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How to Get Over Your Ex
Nikki Logan


After her on-air proposal is mortifyingly turned down by her commitment-phobe boyfriend, Georgia Stone must learn to survive singledom. Unfortunately, thanks to a clause in her contract, she also has to do it under the watchful gaze of brooding radio producer Zander Rush. And so begins the Year of Georgia!Lurching from salsa classes to spy school, Georgia discovers a taste for adventure. Her biggest thrill so far? Flirting with danger – AKA the enigmatic Zander.But admitting she’s ready for more than just a fling? Definitely Georgia’s scariest challenge yet… !







Being rejected is one thing. Being rejected live on radio takes it to a whole new level!

After her on-air proposal is turned down by her commitment-phobe boyfriend, Georgia Stone must learn to survive singledom. Unfortunately, thanks to a clause in her contract, she has to do it under the watchful gaze of brooding radio producer Zander Rush.

And so begins the Year of Georgia! Lurching from salsa classes to spy school, Georgia discovers a taste for adventure. Her biggest thrill so far? Flirting with danger—aka the enigmatic Zander. But admitting she’s ready for more than just a fling…? Definitely Georgia’s scariest challenge yet!

Next month, look for the second book in this duet: The Guy To Be Seen With by Fiona Harper


HOW TO GET OVER YOUR EX

“Why are we here, Zander?” she breathed into the fading light.

He stared at her in the rapidly cooling, darkening evening. “Because you followed me up here?”

Half of her was terrified he’d just shrug and blame tradition. That this thing between them wasn’t mutual. But she wasn’t about to be put off so easily. “Here, by the twinkling water as the sun sets.”

“Do you want to leave?” he murmured, eyes locked on hers.

She should. “No.”

“Do you want to feel?”

Her lungs locked up. Suddenly the grass and cows and water around them seemed to grow as if the two of them had just hauled themselves over the top of a beanstalk, forcing them closer together and making the scant distance separating them into something negligible.

Her pulse began to hammer in earnest.

Zander raised his hand and slipped it behind her head, lowering his forehead to rest on hers. His heat radiated outward. His eyes drifted shut.


How to Get Over Your Ex

Nikki Logan




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT NIKKI LOGAN

Nikki Logan lives next to a string of protected wetlands in Western Australia, with her long-suffering partner and a menagerie of furred, feathered and scaly mates. She studied film and theater at university, and worked for years in advertising and film distribution before finally settling down in the wildlife industry. Her romance with nature goes way back, and she considers her life charmed, given she works with wildlife by day and writes fiction by night—the perfect way to combine her two loves. Nikki believes that the passion and risk of falling in love are perfectly mirrored in the danger and beauty of wild places. Every romance she writes contains an element of nature, and if readers catch a waft of rich earth or the spray of wild ocean between the pages, she knows her job is done.


For Aaron, who knows just how hard

the getting over part can be.

Give my regards to Broadway.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u4a78b1cc-c532-5989-bac1-2bf38a4b9c88)

CHAPTER TWO (#uec664a50-0ea1-5559-95f2-b0f4cf623313)

CHAPTER THREE (#u46b4bbdc-ed4c-5c4e-8125-413035737f16)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EXCERPT (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE

Valentine’s Day 2012

Close. Please just close.

A dozen curious eyes followed Georgia Stone into Radio EROS’ stylish elevator, craning over computer monitors or sliding on plastic floor mats back into the corridor just slightly, not even trying to disguise their curiosity. She couldn’t stand staring at the back of the elevator for ever, so she turned, lifted her chin...

...and silently begged the doors to close. To put her out of her misery for just a few blessed moments.

Do. Not. Cry.

Not yet.

The numbness of shock was rapidly wearing off and leaving the deep, awful ache of pain behind it. With a humiliation chaser. She’d managed to thank the dumbfounded drive-time announcers—God, she was so British—before stumbling out of their studio, knowing that the radio station’s output was broadcast in every office on every floor via a system of loudspeakers.

Hence all the badly disguised glances.

The whole place knew what had just happened to her. Because of her. That their much-lauded Leap Year Valentine’s proposal had just gone spectacularly, horribly, excruciatingly, publicly wrong.

She’d asked. Daniel had declined.

As nicely as he could, under the circumstances, but his urgently whispered, “Is this a joke, George?” was still a no whichever way you looked at it and, in case she hadn’t got the message, he’d spelled it out.

We weren’t heading for marriage. I thought you knew that...

Actually no, or she wouldn’t have asked.

That’s what made our thing so perfect...

Oh. Right. That was what made it perfect? She’d known they were drifting in a slow, connected eddy like the leaves in Wakehurst’s Black Pond but she’d thought that even drifting eventually got you somewhere. Obviously not.

‘For God’s sake, will you close?’

She wasn’t usually one to talk to inanimate objects—even under her breath—but somehow, on some level, the elevator must have heard her because its shiny chrome doors started to slide together obligingly.

‘Hold the lift!’ a voice shouted.

She didn’t move. Her stomach plunged. Just as they’d nearly closed...

A hand slid into the sliver of space between the doors and curled around one of them, arresting and then reversing its slide. They reopened, long-suffering and apologetic.

‘You mustn’t have heard me,’ the dark-haired man said, throwing her only the briefest and tersest of glances, his lips tight. He turned, faced the front, and permitted them to close this time, giving her a fabulous view of the square cut of the back of his expensive suit.

No, you mustn’t have heard me. Making a total idiot of myself in front of all of London. If he had, he’d have given her a much longer look. Something told her everyone would be looking at her for much longer now. Starting with all her and Daniel’s workmates.

She groaned.

He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Sorry?’

She forced burning eyes to his. If she blinked just once she was going to unleash the tears she could feel jockeying for expression just behind her lids. But she didn’t have the heart for speech. She shook her head.

He returned his focus to the front of the elevator. She stared at the lights slowly descending toward ‘G’ for ground floor. Then at the one marked ‘B’, below that—the one he’d pressed.

‘Excuse me...’ She cleared her throat to reduce the tight choke. He turned again, looked down great cheekbones at her. ‘Can you get to the street from B?’

He studied her. Didn’t ask what she meant. ‘The basement has electronic gate control.’

Her heart sank. So much for hoping to make a subtle getaway. Looked as if the universe really wanted her to pay for today’s disaster.

Crowded reception it was, then.

She nodded just once. ‘Thank you.’

He didn’t turn back around, but his grey eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll be driving out through the gates. You’re welcome to slip out behind me.’

Slip out. Was that just a figure of speech or did he know? ‘Thank you. Yes, please.’

He turned back to the front, then, a heartbeat later, he turned back again. ‘Step behind me.’

She dragged stinging eyes back up to him. ‘What?’

‘The door’s going to open at Reception first. It will be full of people. I can screen you.’

Suddenly the front-line of the small army of tears waiting for a chance to get out surged forward. She fought them back furiously, totally futile.

Kindness. That was worse than blinking. And it meant that he definitely knew.

But since he was playing pretend-I-don’t, she could, too. She stepped to her left just as the doors obediently opened onto the station’s reception. Light and noise filled the elevator but she stood, private and protected behind the stranger, his big body as good as a locked door. She sighed. Privacy and someone to protect her—two things she’d just blown out of her life for good, she suspected.

‘Mr Rush...’ someone said, out in the foyer.

The big man just nodded. ‘Alice. Going down?’

‘No, up.’

He shrugged. ‘I won’t be long.’

And the doors closed, leaving just the two of them, again. Georgia sagged and swiped at the single, determined tear that had slipped down her cheek. He didn’t turn back around. It took only a moment longer for the elevator to reach the basement. He walked out the moment the doors opened and reached back to hold them wide for her. The frigid outdoor air hit her instantly.

‘Thank you,’ she repeated and stepped out into the darkened parking floor. She’d left her coat upstairs, hanging on the back of a chair in the studio, but she would gladly freeze rather than set foot in that building ever again.

He didn’t make eye contact again. Or smile. ‘Wait by the gate,’ he simply said and then turned to stride towards a charcoal Jaguar.

She walked a dead straight line towards the exit gate. The fastest, most direct route she could. She only reached it a moment or two before the luxury car. She stood, rubbing her prickling flesh.

He must have activated the gate from inside his vehicle, and the large, steel lattice began to rattle along rollers towards her. He nudged his car forward, lowered his window, and peered out across his empty passenger seat.

She ducked to look at him. For moments. One of them really needed to say something. Might as well be her.

‘Thanks again.’ For sanctuary in the elevator. For spiriting her away, now.

His eyes darkened and he slid designer sunglasses up onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Good luck’ was all he said. Then he shifted his Jag into gear and drove forward out of the still-widening gate.

She stared after him.

It seemed an odd thing to say in lieu of goodbye but maybe he knew something she didn’t.

Maybe he knew how much she was going to need that luck.

* * *

Hell.

That was the longest elevator ride of Zander’s life. Trapped in two square metres of double-thickness steel with a sobbing woman. Except she hadn’t been sobbing—not outwardly—but she was hurting inwardly; pain was coming off her in waves. Totally tangible.

The waves had hit him the moment he nudged his way into her elevator, but it was too late, then, to step back and let her go down without him. Not without making her feel worse.

He knew who she was. He just hadn’t known it was her standing in the elevator he ran for or he wouldn’t have launched himself at the closing doors.

She must have bolted straight from the studio to the exit the moment they threw to the first track out of the Valentine’s segment. Lord knew he did; he wanted to get across town to the network head offices before they screamed for him to come in.

Proactive instead of reactive. He never wanted someone higher up his food chain to call him and find him just sitting there waiting for their call. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Or the power.

By the time he got across London’s peak-hour gridlock he’d have the right spin for the on-air balls-up. Turning a negative into a positive. Oiling the waters. The kind of problem-solving he was famous—and employed—for.

The kind of problem-solving he loathed.

He blew out a steady breath and took an orange light just as it was turning red in order to keep moving. None of them had expected the guy to say no. Who said no to a proposal, live on air? You said yes live and then you backed out of it later if it wasn’t what you wanted. That was what ninety-five per cent of Londoners would do.

Apparently this guy was Mr Five Per Cent.

Then again, who asked a man to marry her live on radio if she wasn’t already confident of the answer? Or maybe she thought she was? She wouldn’t be the first to find out she was wrong...the hard way.

Empathy curled his fingers tight on the expensive leather of his steering wheel. Who was he to cast stones?

He’d recognised that expression immediately. The one where you’d happily agree for the elevator to plunge eight storeys rather than have to step out and face the world. At least his own humiliation had been limited to just his family and friends.

Just two hundred of his and Lara’s nearest and dearest.

Georgia Stone’s would be all over the city today and all over the world by tomorrow.

He was counting on it. Though he’d have preferred it not to be on the back of someone’s pain and humiliation. He hadn’t got that bad...yet.

He eased his foot onto the brake as the traffic ground to a halt around him and resisted the urge to lean on his horn.

Not that he imagined a girl like that would suffer for long. Tall and pale and pretty with that tangle of dark, short curls. She’d dressed for her proposal—that was a sweet and unexpected touch in the casual world of radio. Half his on-air staff would come to work in their pyjamas if they had the option. But Georgia Stone had worn a simple, pale pink, thin-strapped dress for the big moment—almost a wedding dress itself. If one got married on a beach in Barbados. Way too light for February so maybe public proposals weren’t the only thing the pretty Miss Stone didn’t think through?

Or maybe he was just looking for ways that this wasn’t his fault.

He’d approved the Valentine’s promotion in the first place. And the cheesy ‘does your man just need a shove?’ angle. But EROS’ listeners were—on the whole—a fairly cheesy bunch so it had been one of their most successful promotions.

Which had made the lift ride all the more painful.

Something about her pale, wide-eyed courtesy. Even as her heart ruptured quietly in its cavity.

Thank you.

She’d said it four times in half the minutes. As though he were a guy just helping her out instead of the guy that put her in that position in the first place. It was his contract she’d signed. It was his station’s promotion she’d put her hand up for.

Her life was now in shreds around her feet but still she thanked him.

That was one well-brought-up young woman. Youngish; he had to have at least fifteen years on her, though it was hard to know. He reached for his dash and activated the voice automation.

‘Call the office,’ he told his car.

It listened. ‘EROS, Home of Great Music, Mr Rush’s office. This is Casey, can I help you?’

Christ, he really had to have their company-wide phone greeting shortened.

‘It’s me,’ he announced to his empty vehicle. ‘I need you to pull up the contract with the Valentine’s girl.’

‘Just a tick,’ his assistant murmured, not taking offence at his lack of acknowledgement. She knew life was too short for pleasantries. ‘OK, got it. What do you need, Zander?’

‘Age?’

Her silence said she was scanning the document. ‘Twenty-eight.’

OK, so he had nine years on her. And her skin was amazing, then. He would have said twenty-two or -three, max. ‘Duration of contract?’

Again a brief pause. ‘Twelve months. To conclude with a follow-up next February fourteenth.’

Twelve months of their lives. That was supposed to include engagement party, fully paid wedding, honeymoon. All on EROS. That was the fifty-thousand-pound carrot. Why else would anyone want to make the most private, special moment of their lives so incredibly public?

The carrot was cheap in international broadcast terms, for the kind of global exposure he suspected this promo would get. Even more so now, given it had probably already gone viral. Exposure brought listeners, listeners brought advertisers, and advertisers brought revenue.

Except that follow-up twelve months from now wasn’t going to make great radio. At all. His mind went straight to the weakest link.

‘Casey, can you send that contract to my phone and then call Rod’s assistant and let her know I’m about half an hour away?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He rang off without a farewell. Life was too short for that as well.

A year was a long time to manufacture content, but if they played their cards right they could salvage something that would last longer than just the next few days. Really make that fifty thousand pounds work for them. He still expected EROS to directly benefit from the viral exposure—maybe even more now—but that contract locked them in for the next year as much as her.

A black cab cut in close to his bonnet and he gave voice to his frustration—his guilt—finally leaning on the horn the way he’d been wanting to for twenty minutes.

He spent the second half of his drive across town formulating a plan. So much so that when he walked into his network’s headquarters he had it all figured out. A way forward. A way to salvage something of today’s mess.

‘Zander...’ Rod’s assistant caught his ear as he breezed past into her boss’s office. He paused, turned. ‘He has Nigel in there.’

Nigel Westerly. Network owner. That wasn’t a good sign. ‘Thanks, Claire.’

Suddenly even his salvage plan looked shaky. Nigel Westerly hadn’t amassed one of the country’s biggest fortunes by being easily led. He was tough. And ruthless.

Zander straightened his back.

Oh, well, if he had to be fired, he’d rather it be by one of the men he admired most in England. He certainly wasn’t going to quail and wonder when the axe was going to fall. He pushed open the double doors to his director’s office with flair and announced himself.

‘Gentlemen...’


TWO

Thank goodness for seeds. And quiet lab rooms. And high-security access passes.

Georgia’s whole National Trust building was so light and bright and...optimistic. None of which she could stomach right now. Her little X-ray lab had adjustable lighting so it was dim and gloomy and could look as if she were out even when she wasn’t.

Perfect.

She’d called in sick the day after Valentine’s—unable to crawl out of bed was a kind of sick, right?—but she’d gone tiptoeing back to work, her Thursday and Friday an awful trial in carefully neutral smiles and colleagues avoiding eye contact and a very necessary and very belated inter-departmental email to Kew’s carnivorous-plant department.

It was also very short.



I’m so very sorry, Daniel. I’ll miss you.



She knew they were done. Even if Dan hadn’t concurred—which he had, once he’d cooled down enough to speak to her—she couldn’t spend another moment in a relationship that just drifted in small, endless circles. Not after what she’d done. Conveniently, it also meant she didn’t have to explain herself, explain something she barely understood—at least not for a while. And she was nothing if not a master procrastinator. She’d see Dan eventually, apologise in person, pick up her few things from his place. But this way they were both out of their misery.

Relationship euthanasia.

You know, except for the whole intensive public interest thing...

And now it was Saturday afternoon. And work was as good a place as any to hide out from all those messages and emails from astounded friends and family. Better, probably, because there were so few staff here with her and because she worked alone in her little X-ray lab behind two levels of carded access restrictions. The world wasn’t exactly interested enough in her botched proposal to have teams of paparazzi on her trail but it was certainly interested enough to still be talking about it—everywhere—a few days later. She didn’t dare check her social media accounts or listen to the radio or pick up a paper in case The Valentine’s Girl was still the topic de jour.

London was divided. Grand Final kind of division. Half the city had taken up arms in her defence and the other half were backing poor, beleaguered Dan. Hard to know which was worse: the flak he was copping for being the rejector or the abject pity she was fielding for being the rejectee.

Didn’t she know what a stupid thing it was to have done? some said.

Yes, thanks. She had a pretty good idea. But it wasn’t as if she just woke up one morning and wanted her face all over the papers. She’d thought he’d say yes, or she wouldn’t have asked. It just turned out her inside information was about as reliable as a racing tip from some random bag lady in an alleyway.

Why do it live on air? her detractors cried.

Because she woke up the morning after Kelly’s stunning pronouncement that her brother was ready for more and the ‘Give him a Nudge’ leap year promotion was all over the radio station she brushed her teeth to. And rode to work to. And did her work to. All day. The universe was practically screaming at her to throw her name into the hat.

She rubbed her throbbing temples.

Their names.

Dan was in it up to his neck, too, but because she wasn’t about to out her best friend—for Dan’s sake and for his sister’s—she was still struggling with exactly what her answer would be when he eventually turned those all-seeing eyes to her and asked, ‘Why, George?’

She loaded another dish of carefully laid-out seeds into the holder and slid it into the irradiator, then secured it and moved to her computer monitor to start the X-ray. It took just moments to get a clear image. Not a bad batch; a few incompetents, like all batches, but otherwise a pretty good sample.

She typed a quick summary report of her findings, noted the low unviable percentage, and attached it to the computerised sample scan to go back to the seed checkers.

Incompetents. It was hard not to empathise with them, the pods that had rotten-out interiors or the husks that formed absent of the seeds they were supposed to protect. Incompetent seeds disappeared amongst the thousands of others on the plant and just never came to fruition. Their very specific genetic line simply...vanished when they failed to reproduce.

In nature, that was the end of it for them.

Incompetent seeds didn’t have to justify themselves and their failure to thrive constantly to their competent mothers. Didn’t have to watch their competent friends’ competent families take shape and help them move out to their competent outer-city suburbs.

‘Ugh...’ Georgia retrieved the small sample from the irradiator, repackaged it to quarantine standards and placed it back in its storage unit. Then she reached for the next one.

Twenty-five-thousand seed species in the bank and someone had to test samples of each for viability. Lucky for the National Trust she had weeks and even months of hiding out ahead of her. Looked as if they were going to be the immediate beneficiaries of her weekends and evenings in exile.

Across the desk, her phone rang.

‘Georgia Stone,’ she answered, before remembering what day it was. Why was someone calling her on a weekend?

‘Ms Stone, it’s Tyrone at Security. I have a visitor here for you.’

No. He really didn’t. ‘I’m not expecting anyone. I would have left a name.’

‘That’s what I told him, but he insisted.’

Him. Was it Daniel? Immediately, new guilt piled on top of the old that she’d not been brave enough to face him personally yet. ‘Wh...who is it?’ she risked.

Pause.

‘Alekzander Rush. With a K and a Z, he says.’

As if that helped her in the slightest; although some neuron deep in her mind started firing.

‘Now he says he’s not a journalist.’ Tyrone sounded annoyed at being forced into the role of interpreter. His job was just to check the ID of visitors passing through his station, not deal with presumptuous callers.

‘OK, send him through. I’ll meet him in the visitor centre. Thank you, Tyrone,’ she added before he disconnected.

It took her about seven minutes to finish what she was doing, sanitise, and work her way through three buildings to the public visitor centre. It was teeming with weekend visitors to Wakehurst all checking out the work of her department while they were here seeing the main house and gardens.

She glanced around and saw him. Tall, dark, and casually but warmly dressed, with something draped over his arm. The guy from the elevator at the radio station. Possibly the last person in the world she expected to see. Relief that he wasn’t some crazy out to find The Valentine’s Girl crashed into curiosity about why he would be here. She ignored two speculative glances sent her way by total strangers. Probably trying to work out why she looked familiar. Hopefully, she’d be back in her office by the time the light bulb blinked on over their heads and they remembered whatever social media site they’d seen her on.

She walked up next to him as he stared into one of the public displays reading the labels and spoke quietly. ‘Alekzander with a K and a Z, I assume?’

He turned. His eyes widened as he took in her labcoat and jeans. That was OK; he looked pretty different without his pinstripe on, too.

‘Zander,’ he said, thrusting his free hand forward. She took it on instinct; it was warm and strong and certain. Everything hers wasn’t. ‘Zander Rush. Station Manager for Radio EROS.’

Oh. That wasn’t good.

He lifted his arm with something familiar and beige draped across it. ‘You left your coat in the studio.’

The manager of one of London’s top radio stations drove fifty kilometres to bring her a coat? No way.

‘I considered that a small price to pay for getting the heck out of there,’ she hedged. She hadn’t really let herself think about the signed document on radio network letterhead sitting on her desk at home, but she was thinking about it now. And, she guessed, so was he.

The couple standing nearby suddenly twigged as to who she was. Their eyes lit up with recognition and the girl turned to the man and whispered.

Zander didn’t miss it. ‘Is there somewhere more private we can speak?’

‘You have more to say?’ It was worth a try.

His eyes shot around the room. ‘I do. It won’t take long.’

‘This is a secure building. I can’t take you inside. Let’s walk.’

Conveniently, she had a coat. She shrugged into it and caught him as he was about to head back out through the giant open doors of the visitor centre.

‘Back door,’ she simply said.

Her ID opened the secure rear entrance and deposited them just a brisk walk from Bethlehem Wood. About as private as they were going to get out here on a Saturday. It got weekend traffic, too, but nothing like the rest of Wakehurst. Anyone else might have worried about setting off into a secluded wood with a stranger, but all Georgia could see was the strong, steady shape of his back as he’d sheltered her from prying eyes back in the elevator as her world imploded.

He wasn’t here to hurt her.

‘How did you find me?’ she asked.

‘Your work number was amongst the other contacts on our files. I called yesterday and realised where it was.’

‘You were taking a chance, coming here on a Saturday.’

‘I went to your apartment, first. You weren’t there.’

So he drove all this way on a chance? He was certainly going to a lot of trouble to find her. ‘A phone call wouldn’t suffice?’

‘I’ve left three messages.’

Oh.

‘Yes, I...’ What could she say that wouldn’t sound pathetic? Nothing. ‘I’m working my way up to my phone messages.’

He grunted. ‘I figured the personal approach would serve me better.’

Maybe so; she was here, wasn’t she? But her patience wasn’t good at the best of times. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Rush?’

‘Zander.’ He glanced at her sideways. Then, ‘How are you doing, anyway?’

What a question. Rejected. Humiliated. Talked about by eight million strangers. ‘I’m great. Never been better.’

His neat five o’clock shadow twisted with his lips. ‘That’s the spirit.’

Well, wasn’t this nice? A walk in the forest with a total stranger, making small talk. Her feet pressed to a halt. ‘I’m so sorry to be blunt, Mr Rush, but what do you want?’

He stopped and stared down at her, his eyes creasing. ‘That’s you being blunt?’

She shifted uncomfortably. But stayed silent. Silence was her friend.

‘OK, let me get to the point...’ He started off again. ‘I’m here in an official capacity. There is a contract issue to discuss.’

She knew it.

‘He said no, Mr Rush. That makes the contract rather hard to fulfil, don’t you think? For both of us.’ She hated how raw her voice sounded.

‘I understand—’

‘Do you? How many different ways do you hear your personal business being discussed each day? On social media, on the radio, on the bus, at the sandwich shop? I can’t get away from it.’

‘Have you thought about using it, rather than avoiding it?’

Was he serious? ‘I don’t want to use it.’

‘You were happy enough to use it for an all-expenses-paid wedding.’

Of course that was what he thought. In some ways she’d prefer people thought she was doing it for the money. That was at least less pathetic than the truth. ‘You’re here for your pound of flesh—I get that. Why not just tell me what you want me to do?’

Not that she would automatically be saying yes. But it bought her time to think.

Grey eyes slid sideways as his gloveless hands slid into his pockets. ‘I have a proposition for you. A way of addressing the contract. One that will be...mutually beneficial.’

‘Does it involve a time machine so that I can go back a month and never sign the stupid thing?’

Never give in to her mother’s pressure. Or her own desperate need for security.

His head dropped. ‘No. It doesn’t change the past. But it could change your future.’

She lifted her curiosity to him. ‘What?’

He paused at an ornate timber bench and waited for her to sit. Old-school gallantry. Even Dan didn’t do old school.

She sat. Curious.

‘The media is hot for your story, Georgia. Your...situation has sparked something in them.’

‘My rejection, you mean?’

He tilted his head. ‘They’ll be interested in everything you do. And if they’re interested, then London will be interested. And if London is interested, then my network will want to exploit the existing contract however they can.’

Exploit? He was happy to use that word aloud? She tried not to let her surprise show.

‘Georgia, under its terms they could still require you to come back for follow-up interviews.’

Her stomach crimped. ‘To talk about how very much I’m not getting married? How I suddenly find myself alone with half my friends siding with my ex?’ And the other half so determinedly not talking about it. ‘Not exactly perky radio content.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s what they could ask. But I have a better idea. So that the benefit is not all one-way.’

She waited silently for his explanation. Mostly because she had no idea what to say.

‘If you agree to seeing the year out, EROS is willing to redirect the funds from the engagement, wedding, and honeymoon to a different project. One that you might even enjoy.’

She frowned. ‘What kind of project?’

He took a breath. ‘Our listeners have connected with you—’

‘You mean your listeners feel sorry for me.’ Pity everywhere she looked.

‘—and they want to see you bounce back from this disappointment. They want to follow you on your journey.’

She ignored that awful thought and glared at him. ‘Really? You see into each of their hearts?’

His scoff vibrated through his whole body. ‘We spend four million pounds a year on market research. We know how many sugars they each have in their coffee. Trust me. They want to know. You’re like...them...to them.’

‘And how is me working through my weekends in a lab going to make good radio? Because that’s how I planned to get through this next year. Low profile and lots of work.’

‘I’m asking you to flip that on its head. High profile and getting back out into the sunshine. Show them how you’re bouncing back.’

Honesty made her ask in a tiny voice, ‘What if I don’t—bounce back? What then?’

Something flooded his eyes. Was it...compassion? ‘We plan to keep you so busy you won’t have time to wallow.’

Wallow? Anger rushed up and billowed under her coat. But she didn’t let it out. Not directly. ‘Busy with what?’ she gritted.

‘Makeovers. New clothes. Access to all the top clubs... You name it, we’ll arrange it. EROS is making it our personal business to get you back on your feet. Total reinvention. And on your way to meeting Mr Right.’

She stared at him, aghast. ‘Mr Right?’

‘This is an opportunity to reinvent yourself and to find a new man to love.’

She just stared. There were no words.

It was only then he seemed to hesitate. ‘I know it feels soon.’

She blinked.

He frowned. Scowled. ‘OK, I can see that you’re not understanding—’

‘I understand perfectly well. But I refuse. I have no interest in reinvention.’ That wasn’t entirely true—she’d often dreamed about the sorts of things she might have done if she’d grown up with money—but she certainly had no interest in a manufactured man-hunt.

‘Why not?’

‘Because there’s nothing wrong with me, for a start.’ Hmm...defensive much? ‘I’m not in a hurry to have you tally up my apparently numerous deficiencies and broadcast them to the world.’

He stared at her. ‘You’re not deficient, Georgia. That’s not the point of this.’

‘Really? What is the point? Other than to tell women everywhere that being yourself is not sufficient to catch a good man.’

Something her gran had raised her never to believe. Something that was starting to look dangerously possible.

‘OK, look... The point of this is ratings. That’s all the network cares about. This promotion was mine and it went arse-up and so it’s my mess to tidy. I just thought that we could spin it so that you can get something decent out of it. Something meaningful.’ Sincerity blazed warm and intense from his eyes. ‘This is an opportunity, Georgia. Fully paid. To do anything you want. For a year.’

She couldn’t even be offended at having her life so summarily dismissed. Arse-up was a pretty apt description. She sighed. ‘Why would you even care? I’m nobody to you.’

He glanced away. When he came back to her his eyes were carefully schooled. ‘I feel a certain amount of responsibility. It was my promotion that ended your relationship. The least I can do is help you build a new one.’

‘I ended my relationship,’ she pressed. ‘My decisions. I’m not looking to shift blame.’

‘And so...?’

‘I don’t want to find someone to replace Dan. He wasn’t just someone I picked up out of convenience.’ Though, to her everlasting shame, she realised that maybe he was. And she’d almost made him her husband.

‘So you’re just going to hide out here for the next twelve months?’

Yes.

‘No. I’m going to take a year off life to just get back to who I really am. To avoid men altogether and just remember what I liked about being by myself.’ The idea blew across her mind like the leaves on the gravel path ahead of them. But it felt very right. ‘It will be the year of Georgia.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘The year of Georgia?’

‘To please no one but me.’ To find herself again. And see how she felt about herself when left alone in a room with no one else to fill the space.

‘Well, then, think about how much you could do for yourself with a blank cheque behind you.’

It was a seductive image. All those things she’d always wanted to do—secretly—and never had the courage or the money to do. She could do them. At least some of them.

‘What would you do,’ he went on, sensing the shift in his fortune, ‘if money was no object?’

Build that time machine... ‘I don’t know. Self-improvement, learn a language, swim the English Channel?’

That got his attention. ‘The Channel, really?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, I’d have to learn how to swim first...’

Suddenly he was laughing. ‘The Year of Georgia. We could mix it up. Get a couple of experts to help us out with some ideas.’ Grey eyes blazed into hers. ‘Fifty thousand pounds, Georgia. All for you.’

She stared at him. For an age. ‘Actually, I really just want all of this to go away. Can fifty grand buy that?’

The compassion returned. It flickered across his eyes and then disappeared. ‘Not literally, but there’s an extra-special level of feeding-frenzy that the public reserves for those not wanting the attention. Maybe fronting up to it will be a way to help end it?’

That made some sense. There was a seedy kind of fervour to the interest of the English public specifically because she and Dan were both trying so hard to avoid it. Maybe it tapped into the ancient predator parts of mankind, as if they were scenting a kill.

‘You were willing to sell us your marriage before,’ he summed up. ‘Why not sell us your recovery? How is it different?’

‘Sharing the happiest time of my life with the world would have been infinitely different.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that what you thought? That marrying him would make you happy?’

‘Of course.’ But then she stumbled. ‘Happier. You know, still happy.’

It sounded lame even to her own ears.

‘Clearly Bradford thought otherwise.’ Then he took a breath. ‘Why did you ask him if you weren’t certain of his answer?’

Her brow folded. ‘Because we’d been together for a year.’

‘A year in which he thought you were both just enjoying each other’s company.’

For a moment she’d forgotten—again—how very public her proposal was. And Dan’s decline. Three million listeners had heard every excruciating word. She hid her shame by dropping her gaze to the path ahead of them.

‘So...what? His twelve-month expiry date was approaching?’

She lifted her eyes again. ‘It was your promotion, Mr Rush. “Give him a leap year nudge,” you said in all your advertising.’

His eyes flicked away briefly. ‘We didn’t imagine anyone would take us literally.’

She stared at him as a small cluster of walkers passed by. Her friend’s illness was none of his business. Nor was Kelly’s eagerness to see a happy ever after for two people she loved. ‘I misunderstood something someone close to him said,’ she murmured.

Actually her mistake was in hearing what she wanted to hear. And letting her mother’s expectations get to her. Her desperate desire to fill the void in her life with grandchildren. And then she’d awoken to EROS’ promotion and decided it was some kind of sign.

And when she’d been shortlisted and then selected...well...

Clearly it was meant to be.

And exactly none of those was even close to being a good excuse.

‘I accept full responsibility for my mistake, Mr Rush—’

‘Zander.’

‘—and I’ll need to seek some legal advice before answering you about the contract.’

‘Of course.’ He fished a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘You’d be foolish not to.’

Which was a polite, corporate way of suggesting she’d been pretty foolish already.

It was hard to argue.

* * *

‘I think you should do it,’ Kelly said, distracted enough that Georgia could well imagine her stirring a pot full of alphabet spaghetti in one hand, ironing a small school uniform with the other, and with the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder.

A normal day in her household.

‘I thought for sure you’d tell me where he could stick his offer,’ she said.

Kelly laughed. ‘If not for those magic words...’

Fifty thousand pounds.

‘You say magic words and I hear magic beans. I think this has the potential to grow into something really all-consuming.’

‘So? Did you have any other plans for the next twelve months?’

The fact it was true—and that Kelly didn’t mean to be unkind—didn’t stop it hurting all the same. No, she had no particular plans that twelve months of fully paid stuff would interrupt. Which was a bit sad.

‘George, listen. I don’t want to bore you again with my life-is-for-the-living speech, but I would take this in a heartbeat if someone offered it to me.’

‘Why? There’s nothing wrong with you. You don’t need reinvention.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with you. This doesn’t have to be about that. This is an opportunity to do all the things you’ve put aside your whole life while you’ve been working and saving so hard. To live a little.’

‘You know why I work as hard as I do.’

‘I know. The whole “as God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again” thing. But you are not your mother, George. You are more financially secure than most people your age. Isn’t there any room in your grand plan for some fun?’

She blinked, wounded both by Kelly’s too-accurate summation of her entire life’s purpose and by the implication of her words. ‘I’m fun.’

Kelly’s gentle laugh only scored deeper. ‘Oh, love. No, you’re not. You’re amazing and smart and very interesting to be around, but you’re about as much fun as Dan is. That’s what made you two so—’

Kelly sucked her careless words back in. ‘What I’m saying is, you have nothing to lose. Take this man’s fifty grand and spoil yourself. Consider it a consolation prize for not getting to marry my stupid brother.’

‘He’s not stupid, Kel,’ she whispered. ‘He just doesn’t love me.’

In the silence that followed, two little boys shrieked and carried on in the background. ‘Well, I love you, George, and as your friend I’m telling you to take the money and run. You won’t get a chance like this again.’

Kelly dragged her mouth away from the phone but not well enough to save Georgia’s ears as she bellowed at one of her boys. ‘Cal, enough!’ She came back to their conversation. ‘I’m going to have to go. World War Three is erupting. Let me know what you decide.’

Moments later, Georgia thumbed the disconnect button on her mobile and dropped it onto her plump sofa.

No surprises there, really. Of course Kelly would take the money. And the opportunity. She’d come so close to being robbed of life—and her boys of a mother—she was fully in marrow-sucking mode. And she was right—there really was nothing else going on in Georgia’s life that a bunch of new activities would interrupt.

Her objections lay, not with the time commitment, but with the implication that she was broken. Deficient.

About as much fun as Dan. Did Kelly know what an indictment that really was? Mr Serious?

So that was three for three in favour. Kelly and her gran both thought it would be good for her and her mother...well, what else would a woman incapable of managing her money or her impulses say?

Which was part of the problem. Truth be told, Georgia had nothing against the idea of a bit of self-development of the social kind. She wanted to be a well-rounded person and maybe she had gone a bit too hard down the other path these past years. But the pitch of her mother’s excited squeal was directly and strikingly proportional to her level of discomfort at the idea of frittering away fifty thousand perfectly good pounds—no matter how free—on meaningless, fluffy activity.

Her mother would have spent it in a week. Just as she spent every penny they ever had. They’d bounced through seven public houses before her gran called a halt and took a thirteen-year-old Georgia in with her.

And then it would be gone, with nothing to show for it but a fuller wardrobe, a liver in need of detox and a sleep debt the size of Wales.

She stretched out and pulled the well-thumbed EROS contract into her lap. It had her lawyer’s recommendation paper-clipped to the front.

Sign, he said. And attached his invoice.

So that was four for four. Five if you counted the handsome and persuasive Zander Rush.

And only one against.


THREE

March

Zander’s assistant made an appointment right at the end of his day for her to sign the contract and so walking back into EROS was only half as intimidating as it might have been if it were full of staff.

An oblivious night-guard had just sat down at Reception instead of the two gossipy girls she’d met there the first time she visited, and most of the workstations in the communal area were closed down for the evening. Georgia clutched a printout of Zander’s new contract in her hand and quietly trailed his assistant past the handful of people still beavering away at their desks. Most of them didn’t raise their heads.

Maybe she was yesterday’s news already.

Or maybe public interest had just swung around to Dan, instead, now that the calendar had flipped over to March. Drop Dead Dan. Apparently, he was fielding a heap of interest from the women’s magazines and the tabloids, all determined to find him a match more acceptable than she. More worthy. London now thought he was too good for her. Not that he’d put it like that—or ever would have—but she could read between the lines. She didn’t dare read the actual lines.

She shifted in her seat outside Zander’s office.

Behind the frosted-glass doors, an elevated voice protested strenuously. There was a low murmur where the shouted response should have been and then a final, higher-pitch burst. Moments later one of the two doors flung open and a man emerged—flushed, rushed—and stormed past her. He glanced her way.

‘A lamb to the bloody slaughter,’ he murmured, a bit too loud to have been accidental, before storming down the corridor and into one of the studios off to one side. She followed his entire progress.

‘Georgia.’ A smooth voice dragged her focus back to the doors.

She straightened, stood. Reached out her hand. The tiniest of frowns crossed Zander’s face before he enclosed her hand in his and shook it. His fingers were as warm and lingering as last time. And still pleasingly firm. ‘I was beginning to think we’d never see you again.’

‘I had to think it over.’ And over. Looking for any reasonable way out. And avoiding the whole thing, really.

‘And?’

She sighed. ‘And here I am.’

He stood back and signalled at his assistant, who was politely keeping her eyes averted, but not so much that she didn’t immediately decode and acknowledge his signal. Did that little finger-twiddle mean, Hold my calls? Bring us coffee? Or maybe, If she’s not out in five minutes interrupt me with something fake but important.

Perhaps the latter if the furrows above his brow were any indication. He didn’t look all that pleased to see her. So maybe she really had taken too long with the contract.

‘I needed to be sure I understood what you were asking.’ Ugh, way too defensive.

His eyes finally found hers and they didn’t carry a hint of judgement. ‘And do you?’

She waved the sheaf of papers. ‘All signed.’

A disproportional amount of relief washed across his face. He sat back in his expensive chair.

She tipped her head. ‘You weren’t expecting that?’ She hated the thought that maybe there’d been more room for negotiation after all. She hated being played.

‘I’ve learned never to try and anticipate the actions of people.’ His eyes drifted to the door where the man had just stormed out.

‘I had one question...’

The relief vanished and was replaced by speculation. ‘Sure.’

‘It’s about the interviews. Is that really necessary? It seems very formal.’

‘We just need an idea of who you are, so we know what we’re starting with.’

‘By filling out a questionnaire? I thought maybe if I had coffee with your assistant, told her a bit about myself—’

‘Not Casey. She’s not subjective enough.’

‘Because she’s a woman?’

‘Because she’s a card-carrying member of Team Georgia.’

Oh. How nice to have at least one person in her corner.

‘Unless you were angling for a free lunch?’

She glared at him. ‘Yes. Because all of this would be totally worth it if only I could get a free bowl of soup out of you.’

His scowl moderated into a half-smile.

‘What about one of your other minions,’ she tried.

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Minions?’

‘You have an assistant to do your bidding. And that man leaving just now didn’t look like a man who enjoyed fair and equal status in his workplace.’

His frown deepened. ‘I don’t have minions. I do have staff.’

‘Then any one of your staff.’

He studied her across the desk. ‘No. Not one of my staff.’

She sighed. ‘I’d really rather not do a questionnaire, Zander. It’s too impersonal.’ And a little bit insulting. As though a computer could tell her what was missing in her life when she was still struggling to work that out.

‘Not one of my staff and not a form.’

‘Then what?’

‘Me.’

‘You what?’

‘I’ll interview you.’ He reached for a pen.

‘N-now?’ she stammered.

The half-smile graduated. ‘No. I’m just making a couple of notes for Casey for tomorrow.’

She swivelled in her chair. ‘She’s gone?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I thought you... Didn’t you signal for her to do something for you just now?’

‘Yes, I told her to go home. Just because I keep long hours doesn’t mean she has to. She’s got a young family to get home to.’

So they were...alone? Why on earth did that make her pulse spike? Just once. She’d walked in a secluded wood with him. Being alone in an office wasn’t all that scandalous. Except that it was his office, full of his comfy, oversized furniture and all of a sudden she felt a lot like an outclassed Goldilocks.

She pushed half out of her chair. ‘I should go.’

‘What about the interview? I thought we could go and grab a drink, talk. I can get what I need.’

For a bright woman, an astonishing amount of nothing filled her head just then. He prowled to the front of his desk and stood by her chair so that she had no choice but to stand and let him shepherd her out of his office.

‘The contract...’ she breathed.

He relieved her of the pages, flicked to the back one and signed it, unread. She pressed her lips together. ‘I should have gifted myself a luxury car in small print.’

His lips parted, revealing smooth, white, even teeth. ‘Where would you drive a luxury car?’

‘You never know. Maybe that’s something I’d like to get experience with—I’ve never driven anything flashier than a Vauxhall.’

His eyes softened as they alighted on her. Then he reached deep into his trouser pocket and tossed her a bundle of keys. They were still warm from his body heat. Toasty warm. She lifted her eyes to his.

‘Never too early to get started. Consider this the first Year of Georgia activity. Driving a luxury car.’

‘Not your Jag?’ she gasped.

‘Not flashy enough for you?’

Excitement tangled with dread. ‘What if I scratch it? Or dent it?’ Or drive it into the Thames in her excitement?

‘You strike me as a careful driver.’

He ushered her out of the door, keys still lying limp and unwelcome on her palm. She closed her fingers around them.

‘Besides,’ he said, ‘I have outstanding insurance.’

* * *

Why would you even care?

Her words had haunted him ever since she’d uttered them, wide-eyed and confused, when he’d first hit her with his counter-proposal. He did care—very much—on a personal level that even he barely understood, so he’d been shoving the echo of her words way down deep every time it bubbled to the surface.

Rod and Nigel were already celebrating a ratings coup—even bad PR was good PR in the communications industry—but they’d left the details of what the coming year would entail up to him. As long as Zander got her on board, that was all they cared about. Locking down the contract and making the best use of the publicity windfall.

This desperate attempt to make sure she got something back for her troubles, that was all him. It just didn’t seem right to screw a girl at the most vulnerable moment of her life.

And he knew all about that moment. He’d lived it. He knew how it shaped his life.

It was stupid; he could hardly say that he’d bonded with Georgia the moment he decided to shield her from the prying eyes waiting in Reception. Back in the elevator. But he had. She’d lingered somewhere in the back of his mind from the moment she’d fallen so gratefully on the gesture, and then she’d popped up, unsolicited, when he wasn’t armed.

In the middle of important meetings.

Late at night.

Out on the roads as he thudded one foot in front of the other.

‘You seem to be dealing with this quite well,’ he murmured as the waiter topped up both their glasses in his favourite Hampstead bar. ‘Given how you felt about the whole idea last time we met.’

She took a long, steady breath. ‘It seems I’m the only one of a longish list of people who doesn’t think there’s room for improvement with Georgia Version-Two.’

‘Give yourself some credit,’ he murmured, saluting her with his glass before taking a sip. ‘You’re more together than you think.’

‘Based on what?’

‘My observations.’

‘During one quick walk in the woods?’

‘I’m paid to pay attention to first impressions.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘The elevator?’

‘That was a tough few minutes for you and you handled them well.’

She snorted. ‘Weeping while your back was turned?’

He smiled. ‘How someone reacts under extreme pressure tells you a lot about them. You were unfailingly courteous even as you were dying inside.’

Uncertainty flooded her dark eyes. ‘You saw that?’

‘But you didn’t let it have you. You stayed in control.’

‘You didn’t see what happened to me once I got home,’ she murmured.

He chuckled. ‘I said you were strong, not a machine.’

He glanced down to her twisting fingers. Elegant, sensibly manicured hands. He wondered how much else Georgia Stone was sensible about. And what secret things she wasn’t.

And he shut that curiosity down as fast as it came.

‘So. Have you given any thought to the kinds of things you might like to do with the Year of Georgia?’

‘No.’

A lie, for sure. She was human. Who wouldn’t start thinking about how to spend that kind of money?

‘Top restaurants? Boats? A-list parties? A taste of how the other half live.’

She shrugged. ‘I can see how they live. It doesn’t interest me, particularly.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s...frivolous.’

Wow. ‘That’s rather judgemental, don’t you think?’

She leaned forward. ‘More cars than one person can drive and glamorous houses and wardrobes bulging with unworn clothes?’

‘Where’d you get that impression? Television?’ She frowned. ‘I have more cars than I can drive at once. A nice house and enough suits for two weeks without laundering.’ As he knew from experience. ‘But I wouldn’t call myself frivolous. Maybe there’s more to it than you imagine.’

And he wouldn’t flatter himself that this was about him. This was an older prejudice at work.

She dropped her eyes briefly. ‘Perhaps. But I’m still not interested enough to try. I like my own world.’

‘Science and beautiful gardens? What else?’

She stared him down. ‘Classical music. Rowing. Old movies. History.’

He blew out a breath. One part of him sighed at the image of a life filled with those things. Quiet, solitary, gentle things. But the station manager in him baulked. ‘Getting our listeners excited about rowing and classical music is going to be a hard sell.’ Along with the rest.

She sat up straighter. ‘Not my problem.’

The first real emotion she’d shown him. Shame it was offence. ‘It kind of is, Georgia. You have a signed contract to honour. We need to find a way forward in this.’

Her astute eyes pinned him. ‘As long as it also works for your listeners?’

‘There must be things that they’ll enjoy that you will, too.’

She stared at him. ‘I won’t do it if it’s portrayed as me trying to find a man. Or to improve myself enough to find one.’

‘Just the Year of Georgia, then. The Valentine’s Girl getting back on her feet. You really cared for Daniel, our listeners will buy that.’ God... Could he hear himself? He sounded just like Rod. Always an angle. Always a carrot. ‘We’ll assign someone from the station to—’

‘No. I don’t want one of them with me.’

‘One of who?’

‘One of the people who were there for the proposal. I don’t want them coming with me.’

She didn’t trust them. And he understood why. Though what she didn’t understand was that the whole sodding mess was his fault. Not theirs.

‘OK, I’ll hire someone esp—’

‘No strangers, either.’ Her face pinched in several places.

‘Georgia, if I can’t use one of my team and I can’t hire someone, who am I going to get to do it?’

‘You do it. I know you.’

His laugh was as loud as it was immediate. ‘Do you know what I get paid an hour?’

‘Too much to actually get paid by the hour, I’m sure. But that is my condition.’ She did her best to look adamant. Even that was moderated by a faintly apologetic sheen to her steady gaze. ‘Take it or leave it.’

She had no idea how to negotiate. The innocence was insanely refreshing. ‘You’ve already signed the contract,’ he pointed out gently.

But even as the words came out of his mouth his brain ticked over, furiously. His assistant would jump at the chance for some extra responsibility, so he could offload some lower-end tasks to Casey. And if this was what it would take to get Georgia fully on board...

But he held his assent back, in case it had more power a few moments later.

His entire life was about holding things back until they had the most advantage.

‘My days are packed out from dawn until dusk.’

Georgia shrugged. ‘I have a job, too, so they’re going to be evening and weekend things anyway, I imagine.’

It was hard not to admire her for sticking to her guns. Not too many people made a habit of saying no to him these days. He had them all too scared.

‘I have things I like to do on my weekends,’ he argued. But not very convincingly. Hard-to-get was all part of the game.

One dark, well-shaped eyebrow lifted. ‘How badly do you want these ratings?’

A stain of colour came to her cheeks. Either she was shocked at her own audacity or she was enjoying giving him some stick. He used the time she thought he was thinking about her offer to study her features instead. She had a right-hand-side dimple that totally belied the determination of those set lips, and she had a chin built for protesting.

That was probably long enough. He hissed as if he hadn’t made his decision sixty seconds ago. ‘Fine. I’ll do it.’

Her triumph was so brief. It only took her a heartbeat to realise that his commitment had fully sealed hers. And her next twelve months.

‘One more condition,’ she hurried as a pair of drink menus arrived. It was his turn to lift a brow. ‘No one mentions Dan. No one. You will leave him completely alone.’

Loyalty blazed from her chocolate eyes.

Somewhere down deep where constancy used to live in him, he admired her for continuing to protect the man she’d injured. A man she still cared for even though he’d also hurt her horribly. It said she might have been impetuous and naïve but she was faithful. And that was a rare commodity in his world. Her hurt and anger were very clearly directed at herself. In fact, the most notable thing about her manner was the absence of the flat, lifeless lack of interest that he associated so closely with heartbreak—and knew so intimately.

He wondered if she’d even realised yet that her heart wasn’t broken.

‘OK, Daniel is out of it.’

‘And get the media to lay off him.’

He snorted. Whoever taught Georgia about manners forgot to teach her about pushing her luck. ‘No one can halt that train now that it’s moving, Georgia. I can promise EROS won’t use him, but there’s nothing I can do about him being London’s most wanted. He’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.’

Besides, judging by what he heard on the broadcast, Daniel Bradford could look after himself.

He leaned forward and locked his eyes on hers. ‘You’ve played this well—’ for a civilian ‘—but I’ve bent about as far as I’m going to go. I’ll have an amendment to the contract drawn up and ready for your signature next week.’

She nodded and sank back in her side of the booth.

‘How about some dinner?’

She just blinked at him.

‘You do eat dinner?’

‘Um, yes. Though not usually out. Except for special occasions.’

She truly hadn’t begun to imagine ways of spending her huge windfall? He tried one last time to prove that she was like everyone else. ‘Don’t tell me you’re another mad-keen home chef?’

Her laugh was automatic. ‘No, definitely not.’

‘You don’t cook?’

‘I prepare food. But it’s not really cooking. The latest in a number of reasons it was probably just as well Dan declined my proposal.’

She certainly was taking her failed marriage-bid a hell of a lot better than he’d taken his. Did that say more about her or Bradford?

Or him?

He fired up his tablet and tapped a few keys. ‘I think we just found your first official Year of Georgia idea.’

‘Eating out in every restaurant in London?’

‘Culinary school.’ He chuckled.

She stared. ‘I hated home economics at school. What makes you think I’ll enjoy it now?’

‘Half the women on my staff are right into those social cooking classes. Wine, conversation, cooking techniques from the experts. The sessions must have something going for them.’

Her lips tightened. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to go where your staff—’

‘God, no.’ He pushed his chair back and stood. ‘That’s the last thing I want, too.’

‘You?’

‘I’ll be coming along. Or have you changed your mind?’

Her delicate brows folded closer together. ‘It’s not me doing it for me if I’m doing it with you. The dynamic would be all wrong.’

Dynamic. That sounded almost credible. What was she really worried about?

‘I need to be there to record your progress, but...you have a point. We’ll do it together, but separate. Like we don’t know each other. I’ll just shadow you. Watch.’

A streak of colour ran up her jaw. ‘Won’t that be weird?’

He pushed his glass away and leaned in closer. ‘Georgia, I’m going to have a solution for any hurdle you put up. You’ve signed the contract. How about working with me on this instead of against?’

She sighed. Stared at him with those unreadable eyes. ‘OK. Sorry.’ She took a sip of white wine. ‘What did you have in mind?’

* * *

‘That’s a long list.’ Georgia stretched and read the upside-down sheet in front of Zander.

‘A year is a long time. But we don’t have to go with all of these. Plus things might come up along the way so we need to leave room for those. If you had to shortlist, which ones would you enjoy the most?’

He spun the paper around to her and passed her his fancy pen. She asterisked Wimbledon, cooking classes—which she agreed to because he’d indicated his listeners would love it, not because she actually wanted to know the difference between flambé and sauté—cocktail-making class, truffle-making, and a makeover. That last one because she got the sense he really thought it was important. She tugged her sensible shirt down further over her sensible trousers.

‘I really want to do this one.’ She circled one down near the bottom, taking a risk. It wasn’t what he’d be expecting at all. And unlike some of the others this one actually did interest and intrigue her.

‘Ice carving?’

‘How amazing would that be? Ooh, and this one...’ Another asterisk.

‘Spy school?’

She lifted excited eyes. ‘Can you imagine?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t need to imagine. I’m going to find out.’

She sipped her wine.

‘What about travel?’ he asked.

‘What about it?’

‘Not interested in the thought of a holiday?’

Flying to a whole other country seemed a lot to ask. Besides, she didn’t have a passport. Just the idea of applying for one got her blood thrumming.

‘Where could I go?’ she breathed.

His smile was almost indulgent. If it weren’t also so confused. Had he never met anyone whose gratification went so far beyond delayed it was non-existent?

‘Anywhere you want,’ he said.

As she holidayed in her apartment as a rule, anything further afield than Brighton just didn’t occur to her. ‘Where would be good for your listeners?’

Zander shrugged. ‘New York? Ibiza?’

Her breath caught... Ankara? She’d wanted to go to Turkey since seeing a documentary on its ancient history.

But no, that seemed too much. Fanciful. She wrote down Ibiza on the bottom of the list. That seemed like the kind of place EROS listeners would like to hear about. The party capital of Europe. Fast-pour bars and twenty-four-hour clubs and duelling dance arenas and swollen feet and ringing ears.

Oh, yay.

‘I might add some things, as we go along. Things that occur to me.’ Things she’d like to do but didn’t want Zander knowing about. Though of course they wouldn’t stay secret for long.

‘That’s fine. Just hook them up with Casey. I’ll just go where she sends me.’

‘That’s very accommodating of you. Compliance won’t do much for your reputation as a fearsome boss,’ she said.

One eye twitched. ‘I’m not fearsome; I just want them to think that I am.’

‘Why?’ That was no way to enjoy your work.

‘Because it gets things done. I’m not there to be their friend.’

She thought of her own boss. A whacky, brilliant man whom she absolutely adored. ‘You don’t think people would work just as hard with respect and admiration as their motivation?’

He lifted his gaze. ‘I’d like to think they respect me. I just don’t need them to like me.’

Or want them to? Something in his demeanour whispered that. But there wasn’t much else she could say about that without offending him. Besides, last time she checked he was the most successful person she knew. And she didn’t know him at all.

Silence fell. ‘What do you do on your weekends?’ she finally asked.

‘What?’

‘You said you had things to do on your weekend. What kinds of things?’

He regarded her steadily. ‘Weekend stuff.’

She lifted both her eyebrows.

‘I train.’ He frowned.

Lord. Blood from a stone! ‘For...?’

‘For events.’

She took a stab. ‘Showjumping? Clay shooting? Oh!’ She drained the last of her wine. ‘Ice dancing.’

A reluctant smile crept onto his face. ‘Endurance running. I compete in marathons.’

‘Truly?’

He chuckled. ‘Yes.’

‘What sort of distances?’

‘Forty or fifty kilometres. It depends.’

‘A weekend?’ Her half-shriek drew glances from around the noisy bar.

His lips twisted. ‘A day.’

A day! ‘Well, that explains the body—’

Horror sucked the words back in, but not fast enough. Oh, God! She quietly pushed her nearly empty glass far away from her.

‘I have to keep my fitness up, so I run every morning and I do long runs or hikes every weekend.’

‘Every weekend?’

‘Pretty much.’

Wow. ‘Just running. For hours on end?’

‘Or hard hiking. That’s why it’s called endurance.’

‘Sounds lonely.’ But also kind of...zen. Kind of what she did when she wandered deep into the dark heart of forests.

‘I don’t mind the solitude,’ he murmured.

‘Is that why you do it?’

His answer was fast. As if he’d defended himself on that point often. ‘I do it for the challenge. Because I can. And I do my best thinking out there.’

Fifty kilometres. That was a lot of thinking time.

‘Just...wow. I’m impressed.’

‘Don’t get too excited. In competition we can do that in under four hours.’

Georgia shook her head. ‘Put marathon running on the list.’

He looked up sharply. ‘You want to run a marathon?’

‘God, no. I have two left feet. But I’ve never seen one. I can just watch you. Help you train.’

Intense discomfort flooded his face.

Once again she’d managed to misread a man. This wasn’t a friendship. They weren’t bonding. This was a business arrangement with the sole purpose of tracking her activity. Why on earth would he want her around during his private time? He probably had a raft of friends actually of his choosing to hang out with—and many of them women.

‘I...uh...’

She’d stuffed up big enough to actually make a man stammer. World class.

‘You know what?’ she breezed, not feeling the slightest bit breezy. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Me watching you run would make terrible radio. Scratch that off the list.’ Was she a convincing liar? They’d find out. His pen was still frozen over the page and so there was nothing to scratch out, so she said the only other thing that came into her head.

‘Another drink?’

* * *

The list grew as long as the evening. They hit the Internet for ideas of cool things for her to do in London. Pretty soon they had learn-to-dance classes, movie premieres, and a royal polo match.

‘Aquasphering!’ she said, a little bit too loud. ‘Whatever that is.’

‘Really? That’s your kind of thing?’

‘None of it is my thing—isn’t that the point? Pushing myself out of my comfort zone.’ Wa-a-ay out of it.

‘Can we afford a seat on a commercial spaceflight?’ she blurted, tapping the tablet’s glossy screen. ‘That would be exciting.’

He smiled. ‘No. We can’t. And we don’t really have the time for it to become more mainstream.’

‘Pff. You suck.’

Zander stared at her. Assessing. ‘I think I need to get some food into you.’

‘I told you I didn’t do this for the soup.’

‘I was thinking of something a little more solid than soup.’

Judgement stung, low and sharp. She sat up straighter. ‘I’m not drunk.’

‘No, you’re not. But you will be if you keep going like this.’

‘Maybe the new me drinks more often.’

He gathered up their papers and his tablet and returned them to his briefcase. ‘Really? This is how you want to start the Year of Georgia? By getting hammered?’

She stared at him. Thought about that. ‘Have we started?’

‘First day.’

‘Then we should leave.’ Because, no, she didn’t want to start that way.

‘Let me feed you. I have somewhere in mind. We can walk. Clear your head.’

‘Why isn’t your head fuzzy? You’ve been matching me drink for drink.’

He shrugged. ‘Body mass?’

She relaxed back into the booth and smiled happily. ‘That’s so unfair.’ Then she sat bolt upright again, her fingers reaching for her phone before her mind was even engaged. ‘I should ring Dan. I need to explain.’

Zander caught her hand before it could do more than curl around her phone. ‘No. Let’s not do that on an empty stomach. Let’s go get some food.’

He was right. She needed to talk to Dan face to face, not over the phone. She stood. ‘OK. What are we having?’

‘We could start your cooking lesson tonight. Something informal.’

‘I live miles from here.’

He smiled. ‘I don’t.’

And just like that—bam!—she was sober. Zander Rush was taking her back to his place. To feed her. To teach her to make food. Something about that seemed so...intimate.

‘You know what?’ she lied. ‘I have some things to do tonight before work tomorrow. I think maybe I should just head home.’

‘What about food?’

If she was clear-headed enough to lie she was clear-headed enough to catch the tube. ‘We’re one block from the station.’

His smile grew indulgent. ‘I know. You drove us here.’

‘It’s on the same line as Kew Gardens. I used to catch it home all the time.’ So she knew it well.

‘At least let me walk you to the station, then.’

She shot to her feet. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

He shook his head. ‘Still so courteous.’

She shrugged. ‘Old-school upbringing.’

‘Traditional parents?’

Her laugh was more of a bark. ‘Definitely not. My gran raised me mostly. To give me some stability. My mother really wasn’t...well adapted...to parenting.’

He threw her a sideways look. ‘I’m the youngest of six to older parents so maybe we were raised by a similar generation?’

It took just a few minutes to walk down to the station and something in her speech or her steady forward movement or her riveting, non-stop chatter about her childhood must have convinced him she was fine to be left alone because he didn’t try and stop her again.

He paused by the white entry gate. ‘Well...’

‘You’ll be in touch?’

‘Casey will. My assistant.’

Of course. He had minions.

‘She’ll pull together a schedule for the next few months, to get us started.’

‘So...I guess I’ll see you at the first one, then.’

‘Remember, we’ll be strangers as far as anyone else is concerned. I’m just your shadow. I won’t even acknowledge you when I arrive.’

Weird. But better. If they were doing these things together she’d just get too comfortable. And that wasn’t a good idea, judging by how comfortable she’d been for the past few hours. ‘I’ll remember. See you then.’

She stepped towards the ticket gate, then turned back and smiled. ‘Thanks for letting me drive the Jag.’

‘Any time.’

Georgia waved again and then disappeared into the station. Zander turned and jogged across the pedestrian crossing, then ducked down the commercial lane that led to the back of the garden of his nearby house where they’d parked the Jag. Except she thought they just got lucky with a street park convenient to his favourite bar, not parking in front of his house.

He was really out of practice. Who took a woman to a bar, then drank so that he couldn’t drive her home? Who let a woman ride the tube alone at night?

A man who was trying really hard not to feel as if he was on a date, that was who.

He’d first caught himself back at his office when she’d thrust her hand out so professionally and he’d felt a stab of disappointment. What did he expect, a kiss on each cheek? Of course she was all business. This was...business.

And this was just an after-hours work meeting. He’d almost sabotaged himself by inviting her back to his house to eat, but it had just tumbled from his lips. The old Zander never would have let so many hours pass without taking care to make sure they’d both eaten. It had been a long time since the new Zander came along. This Zander had perfectly defined business muscle but it had come at the expense of social niceties.

Any muscle would atrophy without use.

And then the coup de grâce. Any time. He could have said ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘think nothing of it’ but he went with ‘any time’. As though there’d be a repeat performance.

He pushed through the gate to his property and started down the long, winding path between the extensive gardens to the conservatory.

Clearly something of the old him still existed. Something that responded to Georgia’s easy company and complete failure to engage with him the way others did. She just didn’t care who he was or that he was the only thing standing between her and a lawsuit. Or maybe she just didn’t recognise it.

She stared up at him with those big brown eyes and treated him exactly like everyone else.

No one did that any more. Even Casey—the closest thing he had to a friend at work—was always super careful never to cross a line, to always stop just short of the point where familiarity became contempt. Even she was sensitive to how much of her future rested in his hands.

Because he was so thorough in reminding them all. Regularly.

His minions.

He smiled. The irony was he didn’t think that way at all. Not deep down. He believed in the power of teams and much preferred collaborative working groups to the way he did things now. They’d served him well back in the day when every programme he’d produced had been the product of a handful of hard-working people. But there was no getting around the fact that EROS really did run better with a clear, controlled gulf between himself and the people who worked for him. And he didn’t mind the gulf; it meant no complications between friendships and workplace relationships.

And driving Georgia home would have been a complication.

Having her here, in his house, would have been a complication.

He had a signed contract; the time for courting The Valentine’s Girl, professionally, was over. He should have just given her a list of activities that the station was prepared to send her to and been done with it. Instead of being a sap. Instead of reacting to an event fifteen years old and letting it colour his better judgement.

Instead of empathising.

Just because he’d been exactly where Georgia was; on the arse-end of a declined proposal. Only in his case, he got all the way down the aisle before realising his fiancée wasn’t coming down behind him because she was on her way to Heathrow with her supportive bridesmaids. What followed was a horrible half-hour of shouting and recriminations before the priest managed to clear the church. Lara’s family and friends all went wildly on the defensive—as you would if it was someone you loved that had done something so shocking. His side of the church rallied around him so stoically, which only inflamed Lara’s family more because they knew—knew—that there were a hundred better ways to not proceed with a marriage than just not turning up. Less destructive ways. But she’d gone with the one that would cause her the least pain.

And, chump that he was, he actually preferred that. He wasn’t in the business of wishing pain on people he loved back then.

The heartbreak was bad enough, slumped in the front row of the rioting church, but he’d had to endure the public humiliation in front of everyone he cared about. Their whispers. Their pity. Their side-taking. Worse, their determined, well-meant support. Every bit as excruciating and public as Georgia’s turn-down live on air. Just more contained.

Like atomic fusion.

But the after-effects rippled out for a decade and a half.

He jogged up the stairs and headed straight for his study. The most important room in his house. The work he got done there was the difference between just-hanging-on in the network and excelling. No one excelled on forty hours a week. He was putting in eighty, easy.

It was the one thing he could thank Lara for.

Setting him up for the kind of success that gave him a luxurious study in a big house in Hampstead Heath and had him rubbing shoulders with some of the most powerful people in the country.




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