Page 5 of Arrogant Heir

Did I just argue myself out of the best paid gig I landed in, like, forever?My skin turns hot then cold as I consider how rude I was to the CEO of Rochester Media.

Relieved to find the cottage unlocked because I don’t have a key, I yank the handle like it’s a life raft and throw myself inside. Pulling the door closed, I sag heavily against it and almost hyperventilate.

All the sass drains out of me as instantly as air fizzles from a burst balloon. I’ve only done about twenty minutes’ ‘work’ today and I’m already exhausted. This isnota good start to my Greystone assignment. All my senses are on high-alert, and I feel like a first-class failure. I ask myself what on earth I was thinking to let my temper get the better of me like that? As much of an arse as Damian is—and he most definitely is an arse—every nerve ending in my body tells me so, I shouldn’t have let him have it like that.

And the truth is, the thought of going home to my empty flat is infinitely worse than staying here, where I can at least pretend my life hasn’t completely gone to shit. And anyway, I need the money.

If I mess up this assignment with such a high-profile client, the chances are the agency won’t work with me again, and I can’t say I blame them.

A tragic vision of me hiding away in my flat, heartbroken, and depressed, surrounded by packing boxes on what was supposed to be my wedding day, fills me with dread. If I carry on like this, I’ll be fired by the agency, as well as my fiancé. The vision is so real; I taste the fear in my dry mouth and my chest heaves.

Granted, the agency is partly responsible for the mix up. Damian seemed certain they’d hired a guy, but even as I turn the situation over and over in my mind, examining it from every angle, I see how easily the agency and the Rochesters could have crossed their wires without realising.

It’s so important not to offend anyone. My mum complains these days people aren’t allowed to voice an opinion at the risk of causing offense. She has a valid point, although I don’t always tell her so, and I don’t think even Damian would go on record that he only wants to work with a male writer. That would be full-on sexism in the workplace. He clearly is an arrogant, sexist pig, but I doubt he wants that out there! Although, he doesn’t seem to mind me knowing that he finds the idea of working with a woman intolerable.

My blood simmers in my veins again as I replay his outrageous accusation. Questioning me like that over my name as if I’m some kind of fraudster who tricked him on purpose!How dare he?

Easing my cold, slightly damp stockinged feet out of my soaked expensive heels which I treated myself to as a reward for completing a difficult book, I discard them at the door and plonk my bottom on the sofa with a huge sorry-for-myself-sigh.

I sit there for goodness knows how long, just staring at the wall as I picture the worst. Gradually, I calm down a bit as it occurs to me that even if I had a do-over with Damian right now, I wouldn’t be able to force myself to do it over any differently!

I raise my chin in defiance and my spirits lift a fraction. You’ve got to make a stand for what you believe in, and if he can’t,or won’t, work with a woman, then that’s his problem. I mutter the words out loud. I spend a lot of time alone in my line of work and have fallen into talking to myself.

Let him come out and say it.He backed down as soon as I called him out on his accusation.

But just as I’m feeling better, the thought of him complaining to the agency about my professional conduct ambushes me. My writer’s overactive imagination quickly sketches out a full-colour scene where that arrogant dick makes no mention of not wanting to work with me because I’m a woman but claims it’s purely because I’m unprofessional. Then I see a picture of his dear old grandfather intervening on my behalf, admonishing him to remember his manners, but Damian sneers, and before I know it, I’m all worked up again. What if they fire me for being rude?

Enough, Jamie. What will be will be.If he refuses to work with me, there’s nothing I can do about it, and I’ll find a different assignment. There are always more clients. It's difficult to remember when you’re in the middle of a scarcity-fest, but underneath my crazed thinking, I know it’s true and I repeat it as my mantra.

After indulging in my moping for a while, I drag myself up from the low, insanely comfortable sofa and go in search of a kettle. There’s nothing that a good cup of tea can’t fix. That’s what my mum says, anyway. Let’s see if her British feel-good-tea-philosophy works for me now. While the kettle does its magic, I hunt about for tea bags and open the fridge in search of milk. I’m hoping they stocked me up with some basics until I find my way into Winchester for supplies and a much-needed latte.

That’s if you’re not heading home tomorrow. An ugly voice snarls in my head. That would be a gross shame because I’m looking forward to getting to know the area and spending some time in Winchester. I hear it’s a beautiful city.

The silver fridge door swings open in my hand, and I gasp. Not only have they provided the basics, but the fridge is stocked to the brim with luxury label products. Exploring the kitchen, I find a Rochesters hamper laden with champagne, wine, pate, olives, crackers, and a selection of tempting snacks which make my mouth water. Instantly, I remember I haven’t eaten all day.

Is all this for me?

I hover about the state-of-the-art kitchen like a child on Christmas morning, opening doors to reveal packed cupboards and enough yummy stuff to keep me going for weeks. Alice, the lovely housekeeper, mentioned there were a few bits in the kitchen, but I didn’t expect anything like this! I suppose this must be normal for billionaires. If this isa few bits, then I wonder what they keep at the manor.

Almost as if the Greystone residents can read my thoughts, there’s a slight noise, and I go back into the lounge to find an envelope jammed through the door. How cute having an actual post box in the door. At my flat in London, our post is delivered to individual boxes at the entrance, and I’ve forgotten what’s it’s like to live in a real house.

I tear open the seal of the envelope, and a thick sheet of embossed cream headed notepaper with the gold Rochester logo on it slips to the floor and I stoop to retrieve it, praying it’s not a letter of dismissal.

Please let me not have messed it all up.

My heart hammers and I feel sick as I scan the note to discover my fate. My sass has now completely deserted me at the thought of having no work and no income just when Simon ends it with me, and not for the first time I curse my fiery temper.

Dear Ms Jackson,

We’d love it if you would join us for dinner this evening. We dine at 8 but please come for drinks at 7.30.

Kind regards,

Arthur Rochester

The realisation and relief that I’m not being fired courses through my body, and I do a little dance, but a wave of panic immediately replaces the thrill.

It’s the perfect opportunity to get familiar with the Rochesters for the book, and I should be excited. But Damian’s green eyes dominate my thoughts. I wonder whether he will be there too. Did he ask his grandfather to invite me to make amends for his sexist accusation? Frantic thoughts spin about my mind like whirling tops as I try to make sense of the invitation. Is it just that he didn’t tell his grandfather about how rude I was to him yet, and will report me to the agency first thing in the morning?

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