Crazy, Undercover, Love

‘Arrogant and sexist were mentioned. Old-fashioned and cynical also featured.’

‘I’m so sorry. Is there any point in saying some people might take some of those as compliments, in particular the old-fashioned part? You know,’ I squeak, wishing I could vanish in a puff of black smoke, ‘as in traditional values? Moral fortitude?’

‘I might have done, because I don’t think there’s anything wrong in being polite or articulate, or being worried about something other than the latest fashions or music, but they didn’t sound like compliments the way you said them.’

‘No, I get that,’ I confess, squirming now, ‘but it was because … ’

‘Because?’

Because I was convincing myself not to like you. I can’t say so or the conversation will leap from humiliating to downright excruciating. ‘It doesn’t matter. I apologise unreservedly. There’s no excuse for it. I don’t suppose there’s any way we can move past this?’

‘It’s too late to get another temp,’ he confirms, and I hate his voice being so cool and rigid after the rapport we built in the suite, ‘so I’ll try to forget it, even though every word is indelibly engraved on my brain.’

‘I’m so sorry. Again,’ I offer quietly, feeling awful. I can’t believe I was so indiscreet. My head was just so all over the place I didn’t stop to think. Not my usual style at all.

‘Yes, well.’ He stares over my shoulder, jaw tensing. ‘Just forget it.’

There’s nothing else I can say and the silence quickly becomes unbearable, so I look around the room. What might be Catalan art hangs on the cream walls and lots of small square mahogany tables with clean lines are dotted around trendy brown leather and purple velvet sofas. The long, wide black bar is backlit by purple and red UV lighting, with metal high-backed stools grouped together, elegant square chandeliers hanging overhead. Full-length windows overlook the marina, the boats bobbing up and down gently on the calm sea.

Alex lets out a heavy sigh. ‘Shall we go through for dinner?’

‘Please.’ As I grab my almost-empty glass and clutch bag from the table, I stumble and Alex’s large hand shoots out to grab my elbow. I wrench it away, feeling like I’ve been branded, the heat of his fingers transmitting a tingling message through my skin straight to my tiny underwear. ‘Th–thanks.’

Turning around, I struggle to walk in a straight line, my knees are trembling so hard. Alex wordlessly follows and a young brunette waitress greets us at the entrance of the restaurant. Why do they all have to have such glossy dark hair? Not everyone has celebrity-shiny tresses, some of us mere mortals are challenged with hair that curls and waves and demands complete freedom, no matter what we might do to control it.

‘¡Hola! Table for two? Penthouse suite, si, Mr Demetrio?’

Alex nods and we trail after her as she sweeps through the packed room. The clink and tinkle of cutlery and the glow of lit candles mix with muted conversations to create a warm, welcoming atmosphere. Alex’s jacket brushes my bare arm as he walks beside me. I ignore the shiver it causes.

‘By the way,’ he says in a low voice, ‘I know I said we’d forget about it, but I do want to clarify one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘I employ women.’ His sideways look says he’s disappointed with my assumptions. ‘I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the benefits of gender balance. Some of my best senior managers are female, which is why six of them sit on the Board.’

‘Out of how many directors?’

‘Ten.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s only my executive assistant I insist is male. Not that I have to justify anything to you.’

‘Of course not.’ He’s defensive, but I can hardly blame him after what he overheard.

We come to a beautifully laid table by the window overlooking the grand vista of Port Olimpic. It’s pretty, lights from passing boats shining and twinkling off the dark water, the rhythmic lap of waves against the jetties barely discernible.

I gulp as we sit down. It’s exactly the kind of set up I’ve been dreading – intimate and romantic. I flick a wary glance at Alex. His total concentration is on the menu. I frown as I finish off my wine. The last thing I need is to get drunk and sloppy and let my identity slip too soon. No more alcohol tonight. Reaching for a glass of water, my hand twitches and knocks it over, and I watch in horror as it sends a cascade of good old H20 directly towards Alex. But he’s quick, pushing back from the table like his chair is on wheels.

I jump from my seat, grabbing a napkin. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t get you, did I?’

He stands, waving a hand to someone behind me for assistance. ‘Luckily for me, no.’

My gaze drops to his trousers to check and I move towards him, hand extended reflexively to mop up.

He grabs my wrist before I reach my target, ‘I said you missed, Charley.’

‘Yes, of course. S–sorry,’ I stutter as he releases my arm. Was I really just about to rub his crotch? Dear God. Sloping back to my chair, I wish I could slide under the table and hide, especially when not one, but two members of staff arrive to sort out the mess I’ve made. My face starts to burn. I’ve always been clumsy but today I’ve hit a new record; the water in the plane, almost falling over in the bar, and now attempting to give Alex a shower and rub him down. I should come with an Official Government Warning: Spending time with this girl may be bad for your health/clothes/sanity.