Wish Upon a Star by Goldsmith Olivia Page A

her task. ‘Here,’ she said, taking the sheets of paper from his hand. She didn’t bother to show him where to place them, or explain that the paper should be face down, or that you had to hit the start button once the connection with the receiving fax was made. What was the point? The Michael Wainwrights of the world were not born to spend time in little rooms like this. And now, looking down, she fed another sheet into the fax machine and watched it slowly be devoured. She could see Mr. Wonderful’s loafers and felt certain they would move away. He’d leave her in here and go back to his wall of windows. Perhaps she’d get a thank you, because he was always polite. But instead of walking away his shoes stayed in front of her own feet until she was forced to look up.
    He narrowed his eyes. ‘Has something changed?’ he asked. And she wanted to answer ‘Yes. I hate you now.’ But of course she didn’t. ‘You’re really very pretty. Do you know that?’ he asked her. Claire couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d hit her in the face with a dead fish. She felt herself flush again, but it was with anger, not pleasure or embarrassment. Who did he think he was? Wainwright or not, he had no right to play with people’s feelings to no purpose but to kill a little time or gratify his overblown ego.
    ‘Do you want strangers to comment on your looks?’ she asked. ‘I’d be willing to if you want a summary.’ Her voice was steady, and there wasn’t a bit of the hurt or anger she felt in it. He blinked, then straightened up a little and looked at her, this time with something closer to real interest.
    ‘I’m sorry. Was that condescending?’ he asked.
    She decided to ignore the question. She’d let him work out the math. ‘Is there something else you want me to do?’ she asked. ‘I’m working for Mr. Crayden, Senior. It will take me another twenty minutes to finish this copying.’ She handed the originals to him and turned back to her job. ‘If you need help maybe you should ask Joan.’
    He smiled. ‘Joan can’t help me. But maybe you will.’
    She knew it. What grunt work was he going to grace her with? What tedious job was she to receive as if it were a land grant from a monarch? She fed another page into the copier then looked back at him, silent. She’d do the work, but she’d be damned if she’d be charmed or act grateful for it.
    ‘I wondered if you were free next Thursday?’ he asked.
    She tried to register his question but couldn’t quite see what he was asking. ‘When on Thursday?’
    ‘All day, actually. Starting Wednesday night.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘I just…I just wondered if you’d like to go to London with me for a long weekend. I have to leave Wednesday night and work Thursday and Friday, but there are the evenings and I’m staying the weekend.’
    ‘What?’ she asked. There seemed to be some kind of disconnect between her ears and her brain. She thought she’d heard him say…
    Just then the regular sound of the copier stopped and it began to beep. Confused by what he was saying, she was determined there would be no further misunderstandings on her part when it came to Michael Wainwright. The beep continued and she looked down, saw the light that indicated a paper jam and bent to pull out the trapped page. She couldn’t manage. ‘Can I help?’ he asked. Her brain jammed and she felt as trapped as the paper seemed to be. She pulled at it ineffectively. Disbelief, embarrassment and confusion fought for supremacy in her completely overwhelmed consciousness.
    ‘Here. Let me.’ He leaned down and touched a button at the side of the copier. It released the entire top of the paper feed. If he touched her, Claire thought her whole head would pop off too. ‘I’ve fought this baby more nights than I like to remember,’ he said and, pushing another switch, freed the document. He handed the page to her and smiled. ‘So, would you like to go to London with