Chapter 4
Chapter four
"Right, I'm off. Catch you all tomorrow." Matty rolled into the shop at the end of her shift, still adjusting her rucksack straps.
"Oh, Matty…can you do me a favour?" her manager, Lawrence, asked, as he looked up from behind the counter.
"Depends. I'm due at my other job later."
He smiled overtop the cake fridge. "It won't take long. Just drop these off for me at Hunter-Cline."
Matty slouched, fingers already working at her laces. "We do deliveries now?"
"Only since they offered a big tip to whoever brings it." Lawrence gave her a wink.
She glanced at the box, then the receipt.
One flat white. Chicken salad sandwich. One blueberry muffin.
"Fine." She sighed, pulled a chair free and sat down to finish removing her skates. Slipping on her comfy Vans, she picked up the bag.
Lawrence was already circling the counter to hold the door open. "Cheers, Matty. I know it's a pain. And no, we won't make a habit of it, but they're a good customer."
"I know," she muttered. They weren't just good. They were one of Compton's best, regularly ordering for last-minute meetings and events, not to mention they employed a shit-tonne of staff who all popped in for coffee and lunch.
“And there’s a tip, remember,” he called after her.
She grinned. It was on her way anyway, the big office block being just round the corner. Quick drop, leave it with reception, and she'd be done.
She arrived within minutes.
"I've got a delivery for…" She checked the receipt. "Sloan Slater?"
"Alright," grunted the security guard without looking up.
Matty set the bag on the counter and waited.
"Anything else?"
"My tip?"
"You'll have to deliver it yourself for that." Chuckling as he gave her a once-over, clearly deciding she didn't look like a threat. With a slight shrug, he said, "Fourth floor. Corner office."
Matty blew out her cheeks. "Can I leave my bag and skates here?" Nodding, he jerked his chin at the corner. She grabbed her bag and dropped it and the skates where he’d indicated and headed for the lifts.
As she stepped out onto the fourth floor, Matty belatedly realised she probably should've asked which corner office. But as she turned right and looked down the corridor, it became obvious. Only one office was lit. Only one looked occupied.
Blinds were drawn across the glass walls, but warm light escaped around the edges.
She knocked lightly and waited.
"Come."
The word landed sharply—not loud, not aggressive, just precise. It struck a nerve—a good one. Maybe it was the tone…or the word itself...
Matty blinked the thought away and opened the door.
"Hi, I've got a delivery for Sloan Slater."
Behind the desk sat a stunning woman—stern, composed, impossibly polished. Black-rimmed glasses framed eyes that were already studying her. Fingers paused on the keyboard.
"That's me. You can put it on the table," she said, then she turned back to her screen.
Matty hesitated, then set the bag down slowly, and almost too gently. A strange flutter stirred in her stomach—familiar, unwanted. She'd made mundane deliveries to offices plenty of times, but this…this wasn't mundane at all.
She hovered.
Sloan didn't look up again.
Matty cleared her throat. "Uh…Lawrence said there'd be a tip?"
A pause, then Sloan finally looked up again, just with her eyes, not raising her head.
"Did he?" The corner of her mouth faintly twitched. Amusement? Something else?
Matty nodded, suddenly feeling absurdly visible, and slightly ashamed she was so skint she'd needed to ask.
Sloan pushed her chair back, stood, and moved to a sideboard behind the desk. Without comment, she pulled a small leather wallet from a drawer and took out a note.
"Here," she said, crossing the room with the unhurried grace of someone who always moves on their own time. She held it out—not placed it on the table, not tossed it—but offered it directly, forcing Matty to step forward. "Thank you for being so…diligent."
Matty reached for it, their fingers just barely brushing. Her pulse kicked up a beat as she watched the woman retreat, moving back behind her desk and sitting down.
"Thanks," she said, too quickly, her voice sounding brighter than she’d intended. ￡10 was huge. She tucked the note into her pocket and backed towards the door.
"You're welcome," Sloan replied from her seat, eyes once more on her screen.
"Anytime."
Sloan looked up.
Just for a moment. Brown eyes, sharp behind her glasses, were assessing again. Her head tilted, just a fraction, then her attention returned to her screen.
Matty left, pulse still high, unsure why her palms were warm and her throat tight. She stepped into the lift and let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
What the hell was that?
***
Art was still quiet in the early-evening lull, before the regulars filtered in and the music climbed towards something louder.
Matty stood behind the bar, still polishing the same glass she’d started with. She wasn’t really paying attention to what her hands were doing, her mind somewhere else entirely.
That woman. Sloan.
She hadn’t done anything special—hadn’t flirted, hadn’t even properly smiled—and yet, Matty felt...what? Turned on, obviously. But why? That was the part she couldn’t stop mulling over.
Maybe it was the stillness. Like nothing could rattle her. Like the world moved for her convenience. Maybe it was the way she spoke, or the way she looked at Matty, as though she saw straight through her.
Matty bit her lip, then set the glass down a little harder than necessary.
What the hell was wrong with her? She’d delivered coffee and a sandwich, not been propositioned. It wasn’t like her to get flustered over a woman in a suit—she’d met plenty. Served plenty. Even dated a few.
But Sloan had this...weight to her. Not physically—God, the way she carried herself—but in the way she took up space. Like she didn’t need to prove anything because the room had already decided she wasn’t to be ignored.
Matty tugged her T-shirt straight and exhaled through her nose.
“Don’t be pathetic,” she muttered, grabbing a clean towel and wiping down the bar. “She’s probably married. Or straight. Or both. Or not even remotely interested in girls who roller skate to work.”
Still, the image came back without warning—that slight pause, the direct handoff of the tip, the faint curve of her mouth—as if she knew something Matty didn’t.
She pressed her thighs together on instinct and turned towards the glass-washing machine, just to have something to do.
“Jesus,” she whispered, embarrassed by her own body.
She didn’t even know the woman. Not really.
But something about her had struck Matty in a way she couldn’t quite name.
“Hey, daydreamer.”
Matty smiled at the voice and turned to find Rachel grinning at her from the other side of the bar.
“Hey, Rach. Usual?”
“Might as well. You okay? You looked like you were away with the fairies.”
Matty opened the fridge and pulled out the already open bottle of house white.
“You could say that.” She scanned the shelf for the right glass. “I met a woman earlier who’s left me feeling a bit...” She paused while she found the glass she wanted. “Let’s say...questioning.”
“That sounds intriguing.” Rachel tilted her head. “In what way?”
“I don’t know. I can’t explain it.” Matty poured the wine and added a little extra for good measure. “But it was hot.”
“Did you ask her out?”
“God, no.” Matty laughed and placed the glass in front of Rachel. “I doubt very much that I’m who someone like her is looking for. She’s right out of my league.”
Rachel tutted and shook her head. “Nobody is out of your league, Matty.”
“Hm. Not so sure. She’s all designer suits and heels, nestled in a corner office. You know—earns a shit-tonne of cash, lives the high life. I can’t match that.”
“Maybe she doesn’t need you to match her money-wise.” Rachel took a sip of wine. “You bring more to the table than finances.”
“Uh-huh. Roller skates and a rucksack scream, ‘Hot dates,’ do they?” Matty laughed, brushing off the thought with a wave. “It’s fine. I’ll find Ms Right when the time’s right.”
“Maybe. I wasn’t looking for anyone when Sophie came along, either.” Rachel glanced at her watch. “Speaking of which, I need to give her a call…see if she’s meeting me or—”
“Or you could just turn round.” Matty grinned and nodded past her.
Detective Inspector Sophie Whitton had just walked in.
And that was when Matty recognised it: The same calm, controlled presence. The way Sophie held herself. The way she looked at people. Quiet authority. Effortless confidence.
Power.
That was what she’d seen in Sloan—what had stirred something deep and electric inside her.
And apparently, Matty liked it.