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“What’s wrong with looking professional?” I grumble. Dressing smartly reminds me of my role and boundaries. It says, I have a job to do.
She smirks. “Look around, Suit Guy. Formal isn’t exactly the dress code around here.”
“I’m looking…” I answer without thinking, my gaze drifting down to her clothing for the day: another mismatched outfit of an old Eagles T-shirt and a pair of distractingly short cut-off jeans.
Jolene flushes again. “Well, stop,” she protests.
I arch an eyebrow. “I’m just following instructions, sweetheart. I’m a stickler for the rules,” I add.
“Says the man who jumped every subway turnstile and sneaked us into every private gallery room at the British Museum,” Jolene counters, rolling her eyes.
Shit, I’d forgotten about that. Abouthim. The guy I was with her, reckless and impulsive, and always ready for a new adventure.
The guy I was before the world got in the way.
A lock of hair has fallen into her eyes, and without thinking, I reach out and brush it aside.
Jolene freezes. My hand lingers on her cheek as her eyes find mine, her mouth falling open slightly in surprise; lips soft, and wet, and just begging for me to lean in and—
“Alright, we’re set. Thanks for your time!”
The tech’s voice breaks through our charged moment. Jolene recoils, backing away so fast, she stumbles straight into a stack of amps. “Are you alright—” I start to move to help, but she just scrambles away, like she’s physically repelled from my touch.
“Yes! Fine! Peachy!” she yelps, then turns on her heel, and bolts so fast, she almost takes out a wardrobe rack and two extras on her way out of range.
So much for ancient history.
I thought I’d fucked things up between us thoroughly enough when I was twenty-two, but it turns out, there’s still some fuck up left in me yet.
I grab a passing PA. “Tell me, where on God’s green earth can a man get a drink around here?”
6
JJ
I was doing so well.Five whole days of pretending as if Fraser is just another colleague. Obviously, I stole glances. Of course I fell asleep playing out imaginary scenarios. (A fifty-fifty split on dressing him down and undressing him.) But I managed to stay clearheaded on set and do my job, sharp and focused and girlbossing my way through the day, 1812-style.
And then the bastard brushes my hair aside as if it was ten years ago, and all that poised self-control flies right out the window, leaving me a panting, flustered, horny woman who melts at a single touch.
I’m just lucky I didn’t climb him like a tree, right there in the middle of the terrace.
Lucky… Or stupid. I haven’t decided just yet.
That’s why I’m camped out in my room on Friday, hiding from the world—and a certain Hot Scot. I took Hugo up on his offer for free skincare samples, and now I’m settled in with my sweatpants on, a tray of plumping, moisturizing products, and the room service menu. It’s about to be a wild Friday night up in here, when there’s a knock on my door.
“Are you ready yet?” It’s Hazel. “C’mon, I don’t want to be late.”
I fling open the door, displaying my vintage robe and the scarf holding back my hair. “Absolutely. Almost ready for my bath and then my bedtime routine.”
She gives me a look. “Everyone’s going to the pub tonight.”
“Not me,” I say cheerfully. If 'everyone’ includes Fraser, then I’m better off staying far, far away. “Have fun. Snog a townie for me.” I start to close the door, but she sticks a boot in it, forcing it open.
“You’re not staying in, alone. This is old lady behavior. And not even fun, tipsy-at-bridge-club old lady behavior.”
I laugh, unmoved. “Then pass me the chamomile and call me Blanche.”
Hazel smirks. “Blanche would be out here in a heartbeat. Come on, it’s tradition. Everyone blows off steam after the first week. We go, we drink, we bond.”
