Not Precisely Mr. Knightley (The Silver Teapot #2)

Chapter 1

Emma-Jane Bennett, handsome, clever, and wanting to be rich, with a loving family, comfortable home, and optimistic disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence.

EJ, as she was known to her friends, had lived nearly twenty-eight years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.

Apart from (of course) an incessant desire to show that she was the smartest member of her family, through the financial—and otherwise—success of her matchmaker app, Dream Match.

Proof that God was real was shown in the worldwide success of this app, with testimonials coming in from all corners of the globe, such as the most recent email that had just pinged its arrival.

EJ placed her bowl of chicken Caesar salad on her office desk, leaned back in her chair, and read it again, sighing aloud with pleasure.

Jordan Knight peered around the side of his computer monitor, holding his usual lunchtime go-to of turkey on rye. “Someone sounds happy.”

“Someone is happy.”

“Another success story?” He took a bite of sandwich.

“Yep.” She swished dark strands of her sharp bob back behind her ear.

“Where from this time?”

“A little place called Trinity Lakes, in southeast Washington, USA,” she read from the screen. “A woman named Jessica just wrote to say she’s now married, thanks to Dream Match.”

“True love, huh?”

“You know it.”

He studied her a moment longer, his lips pulled in an uneven smile that suggested wryness. He’d done that a bit lately.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “So, um, have you had any more thoughts about what you’re going to say to Dean?”

Her elation quickly soured, and she glanced out the office window, catching a glimpse of white yachts sailing across Sydney Harbour.

Dean Donwell wasn’t the kind of boss to appreciate one of his employees having enough spare time to develop an app on the side.

His mantra had always been business, business, business.

And while she was definitely committed to making money and looking good, lately the demands of this job were starting to pall.

Who would’ve thought a person’s reputation as a cutthroat business professional hung on the angle and sheen of one’s hairstyle?

Dean Donwell did. And while she agreed that perceptions were everything, and Donwell Enterprises didn’t subscribe to the theory that all tech-heads should look like slovenly escapees from a nineties Star Wars frat party, she also didn’t like most of the micromanaging that went alongside it that sometimes made her wonder just who she was these days.

She glanced back at Jordan, his blonde hair trimmed short, his slightly freckled face giving him a youthful edge he’d probably always wear, like one of those eighty-year-olds who still looked forty, but Botox-free.

Unlike some people she knew—ahem, yes, herself—Jordan had never cared too much about appearances.

He was simply comfortable in his own skin, his small-town roots showing in his R.M.

Williams boots that he wore more because of his family’s farming legacy than because Hugh Jackman was paid to advertise them.

Jordan might wear a crisp white shirt to keep Dean Donwell happy, but he’d paired it with dark jeans—so, as ever, Jordan was staying true to himself.

Unlike her. She wiped her hands down her knee-length skirt, a Prada knockoff that still did her plenty of favours.

The expectations for Donwell’s employees were that they’d dress in a suit and look smart, and “demonstrate what Donwell is about,” another often-intoned Deanism.

That way clients could be assured that projects were “done well” and the employees were trustworthy and authentic and professional.

Yet it sometimes felt ironic when she seemed to be the most dressed-up individual here, and a long way from the girl who’d grown up in small-town Wattle Vale.

She frowned, as she often did when she thought of her hometown.

Not that she had anything in particular against it.

It was simply that small towns were just so …

small. With few options, fewer prospects, and even fewer dateable men.

Which, even if true, sounded petty. And made her wonder if maybe her parents were right and this job wasn’t healthy for her.

“What’s that look for?” Jordan asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

But when he tilted his head and studied her, she knew her best friend wasn’t going to give up so easily.

“To answer your question—”

“Finally.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, I haven’t figured out what to say to Dean. But I know I need to do it soon. Depending on how the performance review payouts go next week, I might say something after that.”

“After that last account you landed, he should be paying you out big-time.”

“Right?”

They swapped grins, and that unsettling moment from before disappeared.

This Jordan she could deal with. The one who’d been her friend since childhood, the one with whom she’d competed for top student awards every year through school, the one who understood her like nobody else.

Well, maybe Olivia, her older sister, could, but nobody else had ever really understood what made her tick.

Especially not her mum. About the only thing EJ and Elizabeth Bennett shared was a last name and a penchant for romance, although EJ’s was strictly of the professional kind.

EJ didn’t have time for a boyfriend, not while there was a corporate ladder to be climbed.

Even if a big part of her had been long tempted to jump from the current rung she stood on to see if she could live off the earnings of her baby, Dream Match.

“Ahem.”

Her attention snapped up to her line manager, Lionel Campbell, whose leery expression made her sit up straight and long for a jacket or thick woollen jumper instead of this silk blouse that suddenly felt a little thin.

Lionel was another reason she wished to leave Donwell.

It was hard to complain to HR about her supervisor’s unwanted comments when her supervisor was supposed to be in charge of HR.

Lionel’s icky attitudes displayed an unfortunate reversion to pre-2000s workplace practices, creating an environment where guarding women’s feelings of safety was definitely not done well.

“Did you want something, Lionel?” she asked.

His eyes gleamed, and she refused to think of what he might want.

Jordan stood abruptly and cleared his throat, forcing Lionel’s attention his way. “Lionel, I was wondering if you could take a look at this.”

Jordan gestured to his computer monitor, then winked at EJ as Lionel moved to his side, thus allowing EJ a moment to escape.

Her fingers clenched as she grabbed her plastic bowl of salad and hurried to the kitchenette, where she scooped up the remains of her salad and finished her lunch with only the fridge keeping her company. Not how she’d planned her midday break.

She didn’t like feeling like she was prisoner to Lionel’s fancies.

And while she appreciated Jordan’s protectiveness, neither did she enjoy feeling like a distressed damsel needing a man to rescue her.

And lately, it seemed like Jordan had been doing a lot more rescuing.

Was that because he thought she was incompetent, or something else?

“You’re a strong, independent woman,” she muttered to herself. “You’ve worked hard. You’re successful. You don’t need a man to rescue you.” Especially not her childhood friend.

She stabbed at the last remaining crouton with her bamboo fork. The tines snapped. Her nose wrinkled. “Great.”

“What’s great?”

She jumped. “Jordan! What are you doing here?”

“Getting a coffee. And letting you know he’s on his way,” he added in a lower voice, just as Lionel appeared.

“Ah, there you are.”

She didn’t bother to hide her sigh this time.

Better that than the sarcastic “and there you are.” She’d uttered that once in the past, which Lionel seemed to have taken as some kind of flirty invitation.

No way. Nuh-uh. He was the last man on earth to interest her.

Even a childhood friend was a million times better than the man for whom HR seemed to stand for Highly Repellent.

Not that she could afford to say that. She might be blessed enough to live rent-free in her elderly great-aunt’s harbour front flat, but she still needed to eat and pay the ferry fares, so she couldn’t afford to quit just yet.

“So, EJ, what are you doing in here?”

Wasn’t it obvious? She swallowed and straightened. “I’m just finishing my lunch, Lionel, as I’m entitled to, seeing that this is my lunch break.” She stared at him steadily, eyebrows raised slightly in the way she’d overheard him say before was intimidating.

He finally looked away, mumbling, “Uh, sure.”

Jordan’s arms crossed as he watched Lionel amble away. “You need to report him.”

“For what? Staring at me?”

“Making you uncomfortable,” Jordan said quietly.

Her skin prickled. It sometimes made her uncomfortable how well Jordan knew her, like he could almost read her mind.

Could he read her mind? She sure couldn’t read his.

His face might often be an open book, but even though they’d been friends forever, she still didn’t know what he thought sometimes.

And lately it was getting more confusing.

There’d been times recently when he’d looked at her in a way that if they hadn’t been such friends she’d start to wonder if he liked her or something.

Which was ridiculous, but there, she’d said it.

Or at least thought it. Which now made her triply uneasy in case he could read these thoughts too.

She plucked out the fork-resistant crouton and swallowed it, then winced as the dry bread scraped her throat, triggering a coughing fit.

“Here.” Jordan handed her a glass of water, which she drank, clearing out the crumbs.