‘No.’ He dismisses my offer without even looking at me. ‘I’ll wait. Go get your things.’
I wince, letting myself out of his car and walking slowly, cautiously, up the path to my house, like Nan might hear me if I go any faster. I insert my key slowly. I turn it slowly. I push the door open slowly. I lift my foot slowly, ready to step inside, clenching my teeth when the door creaks.
Damn.
Nan’s standing three feet away, her arms folded, her foot tapping the patterned carpet. ‘Who’s that man?’ she asks, her grey eyebrows raising. ‘And why are you behaving like a cat burglar, hmmm?’
‘He’s my boss.’ I blurt the words fast, and so begins the fattest lie I’ll ever tell. ‘I’m working tonight. He’s brought me home to change.’
I definitely see a wave of disappointment travel across her age-worn face. ‘Oh, well . . .’ She turns, losing interest in the man outside immediately. ‘I won’t bother with supper then.’
‘Okay.’ I take the stairs two at a time and burst into the bathroom, cranking the shower on and stripping down at lightning speed. Then I dive in before it’s warmed up. ‘Oh shit!’ I pin myself to the side, goose pimples invading me, my body shivering uncontrollably. ‘Shit, shit shit! Warm up!’ My hand hovers under the spray, and I’m frantically egging the hot water on. ‘Come on, come on.’
After far too long, it’s just warm enough to bear, and I step under, making super-fast work of washing my hair, soaping everywhere and shaving . . . everywhere. By the time I’ve sprinted across the landing in my towel and made it into the safety of my room, I’m out of breath. Under normal circumstances, it usually takes me ten minutes flat to throw some clothes on, give my face a quick brush over with some powder, and rough dry my hair. But now I care; now I want to look nice. And I haven’t got bloody time to do it.
‘Underwear,’ I prompt myself, hurrying over to my drawers and yanking the top one open, instantly grimacing at the piles of cotton knickers and bras. I must have something – anything other than cotton, please!
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.’