missed her sister’s award or not.
‘Your seat, ma’am.’ He pulled back a chair at a large round table set for dinner and she slid quietly into it, noticing that there were two empty seats facing her, where she assumed her sister and husband should be sitting. She nodded and smiled to the other guests at the table, apart from the man next to her—his body turned away from her, facing the stage, and way too familiar. She didn’t need to see his face—every cell in her body jumped awake, knowing exactly who he was.
Jack Brennan.
No . A sense of dread danced with an eager bounce in her hormones as she took in the messy hair that was the only out-of-control thing in his whole demeanour. The stoic broad shoulders she’d leaned into, the back she’d run her fingers over, all dressed up in a suit that looked as if it came from Savile Row. Or wherever it was that fancy suits came from because, Lord knew, she’d only ever served people wearing them and had no clue where to buy them.
And now she was here next to him, the memory of that kiss manifested into two hot blotches on her cheeks—that were fast spreading into a full-blown rash on her chest. Great. She picked up the evening’s programme and fanned herself with it. Was it necessary to have to carry ice cubes with her every time they shared the same air?
Note to self: enquire as to guest list for Sasha’s future glitzy events.
She scanned around for another empty seat somewhere on another table—but there weren’t any. Briefly considered crawling under the table and hiding out until he’d gone. But the dress was loaned and she really didn’t want to ruin it.
She wasn’t ready for this—to face him after that kiss—she’d planned on talking to him next week by phone—or preferably email. Then bypassing him altogether and going straight to Lizzie. And wasn’t he meant to be somewhere very cold and far away? Although in reality he could have been in outer space and it wouldn’t stop the memory of the heady rush of heat when his mouth had slanted across hers.
And wouldn’t she know it, but being this close to him had her thinking about where else on her body his mouth could slant.
Stop that . She fanned the programme faster in front of her face—she couldn’t think like that. Slanting was so off-limits.
She forced herself to focus on the speaker on stage but he came to an abrupt end and, as the rapturous applause finished, Jack turned to her. She didn’t miss the quick dip of his eyes to his watch. ‘Good evening, Cassie. Glad you could join us.’
Why the hell was he here? This was Sasha’s night. Not his. An awards evening for her charity work. Why, oh, why had he suddenly become embroiled in her life? She put the programme down and fixed the best nonchalant smile she could muster, after re-clipping an annoying lock of hair that kept falling into her eyes. ‘I know, I know. I’m late again. Don’t look at me like that; I couldn’t help it.’
‘So what pressing culinary emergency happened this time? A cupcake crisis? Pancake pandemonium?’ His suit jacket moulded around tight wide biceps as he leaned forward. The crisp white shirt and dark blue tie gave him an air of sophistication that made her breathless and hot. The world tipped a little as he nodded. He seemed to think, underneath that grumpy irritated exterior, that this scenario was mildly funny.
‘If you must know, I was completing my end-of-year accounts and I got to a tricky bit. Well, a few tricky bits.’ It was all so tricky—none of it made palatable reading. And it had taken her a lot longer than she’d planned. Boy, she wished she’d paid attention at school instead of playing hooky with her friends.
And, even more, she wished she was in a better financial situation to be able to tell Jack Brennan what he could do with his wedding breakfast, if for nothing else than to preserve her sanity and try to erase the memory of those lips on hers. Go, and be damned, Mr
‘Your seat, ma’am.’ He pulled back a chair at a large round table set for dinner and she slid quietly into it, noticing that there were two empty seats facing her, where she assumed her sister and husband should be sitting. She nodded and smiled to the other guests at the table, apart from the man next to her—his body turned away from her, facing the stage, and way too familiar. She didn’t need to see his face—every cell in her body jumped awake, knowing exactly who he was.
Jack Brennan.
No . A sense of dread danced with an eager bounce in her hormones as she took in the messy hair that was the only out-of-control thing in his whole demeanour. The stoic broad shoulders she’d leaned into, the back she’d run her fingers over, all dressed up in a suit that looked as if it came from Savile Row. Or wherever it was that fancy suits came from because, Lord knew, she’d only ever served people wearing them and had no clue where to buy them.
And now she was here next to him, the memory of that kiss manifested into two hot blotches on her cheeks—that were fast spreading into a full-blown rash on her chest. Great. She picked up the evening’s programme and fanned herself with it. Was it necessary to have to carry ice cubes with her every time they shared the same air?
Note to self: enquire as to guest list for Sasha’s future glitzy events.
She scanned around for another empty seat somewhere on another table—but there weren’t any. Briefly considered crawling under the table and hiding out until he’d gone. But the dress was loaned and she really didn’t want to ruin it.
She wasn’t ready for this—to face him after that kiss—she’d planned on talking to him next week by phone—or preferably email. Then bypassing him altogether and going straight to Lizzie. And wasn’t he meant to be somewhere very cold and far away? Although in reality he could have been in outer space and it wouldn’t stop the memory of the heady rush of heat when his mouth had slanted across hers.
And wouldn’t she know it, but being this close to him had her thinking about where else on her body his mouth could slant.
Stop that . She fanned the programme faster in front of her face—she couldn’t think like that. Slanting was so off-limits.
She forced herself to focus on the speaker on stage but he came to an abrupt end and, as the rapturous applause finished, Jack turned to her. She didn’t miss the quick dip of his eyes to his watch. ‘Good evening, Cassie. Glad you could join us.’
Why the hell was he here? This was Sasha’s night. Not his. An awards evening for her charity work. Why, oh, why had he suddenly become embroiled in her life? She put the programme down and fixed the best nonchalant smile she could muster, after re-clipping an annoying lock of hair that kept falling into her eyes. ‘I know, I know. I’m late again. Don’t look at me like that; I couldn’t help it.’
‘So what pressing culinary emergency happened this time? A cupcake crisis? Pancake pandemonium?’ His suit jacket moulded around tight wide biceps as he leaned forward. The crisp white shirt and dark blue tie gave him an air of sophistication that made her breathless and hot. The world tipped a little as he nodded. He seemed to think, underneath that grumpy irritated exterior, that this scenario was mildly funny.
‘If you must know, I was completing my end-of-year accounts and I got to a tricky bit. Well, a few tricky bits.’ It was all so tricky—none of it made palatable reading. And it had taken her a lot longer than she’d planned. Boy, she wished she’d paid attention at school instead of playing hooky with her friends.
And, even more, she wished she was in a better financial situation to be able to tell Jack Brennan what he could do with his wedding breakfast, if for nothing else than to preserve her sanity and try to erase the memory of those lips on hers. Go, and be damned, Mr
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