Czytaj książkę: «The Morning After the Night Before»

CHAPTER ONE

‘WHAT AM I?’ Izzy murmured, wedging her shoulder and elbow in closer to the mirror propped up next to the tiny boxroom window to finish applying her mascara. ‘A flipping boy wizard?’

She wouldn’t mind a few magical skills if it meant she could just wave a wand to make herself beautiful in moments. Or her boobs bigger. Or her bank balance bigger. But the only part of the whole wizarding deal she had was the ‘tiny room under the stairs’ thing where, up until three days ago, she and her sibling flatmates had kept their miscellaneous junk.

Never mind that they were quite fancy stairs leading up to a delightful mezzanine floor she’d once adored. Never mind that it had, in fact, been an actual room before it was their boxroom. It was unquestionably tiny.

A poor girl’s room.

Bad enough that she’d had to ship most of her belongings to her parents’ council house back in Chorlton, but her impulsiveness had put everyone out because Poppy and Alex had to relocate their thirds of the overflow, too, and couldn’t move it into Izzy’s old room because that now needed to be let to meet the repayments.

Sigh. Her room … Her beautiful room.

Someone else’s soon.

She swapped the mascara to the other hand and tried for a better result from the left.

‘The price of freedom,’ she reminded herself aloud.

And of self-respect. Everything she’d done in her life was about treating herself with more respect than the world had ever treated her.

‘Izzy …’ Poppy rapped on the door then stuck her head in, skilfully avoiding taking an eye out on the various clothes hangers hooked over the door frame. ‘How much of your own party are you planning on missing?’

Was all of it a wise thing to admit?

She normally loved a party, loved being the centre of attention—she had a lifetime of non-existent parties to make up for—but Congrats, you’re unemployed was not her preferred theme. Even if Poppy had typically gone with the more positive, Congrats, you’re out of the job that was draining your soul. There certainly was something to be said for spin. Izzy pushed back from the ridiculously ornate dresser wedged awkwardly between the wall and the single bed.

Single …

This was what she’d become—a half made-up pauper sleeping on a child’s bed.

The price of freedom.

‘Did I hear Tori’s laugh?’ Izzy quizzed, brightly. And by ‘laugh’ she meant the carillon of flirtatious bells that was their best friend’s weapon of choice. ‘How long has she been here?’

Poppy arched a single, elegant brow. ‘I think the more pertinent question is how long have you been in here? It’s just gone eight.’

‘Oh.’

The boxroom was too crowded for a clock and Izzy never wore a watch. ‘Time to come out, then.’

Why on earth had she thought being unemployed was worth celebrating?

Because that decision had been made two days ago. Today she’d changed her mind. Two days from now she’d probably feel differently again. Par for the course with her wildly swinging thoughts lately.

Wildly swinging, dissatisfied thoughts.

So dissatisfied that she’d even considered ringing her mum to talk things through. Until she remembered that she didn’t do that anymore.

‘Come on, Iz,’ Poppy urged, reading her expression and holding the door wide. ‘You’ll enjoy it once you get out there.’

She certainly wouldn’t without a champers in hand. One look at the thronging mass in their flat reinforced that. All friends, but somehow still overwhelming. Would it be rude to go to a movie instead? To reward the kindness of all their friends who’d rallied for her with her absence?

She paused in the doorway. They wouldn’t be the first kind people she’d abandoned.

But tonight was not the night to be thinking about her parents or her dysfunctional childhood. Tonight was a night for stoic smiles and fellowship.

She followed Poppy into the kitchen, keeping her eyes down until she had the familiar comfort of a glass in her hand. ‘Please tell me there’s Lanson.’

‘Dunno. Brother dearest ordered the booze.’

There was—thank God—and Izzy polished off her first glass while rinsing the used party glasses already accumulating in the kitchen. She took care of a second while chopping up a platter of out-of-season veg.

Their extended circle of friends fell like Brighton seagulls onto her choppings.

‘God, I love this stuff,’ a tall brunette cooed, scooping a big dollop of dip onto some capsicum and then shoving the lot into her mouth and speaking past the crunching mess. ‘Yours?’

‘Speciality of the man of the house,’ Izzy said. And, no, dip wasn’t an odd thing for a military man to be good at. No more odd than Alex’s weirdly nocturnal habits, anyway.

‘Tash, Sally.’ She nodded, extending the platter for their grazing pleasure. ‘Thanks for coming. Hi, Richard.’

‘Love the pauper’s catering, Izzy,’ he gushed, drowning a sprig of broccolini in dip. ‘Very on-theme.’

Huh. If being poor was so entertaining why hadn’t she smiled more as a kid?

She shuffled forwards through the crammed-in guests, keeping herself and the veg creeping steadily towards the far side of the bright, eclectically decorated industrial conversion. Guests greeted and commiserated and dipped the whole way.

‘So what’s next?’ one of her downstairs neighbours shouted over the music and chatter.

‘Not sure,’ Izzy hedged. ‘Consolidation period?’

The pretty face folded. ‘Oh, I assumed you had something already lined up.’

Nope. Not a thing lined up. Though reasonable that her friends would expect that, because that was absolutely what normal Izzy would do. The Izzy they all knew.

Corporate, clever Izzy.

Top of the class and best in her department Izzy.

But new Izzy, it seemed, was channelling her mother, all of a sudden. Choosing principle over plenty. New Izzy was all about the moment and dramatic, flourishing statements. And nothing about reality.

She paused against one of the apartment’s large windows and caught her breath ready for another pass with the half-decimated tray. The sea of people momentarily parted and she caught a glimpse of Tori’s distinctive tri-coloured hair. She was perched happily in a man’s lap, her ‘take me’ heels kicked back, his strong hands the only thing stopping her from toppling backwards onto the floor in front of all their friends. Not her boyfriend’s slim, pale, slightly creepy hands. These were strong, tanned, non-Mark hands.

Uh-oh … trouble in paradise? Already?

The throng closed in once more, ending her worrying Tori sighting, and Izzy pressed on with her vegetables back towards the kitchen. Appeasing the masses.

Ooh … perhaps waitressing could be her new job. Apparently she had a knack for it and maybe the café down on street level would hire her, then she’d have no commute costs. Of course there was the whole issue of zero appreciable waiting skills.

The only after-school job she’d managed never to have in her long, exhausting childhood.

The final stick of courgette disappeared just before Izzy hit the kitchen doors. Of course it did. Because she’d cut just enough for the size of the crowd she’d unconsciously counted, and she’d shuffled forward in subliminal accordance with the diminishing supply.

Quantities. Numbers. They were her thing. Estimates and value assessment and principles of return. Whether it was Broadmore Natále’s investments or a pile of crunchy veg, the theory was much the same. Leverage all available resources and minimise waste.

Yawn.

No wonder she’d left. Her job gave her a fantastic income and that gave her a fantastic, inner-city lifestyle, but there wasn’t much else to recommend it. Not the fiddly commute, not the irritating, God’s gift boss, not the groundhog-day workload.

Job security just wasn’t enough anymore. Who had she been kidding convincing herself that achieving budget was the kind of professional achievement she’d been craving her whole life?

Sigh.

She dumped the empty tray into the sink and reached for the chopping knife.

When he’d set out tonight to get his way with a woman it wasn’t this woman he’d had in mind. And not this kind of way, either.

Still, Harry considered as he flattened his palm against the firm ass presently resident in his lap, things could definitely be worse. Maybe he could indulge Matahari, here, just ten more minutes. Spend a bit of time with a flesh-and-blood woman.

One who was happy to see him.

Plus, he didn’t know anyone here and he was grateful for the smokescreen while he carried out essential reconnaissance on Izzy Dean.

Isadora.

He’d almost pity her that if he weren’t so angry at being here.

A diva didn’t get any less diva-ish just because she was good at her job. Or good to look at. And she was, in a lanky, Keira Knightley kind of way. The glass walls of his office had given him plenty of opportunity to conduct an assessment when she was otherwise engaged. Or when she wasn’t. And he’d used them to the fullest.

He’d been grooming Dean to replace him when he moved on at the end of his stint, but after Wednesday’s spectacular meltdown …

Let her walk.

The firm could well do without high-maintenance attention seekers.

Yet here he was, cap in bloody hand, sent to persuade her to reconsider, because she’d walked on his watch. Which apparently made getting her back his responsibility.

The tense anger of Broadmore’s human resources director, Rifkin, yesterday afternoon echoed back at him. Implying, but never saying outright, that Dean’s hasty departure was somehow his fault. As if her inability to accept constructive criticism and cede to authority weren’t the bulk of the problem. He’d argued that, but Rifkin had challenged him with a list of staff they’d lost since he’d come aboard and asked how they could all develop such terminal flaws after years of working together well.

Implication: his fault.

Harry’s interpretation: dead wood, well rid of.

Just because someone had been around for a while didn’t mean they were still adding value.

Even if she was the most talented person on his team.

Then again Rifkin hadn’t seen the words on the glass of his office wall …

‘Eyes forward, handsome,’ the vixen in his lap purred as if he’d been checking out her rack, not her friend serving celery sticks to the ravenous hordes. He dragged his focus reluctantly back to her eyes, which were more than a little liquor-glazed.

He was definitely off his game.

‘Are you sure you’re not uncomfortable?’ he tried, again.

‘No, I’m great.’ She wiggled her butt down further, which only served to make him significantly less comfortable.

A tiny brunette flopped down into the empty half-space next to them. Not quite big enough for her, leaving her pressed closely to him and, for half a moment, he feared his troubles had just doubled.

But then her eyes filled with casual sparkle and she leaned around him and said, ‘All right, Tori?’

Tori. That was what she’d mumbled while he was busy staring at Izzy Dean. And the little brunette was not a flanking assault; she was the extremely welcome cavalry.

‘Fantastic, Poppy.’ Tori waved her friend’s concern away with dramatic sweeps. ‘Having a great time. Have you met Harry?’

The brunette thrust out her hand. ‘Hello, Poppy Spencer. This is my flat.’

Which was pretty much polite social code for ‘who are you and who invited you?’ Just because he’d been out of the scene for a few years didn’t mean he’d forgotten the rules. Shaking Poppy’s hand was the perfect excuse to ease Tori into a slightly more upright and appropriate position without causing offence.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Harry hedged, unwilling to give away too much. ‘So this is your party?’

‘My flatmate’s actually. She’s just out of a dreadful job.’

‘Do you always celebrate employment changes?’

‘This one we do. Izzy’s been miserable for months. Lousy job, lousy new boss. She’s well out of it.’

Lousy?

‘Maybe a job is what you make it,’ Harry defended.

‘She made that one long enough.’ Tori pouted prettily. ‘You can’t polish a turd.’

To have his entire career aspiration and management expertise summarily written off stung. Like a bitch.

‘Would you like a drink, Harry?’ Poppy offered, though he wasn’t sure how she thought he would manage a glass with both hands full of busty, wriggling woman.

‘I’d love one,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t mind meeting your flatmate. Congratulate her on her … new-found freedom.’

Drag her back to the firm kicking and screaming, if necessary.

‘Conveniently they’re in the same place. Izzy’s hiding in the kitchen.’

Hiding? That wasn’t the woman he knew. Isadora Dean was always the centre of attention in any space. Laughing and shaking back her dark blond mop and generally being delightful to her adoring audience.

And thoroughly distracting to him.

She should have been in her element at a party that was all about her.

He set Tori to her feet and she happily took him by his loosened tie and led him through the crowd to the kitchen.

‘Izzy,’ she gushed dramatically, entering with him and Poppy in tow. ‘A man without a drink is a tragedy not to be borne.’

The woman in question emerged from behind the fridge door, a warm smile on her face, and turned automatically to the sink full of ice and beer. But the smile died the moment she saw who stood in her kitchen.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’

‘Izzy!’ Poppy’s shock could have been for the language as much as the tone.

‘Dean.’ He nodded, cautiously.

‘What is he doing here?’ she hissed again, as if he weren’t in the room. Kind of desperately.

‘He’s a guest …’ Tory squinted, then twisted to look at him. ‘Isn’t he?’

‘He’s my boss!’ Dean sputtered.

Tori dropped his tie and it fell, flaccid, against his suit. Both women turned on him and there was a surprising amount of unity in the three angry female faces now facing him.

‘Ex-boss,’ he reminded her. Though hopefully not for long. He thrust his hand out to finish the introductions Poppy had started. ‘Harry Mitchell.’

‘You’re really him?’ Poppy squeaked.

‘But you’re gorgeous,’ Tori helpfully contributed. ‘I imagined you hideous and old.’

Dean’s face flamed. ‘Tori! Bad enough you’ve been giving him a lap dance—’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I didn’t know, Iz. Obviously.’

Dean reached for her glass and clutched it, white-knuckled, like a weapon. ‘Why are you here?’

‘To see you.’

‘I hope you’re not planning on begging her to come back.’ Poppy laughed. ‘You could have saved yourself the tube fare.’ Begging. Cajoling. Bribing. Little Miss Potty-Mouth had suddenly become Britain’s most wanted. As galling as that was.

‘There was an email circulating, inviting all staff.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m staff.’