Page 36 of Pride and Privilege

EIGHTEEN

Roscoe made it tothe end of the week. And it was largely thanks to Poppy. She almost literally held his hand through that meeting with Elliott Carter-Hall, chipping in with relevant questions and comments while he fumbled his way through strategies. And all the time, Elliott sat aloof and cold, leaning back in his chair with the posture of one of those elegant Bond villains, his strangely amber-coloured eyes fixed on Roscoe as though he was spending the entire meeting imagining eviscerating him in visceral detail. He probably was, which seemed unfair, given everything that went down last year had been Hugo’s fault.

Then, later, when Roscoe admitted he’d already booked a doctor’s appointment because Poppy was two seconds away from forcing him to do it at bagel-point, she had ring-fenced the time of his appointment and defended those two blocked-out hours like a tigress.

Now it was Friday evening, and she was standing in front of his desk, hands on her hips.

He’d just said: “Why are you still here so late?”

And she’d said: “Because I was waiting for everyone to leave so I could drag you out of here kicking and screaming.”

To which he’d said: “I can’t leave yet, I’ve—”

And then she’d made a noise, a growly sort of noise like that aforementioned tigress, and was now glaring at him with her hands on those aforementioned hips.

His eyes, he was sorry to say, flickered down to that sight, the posture accentuating her curves. He sought refuge in the safety of his computer screen.

“You’re coming home with me,” she stated.

And maybe it was because it was Friday, and even if he planned to work most of the weekend, that still counted for something. Or maybe it was because his dad was coming back to work next week—as much as Roscoe thought that wasn’t quite wise. But maybe he saw a possible lightening of his workload in the near future, and that was why he let one eyebrow lift, left it hanging there suggestively while he continued looking at his screen, a smile marring the otherwise innocent expression on his face.

Or maybe it was because he couldn’t help it. Maybe it was because there was something about Poppy that always made him want to play with her, tease her, rile her up, set all the different facets of her personality sparking—soft, sharp, spiky, sweet—like a window crystal spinning on a string, catching the sun and setting rainbows dancing over the walls.

Because even when work was hard and stressful and long and fucking exhausting and terrifying all at the same time, one glance at Poppy could make him smile. Maybe that’s why, as she huffed in exasperation, a pink tinge on her cheeks that she was doing her best to hide with a flat-lipped expression ofExtreme Seriousness,Roscoe sat there grinning at his computer screen,with the grey weight that had been on his shoulders ever since Easter suddenly lifting a little.

“Seriously, Roscoe. It’s gone eight PM on Friday night and you are leaving this bloody office. And you’re going to go home and put your pyjamas on—if you even have any and don’t actually sleep in that suit—and you’re going to sit on your stupidly big sofa and watch your stupidly big TV and drink a stupidly poncy beer, and then you’re going to go to sleep. OK?”

And Roscoe’s smile deepened. Then froze, because he realised that what she was saying was that they were going to spend an evening alone together in his flat. He couldn’t precisely explain about his other flat… Not now…

It was fine. Obviously. They were two professionals. Just two professional colleagues who had been working together extremely professionally doing professional things. Professionally. And he could absolutely sit next to Poppy on his sofa and remain professional. Or at least platonic.

Then he glanced at her, and she was standing there in that white blouse and grey pencil skirt with her hands on her hips and a scolding expression on her face, looking exactly like every hot secretary fantasy he’d ever had. And he’d had a lot. Especially since he’d starting working with Poppy Fields.

“We’re leaving,” she said, and picked up his coat from the back of the door.

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was almost June and the evening air held a hint of summer, a faint warmth lingering even as the sun set. Roscoe had left his long dark coat unbuttoned, but his hands were pushed deep into his pockets. He frowned at the pavement as they walked. Poppy, who was very aware of her own hands, walked with one of themholding the strap of her bag on her shoulder and the other across her chest, tucked under her elbow. There was a coiled tension in her stomach, and she knew it had everything to do with the tall, silent man at her side.

This was the third time they had left the BlacktonGold offices together to go to his flat. Last time, he had given her the keys to luxury. And the first time, he had started to undress her and breathed that rough promise against her jaw.“All night, Poppy. Can you take me all night?”

She was embarrassed to admit it still haunted her. Tortured her in the dark as she fell asleep, a fantasy replaying, made filthier in her own mind: her front pressed against a wall, Roscoe’s big, heavy weight pressed up against her back, his voice low in her ear, the hot breath of him…“All night, Poppy. Can you take me all night?”

It had been on repeat since then, leaving her weak-kneed and flustered at inappropriate moments. As they stepped together through the door into Roscoe’s building, the heavy hem of his coat brushed her thigh and set it off again.

God. It was ridiculous. Especially as there was no trace of that man now—the one she had only glimpsed that one time. Roscoe Blackton, rough, dark-eyed, unleashed. Ever since that night, he had been exactly like he was now. Polite, friendly, professional, offering only firm solicitude and a hint of teasing care. But even that man disappeared sometimes, got shaded out by worry and exhaustion and the silent tension that stole over him, a shadow dimming the sun.

Thatwas the man at her side now. Eyes frowning, thoughts a million miles away— No, not that far. Just behind them, in fact, in the office they’d just left.

“Takeaway!” announced Poppy the moment they walked into the flat’s kitchen—because somebody had to say something.

“Takeaway,” she repeated with giddy enthusiasm after a cursory glance in the fridge. It held an embarrassment of riches, buttakeaway… When had she last been able to afford takeaway?

“OK,” agreed Roscoe, smiling slightly at her excitement. He stood on the other side of the kitchen island, taking off his coat, then his jacket, laying them on one of the tall kitchen stools. “What kind?” he asked her as he took his keys from his trouser pocket, his wallet, phone. He started unbuckling his watch from his wrist, and Poppy looked away.

“Erm…pizza?” she said. “Chinese? Indian?”

“Wellthatnarrows it down.”

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