Page 18 of Pride and Privilege

He could say no. Put his foot down. Melanie wouldn’t argue. Liz, his dad—he could fob them off. Surely Poppy didn’t want this? There was no way she could ever want to be in the same room as him again.

But he kept remembering her face. The tremble in her voice after he’d shouted and raged.Please don’t get me fired.

Melanie, Liz… They wouldn’t fight him on this. But they might wonder why he’d turned down bright, capable Poppy Fields, the perfect bloody person for the job.

Suppressing a sigh, he kept his voice light. “No. No reason. I just…didn’t want to disrupt George’s team.”

“Don’t worry!” chirped Melanie. “I’m sure she’s excited to come work with you! This is a great opportunity for her.”

Yes. And she didn’t even have to sleep with him to get it. How lucky for her that she’d dodgedthatbullet.

It paid more money, that was why she said yes. And it would look great on her CV. And she couldn’t think of a single reasonable explanation for saying HELL NO, not with Liz looking at her like a proud mother hen.

Roscoe Blackton has accepted your meeting invitation.

She had been staring at that little notification for an unhealthily long time. It might as well say:Your execution has been scheduled!

Two minutes to go.

She reached for her notebook with a sweaty hand. Failed to stand up.

Was she going to be late for her first meeting?

Was she going to be able to walk in there without throwing up?

Was this her, standing up from her desk and walking on shaky knees out of the sanctuary of her little office…?

Maybe if she tried really, really hard, she could simply cease to exist. Will herself out of the world. And everything would go away and she wouldn’t have to rap on this half-open door and she wouldn’t hear Roscoe Blackton say, “Come in.”

But no. Reality kept happening.

He was sitting at his desk. He threw a glance vaguely in her direction, then stood up. Then stood there. Then sat back down again. His hands were clasped on the desk in front of him, and she was vividly struck by their strength and size, the tendons standing out on the back of them. Or maybe that was because he was clasping them together in a white-knuckled grip.

They fitted perfectly around her waist.

“Take a seat,” he said.

She took one.

Her notepad was on her knee, clamped there with one damp palm. She had a pen in her other hand. For some reason, her brain decided the perfect thing to do was to start tapping the pen on the notepad. She heard another tapping sound and lookedup. Roscoe’s fingers were drumming on his desk. Their eyes snapped together, and they both abruptly stopped.

He’d had his hair cut. It took some of the warm softness from his face. Made him look chiselled, harder. Maybe that was why he’d done it. Shaping himself for this new role. Someone older, more professional, more responsible. But she couldn’t help but remember how those soft waves had felt between her fingers and a part of her she tried to ignore asked,Is that why he did it? To remove the taint of my touch?

“So,” said Roscoe.

“Yes.”

“This is temporary.”

Poppy nodded and said “Yes” again.

“I don’t really need an EA. So—”

“Liz said you’re heading up a big project and—”

“I can field my own calls and emails. Can’t risk missing anything important—”

“If you debrief me on who—”

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