Page 40 of Pride and Privilege

But he just stood there. Because shouting wasn’t an option. And neither was sinking to his knees in tears. Neither was wrestling her for his phone, grabbing her wrist and pinning her down—

Her chest was rising and falling. Sorrow and tears and pity and apology in her eyes as she stood up to him. Stood upforhim. Defended him from himself.

“Roscoe…”

“Keep the phone. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He went to his room. Theguest roomin his own flat. And he closed the door none-too-quietly.

He sat on the bed, oddly bereft, his hands wanting to reach for something. Hold something.

And he wasn’t sure it was his phone.

TWENTY

Given her weirdly over-protectiveneurotic meltdown, Poppy couldn’t blame Roscoe for sticking to his promise of hardly being at the flat. He spent most of Saturday at his parents’ house—probably with his father, who was probably stuffing Roscoe’s head with even more nonsense about sacrificing himself on the altar of BlacktonGold.

So he was probably having a great time. He had his phone back, anyway.

She’d woken up about seven and crept out of her room, half-expecting to find what she found: Roscoe’s bedroom door open and him gone. But not to the office, at least. To the gym. She knew that because he’d walked back into the flat about eight, hair dark with sweat, skin gleaming with it, wearing black shorts and a body-hugging black running top.

She’d been in the kitchen slicing bread and nearly lost a finger.

“Sorry.” That’s what he’d said. Not about the finger—luckily he hadn’t noticed that—and not about melting her brain—becauseluckily he hadn’t seemed to notice that either. But, “Sorry about the phone. You were trying to help, and I was a dick. I’m sorry.”

He’d come over to the kitchen island, all skin-gleamy and muscle-glowy—she was definitely brain-dead, blood elsewhere—and braced his hands on the edge of the black marble worktop, a little hangdog as he looked at her with cautious blue-grey eyes.

He’d nodded to the bread knife in her hand. “Don’t stab me with that.”

So she’d laughed, as though here were just two flatmates having a jolly flatmate time, and picked up his phone from where she’d placed it next to the fruit bowl. She’d pushed it towards him and said, “I’m doing some sort of egg thing on this sourdough, if you want some?”

“I would, but I’m having breakfast at my parents’.”

He’d showered, changed, and left.

So she was alone in the flat. Again. And she had nothing to do. Again. Because after years of refusing almost every social invitation from friends due to lack of money, she didn’t really have any friends left.

Too poor to afford friends? Was that a thing? Or just an excuse, because all the girls she knew from school, and all the girls she’d met in the various shops and pubs and offices she’d worked in over the years had always felt more like acquaintances than friends. She was a little weird. She knew that. She thought too hard about things no one seemed to think about at all. She was a nerd and got obsessive about small details, and sometimes conversations that got other people all excited just left her feeling bemused.

She used words likebemused.

But that was her grandparents’ fault. All those trips to the library. She’d read far too many books. It wasn’t natural for six-year-olds to do crossword puzzles.

Adjoa was probably the closest thing she currently had to a friend, but Poppy had kept even her at arm’s length. Because the minute you got closer to someone, they started suggesting going for lunch, a coffee, drinks, and Poppy couldn’t afford to. But she hated the way people looked when she turned them down. The way they then started to distance themselves, withdrew the offer of friendship before it even had a chance to start. It was easier to avoid getting those invitations in the first place than it was to turn them down.

But shecouldafford to go to lunch now she was living here with no travel expenses. Maybe she’d see if Adjoa wanted to get lunch next week, have a proper catch up, because Poppy hardly saw her now she was working for Roscoe.

She hardly saw Roscoe working for Roscoe.

She hardly saw Roscoelivingwith Roscoe.

Her thoughts were all getting a bit too Roscoe-centric for comfort. And that couldn’t possibly end well.

He was her boss. Her landlord.

He was a rising star of London finance.

He was a member of the British aristocracy.

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