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“Are you feeling better?” I ask. He nods, and I peck his cheek. “Let me make us some breakfast.” I get up heading to the kitchen.
“Not a smoothie!” he yells. “I need actual food,” he grumbles.
“You're in no shape to make demands. I was going to make us those pancakes you like,” I call back. Bossy sod!
We spend the day on the sofa watching reruns and order in. Oscar seems happier knowing he is off Callan’s clock now, and I keep telling myself it’s a good thing, but when I lay down in bed that night, all I can see are those icy black irises and that pumped up chest. There's no denying Callan is an arsehole, but he is exceptionally handsome: cruel but beautiful. Not that I should care about any of those things, and I don’t.
I don’t care.
It’s a lie I will keep telling myself here on out.
Chapter Five
I have an early meeting with a magazine, so I get up early and make myself a smoothie. I keep my makeup neutral but paint my lips bright red. I've gone for a cream playsuit and longline jacket. I'm spraying my jet-black hair into place when Oscar drops down on the ottoman.
“You look hot,” he states and holds out a pair of heels I had placed on the ottoman. “Wear these—the others are too demure.”
“Thanks.” I smile and slip my feet into the shoes. “Help yourself to whatever,” I tell him.
“What? Carrot sticks and water, you're too kind,” he drawls. “Please tell me you’re free next Friday night. I need an evening out, and I need to get laid,” he confesses.
“What, looking like that?” I chide.
“This is exactly why. Think of all the sympathy sex.” He grins.
“You're in luck,” I say through the mirror, fixing my earrings and checking my lipstick before I put it in my bag. I run my hand over my necklace, straightening it out before looking at him behind me. “We can unwind on Saturday,” I tell him, kissing my hand and patting his cheek with it. “There are fatty snacks in the cupboard, and don’t steal my coat,” I tell him, walking through my bedroom and out into the hall.
“Like I'd be seen dead in it!” he says, clutching it to his chest.
“You've worn it for the last twenty-four hours,” I call back on a laugh.
“Inside!” he defends. I don’t reply. I’m halfway down the stairs and out of the door before his middle finger appears at the top of the stairs. I wonder if he has any idea how ridiculous he looks, battered, half-naked and wearing a thigh-length fur coat. I lock him in and head to my car. A hefty range rover ambles past, and I have to press myself into my vehicle to let it pass, muttering a curse at their lack of spatial awareness. I slip into my Jaguar and head into the city.
Miranda Astell, my agent, is waiting for me in The Atrium at The Mayfair. I order myself a hot lemon water and take a seat opposite her. Her eyes do one quick and severe sweep of me.
“Have you been sleeping well?” Her tone is critical, but I know she cares.
Tutting, I smile as my drink is placed down.
“Of course, all work, no play,” I tell her. “Can you send me the itinerary? I’ve not received it yet.” I’ve planned a quiet weekend with Oscar, as I have a busy schedule before I fly out to Greece at the end of the month for a shoot.
“Oh, I thought I had sent it over.” Her perplexed frown turns into annoyance when she checks her emails and finds her perfectly organised self is missing one email to me.
“Have you been sleeping well?” I murmur, curbing a smirk.
“Oh, give over. It’s this bloody renovation. The house is in uproar, nothing is where I put it, or it’s boxed away, and now there is a delay—fucking builders,” she bitches, slanting a look about to ensure she isn’t overheard.
“It will be worth it though,” I remind her, sipping my drink. She tucks her short red hair behind her ear and lifts her fruit tea. She is more slender than me, fair-skinned and classically beautiful, where my skin has a latte undertone, and my black hair is as bold as her red. Miranda was London’s IT girl back when I was running barefoot and playing with dolls: innocent and naïve. Now I know differently. Know that life is crueller than any story I ever read or any life I’d ever choose.
“I hope so, because if I have to stay another week in that hotel, I’ll be needing a wig because my hair is going to fall out. Don't ever let me do something like this again, bored or not. It’ll kill me off,” she huffs. My phone pings with an email, and I thank her. “What time is Lauren due here?” she asks me. I asked Miranda to come along and help pass the time, as Lauren is utterly boring. I’ve worked with Lauren before; she is a magazine journalist.
“Any minute. She said eight-thirty.” I check my watch and glance a look outside.
“She’s cutting it fine.”
“She’s probably setting up. We’re in a suite,” I tell her.
“That outfit screams power,” she tells me. I smile briefly, and my mind falls back to the other night and Callan Scott.My heart does an unusual flip, and a shiver runs over me. He really is like no other man I have ever met.
