,’ Kate admonished, but Scott could see she was struggling to keep a straight face. ‘It’s de rigueur to name your home after yourself, you know.’ Her mouth was starting to twist. ‘My own apartment is c-called C-Castle C-Cleary.’

And then Kate was laughing too, and the sound of it was just so sexy he had to touch her. Needed to share this delicious absurdity with her physically.

He reached for her hand and she twined her fingers with his, still laughing. Even her eyes were laughing. What must that be like? To have eyes that laughed? Eyes that were warm like molten silver. Beautiful.

His throat closed over and the laughter jammed. Stuck in his throat. All he could think about was kissing her until she was breathless. As breathless as he felt just looking at her. Breathless. And perfect. For once, perfect…

Kate stopped laughing too, and then she reached out with her free hand. Touched his face as if she felt it too. The connection.

And then panic hit.

No! No connection. He didn’t want that.

He jerked back, away from her touch.

He looked at their joined hands, and the sight of their linked fingers jolted him like an electric shock. He let go.

He picked up his wine glass, took an urgent swallow. And then, eyes sliding away to some distant point, he cleared his throat.

Kate cleared her own throat, picked up her own wine glass, sipped. He heard the quick breath she took.

‘So…um…what’s it like?’ she asked, putting the words out hesitantly into the sudden, excruciating void.

Wine. He needed another sip. Took it. Put the glass down. ‘What’s what like?’

‘Knightley?’

Shrug. ‘I know as much as you do about Knightley. Just what I’ve seen on the awards website.’ He waved at someone across the room.

‘So it must be… Is it…? Is it brand-new, then? I mean that you haven’t seen it?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I just haven’t. Seen it, I mean.’

Their first course arrived, and Scott almost sagged with relief. He pasted on a cheerful smile, and at last he could look at her again. ‘Well, Kate—as you can see, I was on the money with the smoked salmon.’

From that point the seemingly endless procession of award presentations, cheesy entertainment and bland food courses proceeded exactly as Scott had expected. Except for one thing: a burning awareness of Kate beside him. Something he’d never felt with Anais or any of his other black-bookers at one of these insipid evenings.

And that bothered him.

Even the way she was captivating the architect on her other side was getting to him. Thank God Miles Smithers was sixty years old and happily married, or he’d probably want to smash the guy’s tee—

Whoa! Pull up. There was no thanking God required. Or teeth-smashing. It didn’t matter if Kate was captivating a sixty-year-old married architect or a thirty-two-year-old billionaire Greek god! If she was physically faithful she could captivate whomever the hell she wanted to captivate. None of his business.

And it wasn’t as though he was being a scintillating conversationalist himself. If not for Miles, Kate would be catatonic! He was being a first-class boor, barely grunting a reply when she asked him anything.

All because of that…that moment. That intense connection which he hadn’t bargained for and didn’t bloody well want.

Having Hugo sitting two tables away, already looking every inch the victor, wasn’t helping either.

Scott had known his brother wouldn’t be able to stay away tonight, wouldn’t be able to vacate the space, just for once, and let Scott occupy it. But he’d been anticipating a hand-wave and a superior nod across the room—that was their usual interaction. It must have been the sight of Kate that had prompted Hugo to dial it up a notch.

Kate. So glamorous and secure and beautiful. Out of his league. Which Hugo would have seen at a glance. So he probably should have guessed Hugo wouldn’t have been able to resist coming over in person to foreshadow his win.

And Knightley would win.

Because Hugo always won, even if he had to win via a third party like Waldo.

When the Creative Residential category was announced Hugo looked directly at him. There was a tiny narrowing of his eyes, an oh-so-poignant smile—a look Scott had being seeing all his life. A look that said Sorry, I just can’t help it that I’m so much better than you, little brother. Even more insufferable than usual because Kate saw it. And, God, how he wished he could get her out of there so she didn’t have to see it again when he lost. Why, why, why had he brought her?

Knightley was the second finalist announced. Pictures flashed up on the huge screen at the front of the room and—yes—it was a knockout. Hugo turned to clink glasses with Waldo, who had the grace to look uncomfortable about such precipitate celebration.

Two more finalists.

Then Scott’s name was announced. Silverston was being described in admiring detail and Kate turned to him, radiant, looking as if she was proud of him or something. She took his hand in hers as though that were entirely natural, held on.

PDA, Scott wanted to say—but couldn’t get it out of his tight throat. This was embarrassing. He wasn’t going to win. Kate would be giving him one of Hugo’s pitying looks in a minute, and having her hold his hand while she did so would only make it harder to stomach.

He wanted to disengage his hand, but couldn’t seem to let go. So he concentrated, instead, on making his hand go slack and dead. Let her interpret that. She’d be letting go of his hand any moment now. Any moment… Any…

Nope.

She wasn’t letting go. And everything was starting to blur in his head until he forgot why he shouldn’t be holding her hand.

Flashing images on the giant screen… The MC leaning into his microphone, saying something… A short blare of music… Spotlights swirling…

Scott found that, far from going slack and dead, his hand was gripping Kate’s. Hers was gripping right back.

And then she leaned in and kissed him briefly on the lips, and he thought, What?

And the applause was ringing out.

And the spotlight—it had stopped on him. It was shining on him. On him!

He blinked. Shook his head.

Kate laughed. Nodded.

And Scott knew. He’d won. He’d really won.

He was too shocked even to smile, let alone move. But Kate nudged him and somehow he got to his feet, started heading towards the stage—only to realise he was still holding Kate’s hand. He looked down at it, looked at her. She was laughing as she raised his hand to her lips, kissed it—the way he’d kissed hers in the car. And he needed exactly that, right at that moment. Exactly.

And then he was walking to the front of the room, up onto the stage.

‘Wow,’ he said when he got to the microphone. ‘Like…wow! Okay, this is like one of those moments where the award-winner says they never really expected to win…and then pulls out a just in case speech.’

General laughter.

Deep breath.

‘But I don’t have a just in case speech. So…so…um…thank you. I mean—to my client, to the team at Urban Sleek. The other finalists! So amazing. And…and Kate. Just…for…well. Thanks again. And…well, wow.’

Trophy in hand, Scott made his way back to the table, where Kate kissed him again, and he sat in a daze for the rest of the presentations, embarrassed at having given the worst speech in the history of all awards ceremonies everywhere in the world. But he’d just never expected to win. Why would he have prepared a speech? He never won. Never.

It wasn’t until the final award was being presented that he remembered Hugo. He looked over at Hugo’s table, saw his empty seat—bathroom visit?—and then forgot all about Hugo as formal proceedings gave way to the dancing and socialising part of the evening and what felt like a horde of people headed over to congratulate him.

He figured Kate must be longing to escape by the time the throng of well-wishers had dissipated, but when he opened his mouth to suggest they make a run for it, she smoothed a hand over his lapel and smiled at him—and his brain cells scrambled.

‘Don’t you think we should have a celebratory dance?’ she asked.

Scott looked from her to the dance floor, then back.

‘Scott?’ She smiled. ‘Dance?’

‘Er…’

Really? ‘Er…’ is the best you’ve got? Get it together.

Clearing of the throat. ‘Actually, I’m not much of a dancer, Kate.’

‘That’s all right, neither am I.’

‘No—I mean I don’t. Dance. Ever.’

She seemed startled by that. ‘You mean you never have?’

He checked his watch. ‘I was thinking… It’s late. I should get you home. You’ve suffered enough.’

Kate was watching him. Curious, a little wary. She seemed on the verge of asking something… But then she gave her head a tiny shake and said, ‘Sure.’

Scott was silent on the drive to Kate’s. Because the tension he’d been feeling all the way up to the announcement of his win was back. Tenfold. And it must have rubbed off on Kate because she was silent too, staring through the windscreen.

He pulled up outside her building and Kate unbuckled her seat belt. Then she just sat there, looking at him, waiting for him to turn off the ignition.

‘Aren’t you coming up?’ she asked at last.

‘I thought…it’s late… I thought…’

‘I thought you said all your dates ended with sex?’

Silence. Awkward.

‘Ah, but not tonight,’ Kate said. ‘Well, we only specified two nights a week, didn’t we? And we’ve hit that target. But, just so you know, slave girl ends now.’

With that throaty laugh he loved a little too much, she opened the car door and got out. But then she leaned down to look in at him. ‘Congratulations again, Scott. That was some house you designed.’

‘Thanks. And…and…’ Shrug. ‘Goodnight, Kate.’

Door closed.

Night over.

Thank God.

Scott drove off, up the street, around the corner, heading home.

Ordinarily he would have helped his date out of the car. That was what he always did, because that was the gentlemanly thing.

Ordinarily he would have walked his date to her front door—again, gentlemanly.

Ordinarily he would have followed his date inside, all the way into her bed. Gentlemanly? No. But expected. On both sides.

Ordinarily.

But with Kate…?

Well, it wasn’t a date.

It was supposed to have been just an easy fix for the night. Because he really hadn’t felt like going the black-book route and he really hadn’t wanted to do the sexual brush-off at the end—which he definitely would have done, because fidelity really was a sticking point for him and he really wasn’t interested in having sex with anyone except Kate. For now, he added, just to be clear on that. And, aside from all of that, it had been fun to manipulate Kate’s rules by negotiating her role tonight as part of Play Time.

An easy fix, a non-date, a fun manipulation.

But it had turned into something…else.

Because with her there, the award had been somehow more important than it should have been—and that had surprised him.

Because Hugo had tried to show off to her and she hadn’t thought he was anything special—in fact, she’d thought he was a little bit ridiculous.

Because they’d laughed together like…like that.

Because she’d had to go and get all proud and lovely about his award.

None of which had anything to do with the end-game.

And it was the end-game he wanted—not the something…else.

So it was best to re-establish some distance between them before he had sex with Kate again. And as for walking her to her front door…? He just hadn’t trusted himself to get that far and no further. Not with her.

Anyway, it wasn’t as if she was his responsibility. He didn’t have to usher her protectively behind locked doors. She wasn’t some vulnerable girl who couldn’t take care of herself. She could take care of herself. She wanted to take care of herself. She’d been arriving home from all kinds of dates—and this wasn’t even a date—for years. She’d laughed when he’d insisted on going to her door to pick her up tonight. She hadn’t looked at all put out that he wasn’t getting out of the car to walk her to her door at the end of the night. She didn’t want that kind of attention. She didn’t need—

Oh, dammit to hell!

Swearing fluently and comprehensively, Scott did a U-turn and sped back to Kate’s. He screeched to a stop, leapt from the car, raced to the apartment block and followed a semi-familiar resident into the building without having to press the intercom. Which was fortuitous, because he had no idea yet what he was going to say to explain his reappearance.

His heart was thumping when he reached Kate’s apartment and knocked on her door.

He still had no idea what to say, but he was suddenly so desperate to see her he was happy just to wing it. So answer…open the door…come on.

Kate opened the door cautiously.

Well, of course she was cautious! He could have been anyone.

‘You shouldn’t open the door without knowing who it is,’ he said. Yep, he had lost his freaking mind.

Her only response was to raise her eyebrows. God, he loved the way she did that—all haughty and amused.

She was still wearing that stunning dress, but her hair was half down and her feet were bare.

Scott cleared his throat. ‘I should have walked you to your door.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’

She shook her head, laughed as though to say silly boy—and that riled him.

So he reached for her, pulled her close and did what he’d been wanting to do all night.

He kissed her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SCOTT WAS STILL kissing her as he backed her into the apartment and kicked the door closed.

And Kate really wished he didn’t have the ability to turn her to mush—because she’d wanted to be the one closing the door. Slamming it. Right in his face.

Because…because… Well, because how dared he make tonight the first date in his life that wasn’t ending with sex? Not that it was a date, but still!

Pride might have forced her to laugh it off out there in the car, but she was furious. His first date not to end in sex and it was her? On this night of all nights? An important night he’d shared with her? A night when he’d finally shared something?

Yep—one hundred per cent furious.

But with Scott kissing her as though he wanted to suck her right into his soul, she felt the anger drain away. Because she could feel that it was more than a kiss. There was something there—something he wanted from her that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, articulate. Something that made her ache for him, long for him.

‘Scott, what’s wrong?’ she asked when he broke away to take a breath. ‘Tell me. Please tell me.’

But he kissed her again. ‘Just let me…’ he said. Kiss. ‘I want…’ Kiss. ‘I just…’

He didn’t finish those sentences. Kate wondered if he’d even finished them in his own head. Because he kept kissing her, for the longest time, as though there were no thoughts, just the kissing.

And for tonight, she decided, it was enough.

‘Come with me,’ Kate said, and led him to the bedroom.

Scott undressed her. First, the cheongsam—falling to the floor in a purple crumple. Next came her underwear. Her most expensive, coffee-coloured silk and lace, removed like an inconvenience. She smiled, remembering the excitement with which she’d donned that underwear, thinking to drive him wild tonight—and now he just didn’t care.

He reached into her hair, gently removed the remaining pins, tossed them to the floor. Ran his fingers through the red mass of it, seemingly more interested in her hair than the sight of her naked body.

It felt strange…and thrilling. The way his eyes stayed on her face, her hair.

‘Take my clothes off,’ he said, and his voice was a throb.

Kate chose first to put her mouth on his, to let it cling there. She took a moment to snuggle against him, feeling both vulnerable and wicked as his arms closed around her and she was held, naked, against his fully clothed body.

Not until he started to shake did she step back, slipping her hands under his jacket, over his shoulders, smoothing it back and off so that it dropped to the floor behind him. Next came his shirt buttons, slipped through their holes as Scott breathed out a long, slow prayer of a breath. Then she eased his cufflinks out.

They looked expensive, so she glanced towards her dressing table, thinking to put them somewhere safe—but Scott stopped her before she could step away.

‘Don’t leave,’ he said.

‘But I only—’

He took the cufflinks from her and tossed them over his shoulder as though they were no more valuable than her hairpins. He didn’t even blink as they hit the wall.

Kate slid the shirt from his body, stopped to kiss him again, her breasts against his chest, almost moaning at how wonderful that felt.

Next, she undid his pants. Eased them down. Knelt at his feet, unbuckled his shoes. She paused, rose on her knees. Perfect position for taking him in her mouth. She wanted to do that so badly.

But Scott, reading her mind, drew her up. ‘Not tonight,’ he said.

A minute later his shoes were off, his pants and underwear kicked away, and she was back in his arms, being held against him, while his hands smoothed down her back, over and over, as he breathed her in, his mouth against her hair. ‘Kate…’ he said. ‘Kate.’

But Kate didn’t think he even knew he was saying her name. He seemed to be in a kind of trance.

So she let him lead her to the bed, let him pull the covers back, draw her gently down beside him. He kissed her again, so softly. And then he eased slowly back, taking Kate with him. Wrapped her in his arms. Kissed her eyelids, her mouth, her neck, nuzzled into her hair.

She simply held him, opening to him in any way he wanted. Even the simple act of sliding a condom onto him, his hands lightly covering hers while she did it, seemed like a sensual discovery.

And when at last he positioned her beneath him and slid inside her welcoming heat, it was as though his body sighed and relaxed and just…was. For the longest moment he stayed still, taking her face between his hands, laying his mouth on hers, kissing her with an intensity that pierced through to her burning heart.

Tears started to Kate’s eyes and she didn’t even know why. She closed her eyes, knowing it would change things if he saw her cry. And she wouldn’t have changed this slow, sweet loving for anything.

She knew what was happening, and she wanted it. She was giving herself to him: I’m here, yours.

His. For tonight she was his. And Scott was hers. Hers alone. For tonight.

And when he spilled himself inside her, with a gasping, luscious groan into the mouth he was kissing so deeply, Kate held him tight, so tightly against her, and wrapped her legs around him, let herself join him in her own flowering release.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered into her ear.

For what? she wanted to ask, but she dared not break the spell by seeking answers he wouldn’t give.

And in any case Scott was holding her close, kissing the top of her head, stroking her back. And it really was enough.

So beautiful… Soothing… Lovely…

Ahhhh…

When Kate woke early the next morning she turned, smiling, to face Scott—only to find his side of the bed empty.

A quick walk through the apartment showed that all he’d left behind was a note, on the kitchen bench.

Saturday night?

S

Two words. One question mark. One initial.

Which brought home to Kate that last night had been just…well, just last night.

He hadn’t stayed until morning, the way she’d thought he might. She wouldn’t see him tonight, the way she’d hoped. And their relationship hadn’t metamorphosed into anything other than what it was: contractual sex.

Which brought her to Saturday night. Yes or no?

She sighed as she looked at the calendar on her fridge. Today was Friday the thirteenth—hopefully that wasn’t an omen!—and Saturday, tomorrow, was…

Oh.

Ohhhhh.

Saturday. The fourteenth of February.

Not that the momentousness of that date would have entered Scott’s head. He wasn’t a Valentine’s Day kind of guy.

And in this instance it was a moot point. Because her sister Shay, and Shay’s partner Rick—who were Valentine’s Day kind of people—were leaving their two gorgeous daughters with Kate while they went out for a romantic dinner.

So she should just get straight on the phone and tell Scott she was busy on Saturday. No need to embarrass herself by mentioning Valentine’s Day. She didn’t want him to think she was angling for something other than sex. Something like… Well, something Valentine-ish.

Even if she had a lump in her throat about the whole stupid day.

A lump so big it was physically impossible to get a word out of her clogged-up throat. Which made a phone call impossible.

Okay, she would email.

Got your note, Scott.

I’m babysitting my nieces, Maeve and Molly, on Saturday night. I’m free Sunday if that suits?

Kate

There. Cool, businesslike. Contract-worthy.

Three hours later, back came a two-word response: No problem.

And Kate released a big, sighing breath.

Right.

Good.

Good…right?

Because Valentine’s Day actually sucked. If Kate had a dollar for every now-divorced couple who’d managed either their proposal or their actual wedding on February the fourteenth, she’d be retired already! Valentine’s Day was all about spending too much on wilted roses and eating overpriced restaurant dinners.

Stupid.

The worst possible day for scheduling a date with a sex-only partner.

Valentine’s Day? As if!

Kate went to her kitchen, looked again at the calendar stuck on her fridge.

Yep, there it was. February the fourteenth. With a nice big red heart on it, courtesy of whoever printed stupid refrigerator calendars. A big red heart. A love heart.

And, to her absolute horror, Kate’s eyes filled with tears.

Kate had a hectic day of meetings, followed by a catch-up with the girls for drinks after work, and by the time she clambered into bed that night, she was sure she was over the whole weepy Valentine’s Day phenomenon that had blindsided her.

So when she woke on Saturday morning to find that depression had settled over her like a damp quilt, she went the whole tortured-groan route. What had happened to her brain during that awards dinner on Thursday night to have resulted in her losing all her common sense?

Sex-only partners did not celebrate Valentine’s Day. Sex-only partners scheduled sex on days like the fifteenth of February. A perfectly legitimate, much more appropriate day for having no-strings sex with guys who left two-word notes on your kitchen counter.

A two-word note. And a two-word email. That encapsulated her relationship with Scott very nicely—two words: sex contract.

Imbued with a burst of damn your eyes energy, Kate got out of bed and on the spot decided to clean her apartment. An activity that was not some kind of displacement therapy twisted up in her need to wash that man right out of her hair, but a simple household activity. A spring clean—just in summer.

She got underway with gusto.

Gusto that lasted approximately fifteen minutes.

Which was how long it took for the first memory to sneak in.

Kate was wiping down the dining table—and there in her head was the memory of that first night… Scott reaching across to hold her breast…and then the whole dining chair thing. Ohhhhhhh.

It was like a switch, throwing open the floodgates—because the memories started pouring in, room by room, after that. Plumping up the couch cushions—that night when he’d thrown the cushions off and dragged her on top of him… Cleaning out the fridge—Scott, coming up behind her, hands all over her… Bathroom—three separate shower scenes.

Her bedroom—holy hell. So vivid it was painful. And the most painful of all that last time… Scott drawing her gently down onto the bed…kissing her as if he wanted them to merge.

Okay, enough cleaning.

She hurried to the laundry to dump the housekeeping paraphernalia, only to be hit by another memory. Oh. My. God. Had she—? Yes, she had! She’d had sex with Scott Knight in every single room of her apartment—including the damned laundry room! What normal person had sex in the laundry room? Sitting on top of the washing machine, with the vibrations adding a little extra hum to proceedings as you wrapped your legs around—

Arrrggghh.

She had to get out of the apartment. Maybe even sell the apartment.

She took a cold shower, changed into I am not in need of antidepressants clothes and hurried out of the building.

The boats were what she needed. Up close and personal. Escape. So she crossed the road to the marina and breathed out a sigh of relief as she reached the jetty. The boats would float her stress away as they always did—on a tide of dreams. Adventure. Possibilities.

One day she would hire a sailing instructor and she would learn… She would learn…

Uh-oh.

Her eyes darted from yacht to yacht…and on every deck she could picture Scott Knight eight years ago, young and free, teaching people to sail. Scott as he was now, teaching her to sail.

One of those now-familiar tortured groans was ripped out of her and she turned her back on the boats.

Coffee—she needed coffee.

She hurried to the marina cafe and was horrified when Dean the barista’s eyes popped at her as if she was a crazy person. ‘You okay, Kate?’

What the hell did she look like?

‘Fine, fine, fine,’ she said reassuringly—before realising that two more ‘fines’ than were strictly necessary did not denote ‘fine’. ‘I just need coffee, Dean.’

‘Really? Because you seem a little wired.’

Forced smile. ‘Really, Dean. Just the coffee.’ Subtext: Give me the damned coffee and shut up.

But as she took her coffee to one of the tables and sipped, Dean kept giving her concerned glances from behind the coffee machine. As if she had a neon sign flashing on her forehead: Beware of woman losing her marbles. Thank heaven her coffee of choice was a nice little macchiato. If she’d had to put up with a cappuccino’s worth of Are you okay? looks she might have gone over and slapped Dean!

As it was, she could chug it down quickly and flee back to her apartment. Where she would look up the official definition of ‘pathetic’! Just to be sure she wasn’t.

Fifteen minutes later she had the dictionary open, her finger running down the column…paternalism…paternity…paternoster…