Not his type, not her type, but when faced with the inescapable and inexplicable, all they have is each other.
Not his type.
It should have been simple. A temporary move from London to Leeds to manage the office while a boss is sick, but as Fyn watches the workforce enjoy a summer party, he feels more than guilt over the looming downsizing.
He’s tasked with making many happy people redundant, and that includes Libby Pasternak, who has her face painted as a tiger, wears boots on a summer’s day, has an ear full of piercings and is so distracting, she almost bowls him out at cricket. Unthinkable.
Most conflicting of all, why is he even thinking about seizing the moment, instead of his rule concerning getting involved with employees—especially with one so not in his league?
Not her type.
Libby likes blond surfer dudes with big dreams and even bigger smiles, not a guy like stick-in-the-mud Mr. Sensible, otherwise known as Fyn Marlowe. Then he gives her a lift home from the office party, and she finally has to admit to herself the depth of her Grand Canyon-sized crush. One that chokes itself to death two days later, when he erroneously accuses her of screwing up a major account. She may be a bit different, but her work is always the best.
Their blazing row resolves with her getting sacked, ending any chance of exploring where things could have led.
His type, her type—none of the preconceived ideas of a perfect partner matters when the world—literally—comes crashing down.
General Release Date: 16th February 2016
Fyn did not want to be here. He thought longingly of his sleek, shining flat in London, his daily run along the Thames Path, the buzz of living in one of the most vibrant cities in the world and was shocked to register he was feeling homesick. He didn’t want to live ‘up north’ in Leeds, no matter how temporary the relocation. He didn’t want to be dancing in attendance at Dercan, Morgan and Lightfoot’s summer party, though no actual dancing was required, thank Christ. But it had been made clear to him that as the man currently in charge, he had no choice about whether he turned up today.
If he’d had a choice, Fyn would have canceled the event, even if it was too late to request a refund from either the venue or the entertainment company. All he’d been listening to for the entire week was how excited everyone was about this party. The employees were all looking forward to it, especially because it was something their children could enjoy too. So Fyn had gritted his teeth and gone with the flow, hoping he didn’t drown.
Now he stood on the stone steps of Milton House, with an overview of a pirate ship bouncy castle, kids’ face-painting booth, carousel, bumper cars, hoopla stalls and coconut shies, desperately wishing he was somewhere else. The happy smiling faces of men, women and children eating, drinking and playing at DML’s expense, encouraged guilt to nibble a larger hole in his stomach.
“Champagne or Buck’s Fizz, sir?”
He looked around to see a doe-eyed waitress holding out a laden tray. “No thanks.”
Since he’d driven, he couldn’t even have a drink. He hadn’t been able to face the camaraderie of the hour-long journey each way by coach, not when some of these people were going to lose their jobs within the month.
“I could get you an orange juice,” she said. “Or if there’s anything else you fancy?”
Fyn was pretty sure he hadn’t missed the undertone of that offer. “I’m fine, thank you.”
He glanced at her curvy backside as she walked away. Another time, another place, he might have been up for a quick fuck, but this wasn’t the right time or the right place. He was currently acting head of the Leeds branch of DML, standing in for Basil Mainwaring who’d conveniently had a minor heart attack after the business reconstruction plans had been announced. Fyn wasn’t sure how long they’d have to wait before they could fire Basil. But having a heart attack wouldn’t save him.
Fyn didn’t like living in a place where he knew no one. The sooner he could return to London, the better. Back to familiar restaurants and bars and away from temptation in the form of Libby Pasternak, one of DML’s trainee brokers. Even thinking her name directed his gaze toward her.
Everything about Libby was wrong. Is she wearing a bra?
Everything about Libby was right. She’s not wearing a bra.
Shit. His dick stirred in his pants and he shoved his hand into his pocket. Golden rule. He didn’t fuck where he worked. The last thing he needed was a claim of sexual harassment blighting his career, but he’d never wanted to sexually harass someone so much in his life. Every time he saw her he imagined himself shoving her up against the wall and ramming his dick into her while he stared into her beautiful navy-blue eyes.
Oh Christ. Now he had to put both hands into his pockets.
He’d been too long without sex. That was all this was. Three weeks since he’d arrived, three weeks with no sex involving someone else, and his hand was no longer enough. He stared at Libby’s little flowered sundress and those long legs that went on and on and on. His hand was nowhere near enough.
The dress was nothing special, just some thin, yellow and orange cotton thing from a high street store, but she was wearing it with tatty cowboy boots and had her face painted like a tiger. Who the fuck wore boots on a day like this? Why was she the only adult who’d had her face painted? How the hell did she make that look so hot? With her black spiky hair that was shorter than his, those piercings in her ear that made him long to know if she was pierced anywhere else, legs he was far too obsessed about and the quirkiest mind he’d ever come across, she’d been the most dangerous thing in his life for ages. And he knew why. It was because he felt more than lust for her, more than an urge to have some fun and walk away. That roiling surge in his gut that kept pushing up into his heart told him she could be someone he’d want to keep around for a while, and didn’t that scare him shitless.
Like everyone else here today, she’d been invited to bring a significant other or a friend. Unlike everyone else here today apart from him, she’d come on her own. It was as if she were throwing herself at him.
Except she wasn’t.
She acted as if he didn’t exist and while that should have relieved him, instead it pissed him off. She was currently tossing tennis balls at tin cans and had missed every time. Apart from one ball she somehow managed to lose behind her that struck Sean Lightfoot in the groin and made him squeal like a pig. Fyn smothered his smile. He wouldn’t have minded hitting Sean, the pompous little prick.
Sean stepped forward as Libby stepped back. The jerk threw three balls and knocked down the stack of cans. After he’d been handed a hideous stuffed flamingo, the jerk did a ridiculous fist pump in Libby’s face and she simply laughed in that happy, carefree way of hers that drove Fyn mad with desire. She looked like she didn’t have a worry in the world. She wasn’t going to look that way if—damn it—when he fired her. He gave a heavy sigh.
Stop looking at her. With a huge effort, he diverted his gaze to the bumper cars. Of course that was the way Libby chose to head. Walk the other way. But he didn’t want to circulate, worried he’d be asked questions about the business he couldn’t answer. Apart from Basil, whose days were definitely numbered—hopefully not literally—how the hell was he supposed to choose who to get rid of?
“It’s so hot.” Cassandra, the blonde receptionist, moved to his side, wafting her hand in front of her face. The overpowering scent of whatever perfume she was wearing made him recoil.
She inched closer. “Fancy a go on the bumper cars?”
Libby had just climbed into one and Fyn found himself nodding.
“I wish this was a little more sophisticated, don’t you?” Cassandra asked as they walked over. “Pimms on the terrace, delicious hors d’oeuvres, no screaming kids.”
Then why was she suggesting they go on the bumper cars? And hadn’t she earlier introduced him to one of those screaming kids? A boy she’d said was her nephew?
When they reached the attraction and she tried to get in the same car as him, he realized what she was up to. Christ, I’m slow. “There’s no room.” He spread his legs.
“I’m sure I can squeeze in.”
Fyn made sure she couldn’t. It made him think of the ugly sisters in Cinderella trying to stuff their feet into shoes that were far too small. But he could have done without Cassandra trying to force her backside in next to his. When the man in charge shouted at her to get in a car, Cassandra gave up and dropped into an empty one.
“No head-on bumping,” the guy shouted above the pulsing beat of the music. “Keep your arms and legs inside at all times.” The music grew louder. “Off you go.”
Fyn made straight for Libby, his dick overruling his brain. She shrieked with laughter when he rammed her from behind. He scowled a moment later when Cassandra slammed into the side of his car and knocked him away from Libby. Then everyone seemed to be aiming for him. The perils of being the boss. The only one who didn’t hit him was Libby. Every time she came anywhere near, Cassandra cut her off. Fyn almost laughed.
When the ride was over, he sprang out of the car in an attempt to avoid getting cornered by Cassandra, only for Andy, the office manager, to thrust a cricket bat into his hand.
“You’re needed.”
Fyn had tried to worm out of taking part but Andy had wandered around the office persuading people to sign up, and when Fyn had seen Libby on the list, he’d added his name. He strode for the field with Andy beside him. Maybe smacking a few balls would drive lust out of his head.
“Do you play?” Andy asked.
“A bit.” He’d won a full cricket blue at Cambridge University by bowling out three for ten runs, then making a century in the same match against Oxford. Two professional teams had wanted to sign him but Fyn had declined.
“Obviously this is just a fun game with different rules, though there is a trophy.” Andy grinned. “It’s very ugly.”
“Right. Do we get to pick teams?” Fyn could see everyone gathering around the makeshift cricket pitch, families carrying food from the buffet and settling on blankets outside the roped off area. Libby sat on the grass yanking at her boots and giggling when she rolled onto her back. I want you naked under me. Fyn’s heart lurched.
“Already picked. You’re captain of the Swingers. I’m captain of the Choppers.”
Fyn stumbled to a halt and stared at him.
Andy cringed. “You’ll see why. Almost everyone is useless.”
Fyn won the toss and put his team in to bowl. The first two bowlers didn’t get a ball anywhere near the wicket. Then it was Sean’s turn and he was deadly accurate, even taking out a kid on his first delivery. Bastard. Libby was on the other team and when she picked up the bat, Sean still had four deliveries to go. The incongruity of watching a tiger playing cricket wearing a yellow sundress almost made Fyn smile. He tried not to smile. With bad news to deliver, he didn’t want people to remember him as always laughing. But he wanted to smile at Libby just to see her smile back because her whole face lit up.
He couldn’t help grinning when she smacked each of Sean’s balls to the boundary line, though that meant she didn’t even need to run and he’d wanted to see her run. Then it was his turn to bowl and she stared at him with her determined orange, black and white striped tiger face, the tip of her tongue just visible between her lips. She tapped the bat on the ground, waiting, and stared at him unblinking.
£3.99 Buy Now
Add to Wishlist
Read a Sample
Send as a Gift
Available in:
epub, mobi, pdf 
