Becky Jordan has had it with relationships. From now on her time and dedication won’t be lavished on her latest Mr Wrong–or, worse, Mr Hell-No!–just the dream travel job which has unexpectedly leapt into her lap. Finally, life is looking great.
Unfortunately, not as great as her sizzling-hot, take-charge new boss. Matt Frobisher is everything she doesn’t want him to be, but if anyone thinks she’ll risk her career on a workplace fling they can think again. No amount of Superman behaviour from him will make her roll over and play Lois.
Her heart, however, doesn’t do logical. In desperation she finds herself a distraction, one with no strings and plenty of appeal. But Mr. Distraction also comes with unforeseen complications. Kryptonite complications, like Becky’s sister. And when she shows up there’s only one sure thing: not even Superman can prevent the Disaster Fest that’s about to blow Becky’s life apart.
Warning: contains one guy determined to win the girl, one girl determined not to be won, and plenty of heat in the middle.
(This book is intended for readers aged 18+.)
Becky has just arrived for Day One in her new job. Here’s what happens . . .
“Ah. Becky.” Gary came around her desk and shook my hand. “Fantastic. Welcome to Gillingas Tertiary College.”
“Thanks.” I fingered my new headscarf. Was it slipping? I had a Worzel Gummidge horror hidden under there.
“How are you feeling?” Gary’s eyes fixated on the headscarf. “Sounds like you had a close call.”
“Much better, thanks.” I dropped my hand back to my side. “Sorry I couldn’t–“
I gasped, feeling serious scarf slippage, and grabbed at my head.
Gary, with a stricken look, tried to help. It only made things worse. The headscarf, hooked on my finger, shifted floorward, then skyward, before collapsing with ballerina grace in my hands.
I stared in dismay at the mess of fabric.
“Oh dear,” said Gary. “Here, let me help you.”
God, no. I scrambled for my headscarf, curse the sodding thing, and wheeled away, consumed by full-body flaming shame. “If you could just show me to the ladies’ . . .”
The receptionist leapt out of her chair. “I’ll take you. Would you like some pins?” She fossicked around in a drawer and produced a handful.
Damn this rotten scarf. Damn the med. student who’d left me with a bald patch. And damn me for swimming into the end of the freaking pool.
When I returned, headscarf secured to hurricane-proof standards, Gary took me on the grand tour of Tourism and Travel.
Nervous anticipation fluttered in my belly, only partly due to the scarf. I’d taken a huge gamble with this job. Could I make it work?
Gary stopped and opened a door with a flourish. “Here’s your office.”
My office. Nice. I’d only ever worked in open plan offices, where you couldn’t even yawn in private. I walked over to the window. Lush lines of oak trees and a green expanse of park stared back up at me. Pleasure swelled in my chest. As far as London views went, this was pretty damn good.
“I love it,” I said.
“Sal can help you out if there’s anything else you need.”
Like pins, presumably. My fingers strayed yet again to my headscarf.
Gary turned and led me in the other direction. “Down here you’ll find the coffee dispenser. It’s everyone’s first stop in the morning so”–he winked at me–“the earlier you get here, the better your chances of a decent coffee.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
We reached the kitchenette. “Some people, of course, live at the coffee machine. Matthew Frobisher, for instance.” He indicated the man in front of us. “This guy’s intake is nothing short of hazardous.”
The addict in question straightened and, coffee in hand, turned our way. He checked as he saw me, then smiled.
Wow. I took in the tall, toned body, the broad shoulders, the mess of blond hair with a couldn’t-care-less fringe flopping over one eye. Hot.
“Becky,” said Gary, “meet Matt, London’s biggest caffeine junkie and your course supervisor.”
Matt’s eyes locked with mine. Deep, chocolate-brown, come-to-bed eyes. Under the fluorescent lights they looked almost black.
He shook my hand. “Well, hello again.”
My stomach did an elevator-swoop down to my toes and back. Oh God. That voice. Rich, compelling, familiar.
Every droplet of moisture on my tongue dried up, rendering it a useless blob of flesh.
“I know you, right?” he prompted, still holding my hand.
I watched his lips as he spoke, my mind replaying for the zillionth time those unforgettable minutes after I’d regained consciousness; leaning back against his chest, cocooned by his hard muscular strength, his arms holding me close, his heartbeat strong at my back, the warmth and gentle power of his hands, his deep chocolate-y voice a caress in my ear, tempting me, enticing me, seducing me . . . and stop! This had to stop! Right now!
I dragged some air into my lungs and it fuelled the fire in my cheeks. A few more degrees and I’d spontaneously combust.
Which, all things considered, might not be a bad option.