don’t ever feel like you’re not good enough. Didn’t I read somewhere that Liverpool was the pop music capital of the world? You come from a place that’s produced a lot of talent, a lot of stars. Must be something you all breathe in from the Mersey. So don’t ever be ashamed of what you are—just be yourself.’
‘That’s not what Professor Higgins says to Eliza,’ I replied. And I should know—it was one of my favourite musicals, and I’d watched it maybe a hundred times.
‘Fair point … okay, be a
better
version of yourself. One you feel comfortable with, but also one where you don’t feel embarrassed when you realise what you’ve said or what you’ve done. If this thing works out—and I really hope it will—you’ll need to be aware of how you come across in interviews, on stage, on camera. You can still be you—but maybe save the real you for your people who don’t mind getting covered in mud or drenched with cappuccino.’
‘Like you?’ I asked, not quite able to stop myself sounding a tiny bit flirty. He was too old for me, I told myself. He was my boss. And anyway—he was out of my league, and probably just being kind. A man as hot as him, working in the industry he did, probably had seventeen supermodel girlfriends onspeed dial. Why would he be interested in a slightly tattered blonde former princess from Liverpool?
‘
Exactly
like me,’ he answered, his voice slow and drawling and the sheen in his eyes making my tummy do little loop-the-loops.
Oooh,
I thought. He was interested—which made the whole thing a lot harder to ignore. It was possible I was reading too much into his tone—but I definitely wasn’t reading too much into the way he’d reached out, and covered my hand with his on the table top.
He gave my trembling fingers a little squeeze, stroking my palm with his thumb in a way that promised all kinds of interesting skills, and gave me the super-smile again.
‘Just don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll help you any way I can. You need to put the work in—but you need to play as well.’
‘Play?’ I mumbled, losing my ability to think straight—not that I seemed to have much of that particular ability anyway—and staring at him like a brain-dead muppet.
‘Play,’ he confirmed. ‘Have fun. Relax. Let go. And I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, Jess, but one thing I’m really good at is playing …’
It turned out he wasn’t bragging at all. That first trip out for coffee had been repeated the week after. Then it had turned into a drink after work a few days later. Then it had evolved into dinner. Our hugs at the end of the night had evolved too—into gentle kisses, slow and sensual and oh-so-yummy.
Jack Duncan wasn’t like any other men I’d met. He certainly wasn’t like any of the men I’d been out with. For a start, he didn’t stick his tongue down my throat the minute we started snogging. He didn’t shove his hand up my top and rootaround for my bra strap. He didn’t point to his hard-on and say, ‘Come and get it, you lucky bitch’—which admittedly had only happened to me once, but still tops my least-romantic-quote-of-all-time list.
He was … slow. Teasing. Tempting. He kissed me as though I was precious, as if I was some wonderful delicacy he wanted to savour and enjoy. Like he wanted to make it last, instead of racing towards the next hurdle. And he didn’t just kiss my lips. He kissed my neck, my earlobes, my collarbone, my wrists, all in such a gentle and tantalising way that I was begging for more. Hoping for more.
But it hadn’t, as yet, gone beyond that. Even though I really, really wanted it to—at least I did at the time it was happening. In the cold light of day, I could recognise that it was a bad idea. In the warm light of night, though, in the shadow of streetlamps and under the gaze of the moon and stars, it always seemed like a very, very good idea indeed.
It wasn’t just the way he touched me—it was the way he
‘That’s not what Professor Higgins says to Eliza,’ I replied. And I should know—it was one of my favourite musicals, and I’d watched it maybe a hundred times.
‘Fair point … okay, be a
better
version of yourself. One you feel comfortable with, but also one where you don’t feel embarrassed when you realise what you’ve said or what you’ve done. If this thing works out—and I really hope it will—you’ll need to be aware of how you come across in interviews, on stage, on camera. You can still be you—but maybe save the real you for your people who don’t mind getting covered in mud or drenched with cappuccino.’
‘Like you?’ I asked, not quite able to stop myself sounding a tiny bit flirty. He was too old for me, I told myself. He was my boss. And anyway—he was out of my league, and probably just being kind. A man as hot as him, working in the industry he did, probably had seventeen supermodel girlfriends onspeed dial. Why would he be interested in a slightly tattered blonde former princess from Liverpool?
‘
Exactly
like me,’ he answered, his voice slow and drawling and the sheen in his eyes making my tummy do little loop-the-loops.
Oooh,
I thought. He was interested—which made the whole thing a lot harder to ignore. It was possible I was reading too much into his tone—but I definitely wasn’t reading too much into the way he’d reached out, and covered my hand with his on the table top.
He gave my trembling fingers a little squeeze, stroking my palm with his thumb in a way that promised all kinds of interesting skills, and gave me the super-smile again.
‘Just don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll help you any way I can. You need to put the work in—but you need to play as well.’
‘Play?’ I mumbled, losing my ability to think straight—not that I seemed to have much of that particular ability anyway—and staring at him like a brain-dead muppet.
‘Play,’ he confirmed. ‘Have fun. Relax. Let go. And I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, Jess, but one thing I’m really good at is playing …’
It turned out he wasn’t bragging at all. That first trip out for coffee had been repeated the week after. Then it had turned into a drink after work a few days later. Then it had evolved into dinner. Our hugs at the end of the night had evolved too—into gentle kisses, slow and sensual and oh-so-yummy.
Jack Duncan wasn’t like any other men I’d met. He certainly wasn’t like any of the men I’d been out with. For a start, he didn’t stick his tongue down my throat the minute we started snogging. He didn’t shove his hand up my top and rootaround for my bra strap. He didn’t point to his hard-on and say, ‘Come and get it, you lucky bitch’—which admittedly had only happened to me once, but still tops my least-romantic-quote-of-all-time list.
He was … slow. Teasing. Tempting. He kissed me as though I was precious, as if I was some wonderful delicacy he wanted to savour and enjoy. Like he wanted to make it last, instead of racing towards the next hurdle. And he didn’t just kiss my lips. He kissed my neck, my earlobes, my collarbone, my wrists, all in such a gentle and tantalising way that I was begging for more. Hoping for more.
But it hadn’t, as yet, gone beyond that. Even though I really, really wanted it to—at least I did at the time it was happening. In the cold light of day, I could recognise that it was a bad idea. In the warm light of night, though, in the shadow of streetlamps and under the gaze of the moon and stars, it always seemed like a very, very good idea indeed.
It wasn’t just the way he touched me—it was the way he
Similar Books
