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BAILEY
NO? I thought he just had a youngish face… BUT HE’S 21?
AMBER
TWENTY FUCKING ONE. He took me to Nando’s. I’m wearing my nice heels.
BAILEY
Oh I’m so sorry, babe. You want to come over? I’m out right now, but I can pick you up on my way home? I’ve got the place to myself tonight, so we can hang out and trawl Tinder looking for an age appropriate man for you?
AMBER
Ha. I’ll come over. Might pass on the Tinder thing, but otherwise yes. I’ll share my location. Let me know when you’re close — I’m just doing something for Asshole Client right now.
BAILEY
On a Saturday?
A shadow looms over me and I shriek, nearly dropping my phone in the process.
“Sorry, sorry,” a familiar voice says hastily.
I watch as Hawthorne takes three very deliberate steps away from me, hands held up apologetically in front of him.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “I called your name, but you didn’t hear.”
I’m still not really hearing him if I’m being honest. This is the first time I’ve seen him not wearing a suit and, I won’t lie, I’m into it.
He’s not wearing a coat or even a jumper — something only someone unfamiliar with this country’s temperamental climate would dare do — and his thin, long-sleeved T-shirt clings to him like a second skin, showing off wide shoulders and lean, corded muscle hiding under the fabric. My gaze dips a little lower and I can’t help but say a silent prayer of thanks to whoever invented grey sweatpants.
Hawthorne may be a neurotic asshole, but he’s definitely an attractive one.
“Thanks for agreeing to this, by the way,” he says. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from on the weekend.”
Honestly, with his constant amends and nit-picking, he’s probably the last person I want to hear from on weekdays too, but I don’t say that out loud. He seems like he’s embarrassed enough. His cheeks are redder than usual and he’s desperately avoiding making any eye contact with me. As much as I like getting one over on Hawthorne, I’ve never been one to kick a man while he’s down.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I wasn’t up to much.”
He arches a brow and I watch as he slowly,deliberately, looks me up and down. His jaw ticks slightly as his dark green eyes take in my outfit, stopping for a brief moment at the hem of my leather skirt before darting lower.
For a second, I think his breath hitches slightly in his throat as his gaze travels the length of my legs, roving over the thigh-high heeled boots I’m wearing. But then he coughs and I tell my ego to calm all the way down.
He’s not checking me out. In fact, he’s probably wondering why I would bother lie about not being up to anything when I’m clearly dressed for a night out.
“Well, thanks anyway,” he says, his voice a little gruffer than usual. “I appreciate it.”
I nod and rifle through my bag to find my keys. “What were you doing in there on a Saturday anyway? Do you secretly live there and this hotel thing has been a ruse the entire time?” I’m joking but honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me.
And it would explain how he’s always there so early every morning and never leaves before me. The alternative, that he’s such a workaholic he comes into an empty building on Saturdays to get some work done, is a tiny bit depressing. I work late most days, but Hawthorne puts even me to shame.
“Ha, ha,” he deadpans. “Just let me have the key and I’ll let you get on with…” He gestures vaguely toward me. “With whatever you were doing before I interrupted.”
“It was nothing,” I lie, and I’m not sure why. I tell myself that it’s the lingering shame from this disastrous date and hand over the key. “Don’t lose that.”
He gives me a mock salute and slips the key into the pocket of his sweatpants. “Thanks again, Amber. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you on Monday?”
“Sure.”
