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“YOU EITHER DON’T know, which I don’t believe for a second, or you do know and you’ve chosen not to tell me.”
I look up from my screen. Rachel, my PA and good friend, stands in the doorway, holding up her iPhone with the screen facing me. She’s leaning to one side with a hand on the hip of her cobalt dress, her black stiletto pointed out, her red lips pursed. It’s almost comical, in a Clueless kind of way, but it’s completely Rachel.
“Are you talking about the sale at Harvey Nichols?”
“Don’t you dare, Cross. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She struts to my desk and plants her phone down. A news article glares up at me. “Layton didn’t get married.”
“I’ve heard.” I nudge the phone away from me, casually, as if I haven’t spent half the night awake thinking about that very subject. “Could you please print and bind four copies of the report on the Brazilian haulage deal for my meeting at eleven? Oh, and would you order lunch if you haven’t already?”
Rachel’s green eyes widen and bulge a little—a look I’m familiar with. Generally, it comes out when men are being arseholes in clubs, or when Arthur takes the last of the chocolate digestives from the kitchenette.
“The reports are already set out in meeting room three, and I’ve ordered a sandwich lunch with fruit for dessert.”
I try not to smirk. “Thanks.”
Her nostrils flare, and she puffs out her next breath as if she’s waiting for me to speak. When I don’t, she snatches up her phone. “Cross, Clark is single. When are we going to discuss this?”
I scrunch my fingers into one side of my hair. “There’s nothing to discuss, Rach. He’s single. Big whoop. Now he can go back to being a player.”
“But—”
I stand and move to the window, turning my back on her. I’ve had about three hours’ sleep, thanks to my brain stewing over the fact Clark didn’t get married. I don’t need anyone else making this into a bigger deal in my head than it already is. “Rach, Clark and I were a long time ago.”
I hear my office door shut and turn to find Rachel walking back over to my desk. “When was the last time you had sex?”
I look around my office as if someone might have overhead. My cheeks flush red. There are a lot of perks to working closely with your best girlfriend every day. This, however, is a demonstration of when being Rachel’s boss is a complete pain in my arse.
“Well?”
“I don’t remember. And this is not the time or the place to discuss my sex life.” Suddenly overly conscious of my body, I shuffle my black pencil dress down my thighs.
“You don’t remember because it was eighteen months ago and the last person you slept with was Clark Layton.”
And God, was it good.
“That was a mistake. You know I can’t stand Clark. He’s an arrogant arsehole, and I really couldn’t care less who he is or isn’t with.”
“Mm-hmm, but you haven’t had sex with anyone since Clark.”
“Rachel, we’re at work, and you’re over-stepping the mark.” I shift my tone from friend to boss.
Her gaze narrows and she sucks in her cheeks. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”
I take my seat as she makes to leave my office, flicking her brunette bob as she goes. “Wrong, Rach. This conversation is done.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Thank you for the Scottish shortbread you left on my desk.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, my smile betraying me.
“FYI, the chocolate-covered is my favourite.”
“Noted.”
“Fine.”
