When the door pings again, it takes me a moment to realise this is my floor. I practically stumble out, breaking the weird connection flying between us. I can’t even bring myself to mutter a goodbye or anything that makes sense as he follows and goes to the customer service desk.
Head down, I straighten my suit jacket, draw in a breath and stroll past the desks sat in rows. A few of my co-workers smile or say hello and I return them while my heart threatens to beat out of my chest. I still feel like a fraud. The fear that someone will recognize me always haunts me. Will it ever go? Still, with my dark hair and my careful—if slightly heavy—make-up, hopefully it’s unlikely. It’s been years since the incident with Pete and no one has figured me out yet.
A bounce enters my stride as I make my way to my desk, the episode with the sexy stranger almost forgotten. Finally my life is coming together. After passing my exams, it took me a while to get a job. Having few references aside from one from my boss at Murphy’s didn’t help, but I found someone willing to give me a chance. Thankfully studying hard and getting good grades paid off.
Once I’m settled at my desk, I fiddle with the stationary, get the computer turned on and draw in a breath. Soon I’ll be earning enough to leave my crappy flat in Peckham. I’ll have to continue working at Murphy’s for a bit. Living in London isn’t cheap, but it will be worth it. For so long, I’ve been scraping by. This is me sorting out my life and behaving like a proper adult. No more relying on tips or wondering where the next bill payment is going to come from. And I’ll never end up back on the streets like I did at seventeen.
Flicking on my computer, I scan my diary and a heavy pit of dread settles in my stomach. I tap my pen against the name on the screen. The customer is behind on his mortgage payments and wants to take a payment holiday. While the last thing the bank wants to do is repossess the property, unless he can prove he’ll be able to restart payments after the holiday, there’s no way I can grant it. Not with his recent history of skipped payments. I skim over his accounts and there’s virtually no money going in. Pressure builds behind my eyes and I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Great, if I get a migraine, I’m screwed and I can’t afford to take a sick day after only a week on the job.
Yanking open the desk drawer, I pull out a pack of pills and the bottle of water from my handbag. The last pill jams in my throat as a man approaches.
To be more accurate, a sexy, brooding dark haired man in a leather jacket and worn jeans. I bite back a groan. The one I just nearly knocked out with the door. Heat rises in my face.
He strolls over, affording me a proper look at him now I’m not totally flustered. I suspect my jaw drops open. There’s a confidence to him that you don’t normally see in men. They’re all brash and cocky but you can see it’s a front. He’s almost enjoying this moment, as if surveying his territory and I fight the desire to shrink into my seat when his gaze locks onto mine.
“I have an appointment.”
Oh crap. Just my luck. I try to hold a wobbly smile. “Mr O’Reilly?”
“That’s me.”
“Take a seat.” I gesture to the spindly padded metal chair opposite. He settles and I force my jaw shut and try not to think about how long it’s been since a man kissed me, because that is exactly where my thoughts are headed right now.
“Can I…” Kiss you? Fuck you? “Uh… can I… get you a coffee or anything?”
He runs a hand through his dark hair and shakes his head. Both draw my attention. The hair and the hand, that is. He has thick fingers and his hands look strong and capable. His hair—too long for a businessman—is lush with a slight curl to it. I wish I were those fingers.
A tilted smile sits on his lips as he lifts his gaze to mine. It’s wry, not amused, as if he can’t believe his crappy luck. Maybe he’s holding a grudge for the door incident. Those eyes—the ones that snared me earlier—are now holding me captive. One of them is weird though. No, more like unusual, because weird implies I don’t like it and I do. He has some green in one, just a tiny portion of his iris stands out against the deep blue of the rest of his eyes.
I make a show of studying the computer screen even though the words are blurred and I’m aware of his confident posture and the worn lines of his jeans in the periphery of my vision.
“Mr O’Reilly, I—”
“Hunter.”
“I—what?” I throw a puzzled glance his way.
“Mr O’Reilly makes me sound like my father, Hunter will do fine.”
“Yes, of course.” What am I thinking? I should have stuck with formalities.
“And you’re Jessica.”
“How did you know?”
He nods to the badge pinned on my suit jacket and the warmth swirling through me cranks up to sizzling. “And they told me at reception.” He grins.
Now I wish I could sink under the table and hide. This is not going well. “So… I understand you want to take a mortgage holiday?”