Chapter 1
Deal Breaker
The man hated me
Poppy
“How do I look?” I spun around, my skirt flying out around me in a shimmering mass of tulle and sequins.
“Like a sexy if slightly demented Tinkerbell,” Josh said, and I beamed at him.
“Nailed it! Exactly what I was going for.”
Josh rolled his eyes and smoothed down the front of his suit. There was nothing demented about Josh’s outfit. As always, he looked utterly perfect, not a stitch of Armani out of place.
“At least it’s better than Granny’s description,” I went on as I gave him a shoulder bump to ruffle his feathers. “I think it was ‘mad prostitute with a penchant for glitter’.”
Josh’s serious expression cracked then, and I even managed to score a chuckle to go with his eye roll.
If Josh had his way, we’d be arch-rivals.
We both frequented the red carpet, stalking the same celebs.
We were both considered to be firmly in the fluff category of journalists, interviewing actresses and pop stars rather than politicians and world leaders.
We both made people laugh, Josh with his desert-dry sense of humour and subtle but cutting put-downs, and me with my obnoxiously bubbly personality, as Josh would put it.
But bitter rivalry just wasn’t my vibe. Life was too short for that nonsense.
And from the first eye roll I managed to eke out of him at the Cannes Film Festival five years ago (after irritating the shit out of him for the entire hour we’d had to wait on the carpet) I knew we’d be mates.
He’d told me I was more persistent than impetigo and more annoying than a Powerpuff Girl.
I was lucky that he settled on Powerpuff as my nickname and not Impetigo, to be honest.
I bit my lip. “Honestly, Grumpyface, do I look okay?”
Josh frowned. “What the fuck is this? Where’s your misplaced, overblown confidence? Oh God, please don’t tell me your celebrity is turning you into one of those oversensitive little bitches we interview? I enjoy insulting you, Powerpuff. Don’t take away one of my few pleasures in life.”
I forced a laugh. “Of course not, you twatwaffle.” He turned to me then as his eyebrows went up.
“That was a fake laugh,” he said in horror. “You never laugh like that. Where was the obnoxious snort? What the hell is going on?”
I shrugged and rolled my eyes. “Jesus Christ, can’t a girl ask if she looks okay without making your head explode?”
“You know perfectly well that you look absolutely off the charts, mouth-wateringly gorgeous. If I were into vaginas, I would have already had my way with you behind the screens over there, so what’s the problem?”
I looked down at my feet and bit my lip.
“Do you think my shoes are ridiculous?” They’d seemed fun and sexy when I bought them, but since my mind had flashed to Rory’s serious disapproving face, my confidence had faltered.
I doubted he would view my towering heels covered in sequined butterflies as anything other than totally insane.
“Oh. My. God. What on earth is going on? Where is my best friend? Who is this insecure weirdo who’s taken over her smoking hot little body?”
I forced another laugh, and his expression slipped into alarmed territory.
“Holy shit. What is wrong, Powerpuff?”
I shifted on my feet and tightened my grip on my microphone. “You remember I told you about Rory Wallace?”
“The hot rugby player who hates you because he’s an insecure manbaby?”
Ugh, I really wished I wasn’t such an oversharer. Josh was the least discreet man in England.
“Yeah, that’s the one. Well, he’ll be here tonight. They’re honouring him with a Contribution to Rugby Youth award.”
“You’re nervous because that twunt’s coming? Babe, forget about him. He’s the start of an angsty romance novel. Grumpy brother’s best friend who hates you for ‘reasons.’ He needs a kick in the balls, not you worrying if you look okay.”
I managed a small grin. “He’s not a twunt,” I muttered. “It’s not a capital offence to dislike me, you know.”
“Everybody loves you, Powerpuff,” Josh’s voice had gentled now. “Even I love you, and I’m a grumpy git who hates literally every other human being on the planet. He’s lucky I’ve softened the c-word with a tw. I reserve the right to change my mind if I observe any questionable behaviour.”
The first of the limos pulled up then, and Josh turned towards the road.
“Right, Powerpuff. Woman up. Tits out and let’s bloody well do this. You are Lady motherfucking Poppy Sterling. Some over-jacked rugger bugger’s not going to make you doubt yourself. Game face on now, okay? I don’t want to have to steal all your interviews from you again.”
“You never steal my interviews, you arrogant twunt.”
“Hey! No using my personal swears against me. Game time.”
The red carpet filled up surprisingly quickly.
As this was the award ceremony for the UK Sporting Excellence Awards, most of the celebrities were sportsmen and women, so they were more nervous and way less camera-ready than our normal fare.
But Josh and I were the type of extreme extroverts who thrived on winkling introverts from their little shells and sucking the banter right out of them.
Sort of like the opposite of fun sponges.
I guess we were like fun sprinklers or maybe even fun tsunamis; we just swept awkward, shy people right along with us for the ride.
“We must stop meeting like this,” I said to Alex Costas, the billionaire tech company owner who was sponsoring this entire event.
He grinned down at me. Alex and I had my standard red-carpet relationship – teasing, non-threatening flirting, with me making regular suggestions that he sweep me away to his billionaire batcave and him pretending that this was an imminent plan.
“It’s true. I’m stalking you. Feel free to report me to your union.”
“Ooh great idea! Hey, Grumpyface,” I poked Josh in the ribs, interrupting his interview with a football player who was definitely not of the shy variety.
“I’m in the middle of a conversation with this strapping young man, Powerpuff,” he said with fake annoyance. I knew for a fact that he thought the particular football player he was talking to was an out-and-out c-word with no tw in the mix.
“What’s our union called?”
“How should I know? Useless, overpaid, overdressed fuckwits ’r us?”
I smiled. “Ah yes. That’s the one. You may go about your business.” I turned back to a smiling Alex. “You can expect a very severe reprimand, young man.”
“I shall look forward to it,” Alex said with a wink as his handlers moved him on.
“Bloody typical.” That low, deep, rumbling Scottish voice went right through me like it always did, and I turned to see Rory Wallace standing feet away from me and looking supremely uncomfortable in a tailored suit.
Of course, with his massive frame, he’d have to have a suit tailored.
There was no way he’d be able to buy anything off the rack that could cope with those shoulders and that musculature.
I searched my memories. Other than when he won the Rugby World Cup for Scotland five years ago, I hadn’t seen Rory in a suit before, and the one he wore back then had been an ill-fitting nightmare, nothing like the well-cut, expensive gloriousness he was wearing today, along with his scowl.
Rory Wallace did not like me. It didn’t matter how many smiles I directed his way, how many conversations I tried to start with him, or how many compliments I threw at him. He was the one human completely resistant to my charm.
My mind blanked as I stared at him, and for the first time in my life, I was lost for words – and I was never lost for words.
“What? Ye’re no gonna do your fake flirting thing with me like you did with the jumped-up tech bro? Only reserve that bollocks for the billionaires?”
I swallowed and attempted a shaky smile.
“Rory!” I exclaimed like he was one of my favourite people, and I didn’t feel completely rattled as he stared down at me with that disapproving expression.
I didn’t cope well with disapproval. It made my stomach clench and threw me off balance.
So off balance that one of my heels wobbled out from under me and I nearly fell.
I would have done if his large hands hadn’t shot out and enclosed my upper arms, keeping me on my feet.
“Christ, Poppy,” he swore, letting me go as if I’d burnt him once he’d established I wasn’t in danger of falling at his feet anymore. “Don’t wear ridiculous shoes like that if you cannae walk in them. Ye’re a goddamn liability.”
I felt heat spread up from my neck to my face.
Rory had the uniquely effective ability to make me feel small.
It hadn’t always been that way. As my brother’s best friend, he’d known me since I was eight.
And back then, he’d seemed to like me just fine.
He’d always been a bit dour, but my antics made him smile, even laugh out loud, which my brother told me was super rare.
As a child, I idolised him, but as a teenager, I’d fancied him something rotten and been fairly obvious about it.
Then, five years ago, I finally got my way, and even if it was only a kiss, it had been glorious.
Rory Wallace was a talented man on the rugby field but, if that kiss was anything to go by, he was gifted in other areas too.
Then came that bloody interview after Scotland won the World Cup, and everything blew up.
Rory unceremoniously dumped me, and his entire attitude towards me flipped; no longer charmed by my eccentricity, but irritated.
The man who’d patiently sat with me to help me revise for my A-levels, never once making me feel stupid for my crippling dyslexia, was now dismissive and cruel.