Page 40 of Wreck Me

‘Scarlett.’ Her pink painted lips lift into a genuinely welcoming smile. ‘Come in. I’m Martha. We’ve been expecting you.’ I step into the hallway and she takes my coat, her eyes sharply assessing my frame, sizing me up.

‘He wasn’t wrong.’ She tsks, seemingly more to herself than me. ‘I’m guessing you’re a size eight or ten?’

I follow her into an enormous room with big bay windows overlooking the street below. Racks of dresses, suits, shirts, skirts and blouses line the room. I’m no fashion expert but even I can see the labels in here are on par with the most high-end department stores across the world.

This place makes Brown Thomas look like Zara.

A younger woman enters the room with a polite smile. She’s carrying a glass of champagne. I accept it along with my fate. James Beckett wants to ruin me.

Who am I to stand in his way?

Martha clicks her pink painted fingers. ‘Let’s begin,’ she says.

Chapter Twenty

JAMES

Knowing Scarlett is in my house while I’m working stirs some sort of primal instinct in me. I had hoped having her under my roof would at least mean she’s no longer living rent free in my head.

I was badly mistaken.

If anything, my obsession is only escalating.

Did she eat?

Does she have everything she needs?

Is she currently wearing anything?

The list goes on.

I’m finally back in Dublin, but now I’m snowed under with an avalanche of shit. The Imperial Winery Group acquisition is far from straightforward. These things take months of work, but time is of the essence given the competition.

HR is breathing down my neck about some scandal in our New York division. And I’ve had weeks of meetings with none too happy investors.

On the plus side, I haven't had to endure any further mundane dates.

Unfortunately, I haven't had any electrifying ones either.

My relationship with Scarlett, our fake relationship, has so far mostly been comprised of regular text messages, most of which include me asking if she’s okay, and her responding that she’s fine. Despite demanding three public dates a week, I’ve managed to take her out for dinner precisely twice since she moved into my house.

Which is why I’m looking forward to taking her out tonight. It’s the opening night of Rian’s new nightclub. And it’s time to introduce the world to my new “girlfriend.”

And what better night than Valentine’s to do it?

The sooner the Board, our investors and my family know about my new relationship, the more credibility it will give it.

I haven't been photographed with the same woman twice since Cynthia Van Darwin. Being photographed with Scarlett will certainly get them talking, even if I have to have them pixel out her face. Of all the conditions she could have come up with, not being photographed with me was an odd one.

Killian found nothing unusual on her background check. Her digital footprint is practically non-existent. It’s as if Scarlett Fitzgerald has been hiding under a rock. Which only fuels my curiosity about her past.

Chantel pops her head round my door. ‘Heads up. Your mother is in the building. Fifty euros says you’re the first son she’ll call on.’

A long, low groan rumbles from my throat. It’s not unusual for her to stop by, but today I’m itching to get home to Scarlett. It’s bad enough that I’m going to have to share her at the nightclub opening tonight, let alone miss the rare chance of having dinner with her.

Six minutes later, Vivienne Beckett, my effusive mother, strides into my office in a cloud of Coco Chanel Mademoiselle. Like Dad, she doesn’t look her age, though that’s mostlydown to her talented plastic surgeon rather than healthy living. My parents enjoy the good life. Cocktail parties. Charity galas for random obscure animals no one has ever heard of. Dad always says if Mother got invited to the opening of an envelope she’d go. Which is why I’m so sure she’ll be at Rian’s opening night later, even though she’s thirty years older than his target market.

‘James.’ She leans over the desk and air kisses both of my cheeks.

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