After five minutes of assessing each and every piece of underwear I own, I find that I am, in fact, a cotton girl, with no lace, satin, or leather in sight. I knew that, but maybe I thought a sexy pair of something might magic their way into my drawer to save me from underwear humiliation. I was wrong, but with little else to do, I pull on my white cotton knickers and matching boring bra before blasting my hair, brushing some powder across my face and pinching my cheeks.
And now I’m staring at my satchel and wondering what I need to pack. I have no lingerie or stilettos, or anything remotely sexy. What was I thinking? What was he thinking? I drop my backside on the edge of the bed and my head in my hands, my heavy hair falling forward and forming a waterfall to my knees. I should stay here and hope he gets fed up with waiting and leaves, because all of a sudden, this doesn’t seem like such a good idea. In fact, it’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, and happy with that conclusion I crawl under the covers of my bed and hide my face in a pillow.
He’s rich, he’s stunning, he’s refined, if a bit stand-offish, and he wants me for twenty-four hours? He needs his head tested. These thoughts plague my mind as I hide from the world, until I reach a perfectly solid conclusion; he must have arm candy throwing themselves at his feet daily – hell, I’ve seen one already – and they must all be dripping in diamonds, designer handbags and shoes that cost more than my monthly wage, so maybe he wants to try something a little different, something like me – an average waitress, who buggers up coffee and throws trays of expensive champagne everywhere. I push my face further into the pillow and groan. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.’
‘No you’re not.’
I bolt upright and see him sitting in the armchair in the corner of my room, legs crossed at the ankles, his elbow resting on the arm, his chin in his palm. ‘What the hell?’ I jump up and run to my bedroom door, swinging it open to check for old ears pushed up against the wood. Nothing, but I don’t feel any better. Nan must have let him in. ‘How did you get up here?’ I slam the door and flinch when it reverberates through the house.
He doesn’t. He’s perfectly collected, not in the least bit affected by my flustered state. ‘Your grandmother should take security a little more seriously.’ He rubs his index finger slowly across his stubbled chin, his eyes taking a leisurely jaunt down my body.
It’s only now I realise that I’m standing in my underwear, and my arms instinctively cross over my chest, attempting in vain to conceal my modesty from his roving eye. I’m horrified, even more so when his lips tip at the edge and his eyes sparkle as they land on mine.
‘You’d better lose your bashfulness, Livy.’ He stands, casually strolling over to me, sliding his hands in his grey trouser pockets. His chest meets mine, and he looks down at me, not touching with his hands, but touching with absolutely everything else. ‘Then again, I quite like your shyness.’
I’m shaking – physically shaking, and no amount of pep talking is halting it. I want to appear confident, nonchalant and carefree, but I don’t know where to start. Decent underwear might be a good place.
He bends down, getting his face in the line of my dropped sight, and pulls my falling hair from my shoulders, holding it from my face. Lifting my gaze, only very slightly, I quickly find his. ‘My twenty-four hours don’t start until I get you in my bed.’
I feel my brow completely furrow. ‘You’re really going to time it?’ I ask, wondering if he’ll produce a stopwatch.
‘Well.’ One of his hands drops my hair, and he looks down at his expensive watch. ‘It’s six-thirty now. By the time I get you uptown in rush hour, it’ll be approximately seven-thirty. I have a charity ball tomorrow evening around seven-thirty, so I’ve timed this just perfectly.’
Yes, he has timed it perfectly. So when the clock strikes seven-thirty, do I get tossed out on my arse? Do I turn into a pumpkin? I feel jilted already and we haven’t even started, so what am I going to feel like come seven-thirty tomorrow evening? Like shit, that’s what – rejected, unworthy, depressed and abandoned. I open my mouth to call a stop on the whole diabolical arrangement, but then I hear the sound of old footsteps clumping up the stairs.
‘Oh shit, my nan’s coming!’ My palms meet his suit-covered chest and push into him, guiding him back towards a built-in cupboard. I’m panicking, but I’m still appreciating the solidness beneath my flat palms. It makes my steps falter and my heart jump wildly. I glance up at him.
‘Feel good?’ he asks, sliding his palms around my back and circling my waist. I hold my breath, then I hear the creaking again. It snaps me right out of my lustful state.
‘You need to hide.’