The Fling

“I don’t like staying in one place.” I shrug out of my jacket and toss it over the back of a chair. “Life’s too short to set down roots.”

Mr. Suit snorts. “Ah, so you hate responsibility.”

I bristle, more because it’s true than because it’s a rude thing to say. I don’t like being easy to read—it makes me vulnerable. I decide then and there not to tell this guy anything real. Nothing about my life, about my job, about my family. If this goes somewhere, it’ll be all about the pleasure. The physical. I can tuck the real me away into a little box and let my alter ego out to play.

“Let me guess.” I walk straight to the vintage bar cart and wriggle my fingers over the generous selection of liquors Charlotte thoughtfully told me to “go ham” on. “You’re pro-responsibility.”

“I am.”

I sense him behind me, the chemistry snapping like an electric fence around us. I don’t think I’ve been so attracted to someone this quickly before—usually I like to suss a guy out. Dig a little deeper. But I don’t want to do that with Mr. Suit, because I know it’ll be bad, bad, bad, all the way down.

Better to go by the ignorance-is-bliss principle.

I pull the lid off a bottle of Glenfiddich and pour two glasses. The heavy cut-crystal tumblers are like weights in my hand, and I turn to Mr. Suit, offering one to him. “And you’re a workaholic, which is why I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Perceptive.” As he takes a sip of his drink, I notice the way the amber liquid mimics the reddish tones in his hair. “But not exactly an out-of-the-box guess. You could do better.”

Oh, really? Challenge most definitely accepted.

“You’re a hardass. You’ve lost employees because they hated working for you.” The words shoot out of me. Yep, Unfiltered Drew is in fine form tonight. “You don’t need to fire people, because they leave of their own accord.”

Instead of being insulted, he smirks. “Better, but not great.”

He’s goading me. Trying to get me to say something horrible. Is he looking for a reason to walk away?

Too bad, Mr. Suit... I’ve got you right where I want you.

Need flows through my body like sparkling champagne, fizzy and light. For the past three months I’ve felt nothing but self-loathing, heartache and resentment. It’s like my ex hollowed me out with a rusty spoon. But now I’m alive—and the hurt is quiet. The shame is quiet. I’m in control and it feels amazing.

You deserve this.

Just one night of pleasure for the sake of pleasure. Like cheating on your diet with greasy pizza and beer—tomorrow I can get back on the horse. Tomorrow I can go back to trying to sort my shit out. But right now...

“People think you’re uptight, but underneath you’re a little wild.” I sip my Scotch, enjoying the way it warms me. “You’ve got a bad streak.”

“And?” His blue eyes are locked on mine—unwavering and unafraid. This is a man who’s used to having the upper hand, who expects others to bend to him. I’ve dealt with his type before—the key is to meet them at their level.

“And you’re here because the second you opened that door to the stairwell, you knew you wanted to sleep with me.” I drain the rest of my Scotch and set the glass down. There’s no beating around the bush—we both know what this is. Why sugar-coat it? I’d seen the flare of heat in his eyes and I knew what it meant.

Mr. Suit laughs and the sound is like gravel and shadows and darkness. It’s the sexiest thing to ever grace my ears. “You’re bold.”

“I’m honest.”

“And that’s a rare quality.” He sets his glass down. It’s not empty. “But I only came for a drink.”

“Bullshit.”

He smooths his hand down the front of his suit, strong fingers caressing the wool in a way that has my mind conjuring all kinds of sexy mental images. They’re white-collar hands—uncalloused, smooth.

And I would bet the last cent in my bank account that he knows how to use them.

“Am I not your type?” I tilt my face up to his. I’m tall, especially in these boots, but he’s still got half a head on me.

The corner of his lips twitch. But it’s not cruel, more...amused. “You’re so far from my type I’m not even sure how to categorise it.”

Well, he certainly doesn’t pull any punches. “Should I clutch my pearls and tell you I have a wardrobe of twinsets and flat shoes in my bedroom? Would that make a difference?”

“I don’t do casual sex.”

Despite what people assume based on my choice of outfits—and believe me, they do—I don’t usually indulge in casual sex, either. I’ve had a few boyfriends, and a few flings. A lone one-night stand in my twenty-seven years. But I’ve always been a relationship girl, secretly. Which is why I was ready to give it all to Vas...until he made it clear that forever had never been his intention.

“That doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to you...” Mr. Suit frowns. “Is it weird if I ask for your name now?”

“While you’re in the middle of turning me down?” I laugh. “Why bother?”

He nods. “Right. Anyway, it’s not you. It’s me.”

“Unoriginal.” I shake my head. “I’m so disappointed.”

Despite the fact that he’s walking away, I’m feeling more like myself than I have in weeks. I’m going after something I want, setting my own rules. I’m not shrinking into my sadness anymore. That sounds like progress, right?

“Trust me when I say it’s not you. Because I could happily tear those stockings off with my teeth and make a meal of you.” His gaze rakes over me, leaving fire in its wake. “And it is me, because I don’t have time for anything besides my work.”

“I’m not asking for anything beyond tonight.”

“Neither am I.” He looks as though he might offer further explanation, but then he walks across the room and grabs his coat. “Now, I’m going to head home and get myself off in the shower while thinking about your incredible legs.”

I’m left standing open-mouthed as he disappears into the hallway. A second later I hear his door slam shut.

CHAPTER FOUR (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)

Drew

IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT and I can’t sleep. I’ve got a head full of bad memories and images of my sexy next-door neighbour, which is a potent and annoying cocktail. So I’m restless, tossing and turning until the bedsheets wind around my legs like a python going in for the kill.

If only I didn’t have to come home for Presley’s wedding. If only I hadn’t let myself fall for a guy who was destined to break my heart. But oh, no, I had to go and think that I could be the only woman he wasn’t lying to when he told me he loved me. Even though I knew his reputation, I fooled myself into thinking that I was different. That I was special.

What could be further from the truth?

Huffing, I untangle myself and get out of bed. My bare feet hit the cool floorboards and I realise I’m burning up. Tossing and turning is quite the workout.

The apartment is quiet and unfamiliar. I’ve only been back in Melbourne for three weeks and already it’s reminding me of all the reasons why I left—how far I’ve fallen behind my sister. How much more lovable she is.

I pad out to the main room where the window looks out over South Melbourne. The view is awash with glimmering lights, and in the far corner of the view, I can see the occasional car gliding along Clarendon Street. It’s Wednesday night, so the traffic isn’t too heavy. I’ve always found the noise comforting—because total quiet unsettles me. It means I have to focus on what’s in my head, instead of something easier. Something more tangible.

Pulling open the sliding door to the balcony, I almost sigh in relief when the cool air hits my skin. The rain has stopped and it smells glorious—like springtime and wet grass and jasmine and life. This apartment is on the corner of the building, with the balcony facing the back of the property. The garden below is lush and beautiful, and I can totally see why my friend bought this place.

I lean my forearms against the railing and suck in a big breath. I’m wearing an oversized white T-shirt, which the breeze flutters around my body. I have no idea how long I stand there, leaning and trying not to think. Just feeling. Eventually I’ll need to get back to bed, but as I turn, I catch a glimpse of something. A warm light emanating from the apartment next to me.