Chapter 16 Andrea
Andrea
“You have to go, Andrea.” My sister stuck out a finger and let Zorro sniff it, before picking up her white hot chocolate and taking a delicate sip. “He’s your boyfriend now. So you don’t have a choice.” The cat backed away, his green eyes not leaving her face.
“He most certainly is not my boyfriend. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.” I hadn’t told James or Eliza about the sex dream. I felt it would sway them in a way that wasn’t necessarily in my interests.
“If I can sit in a place called Lady Lucinda’s Pussy Emporium”—James huffed—“surrounded by feral cats—”
“They’re not feral, James,” I said.
“Hmph. You said we were going to a spa.” His chin puckered, and he reached for the scones, smearing one with strawberry jam and adding a dollop of cream.
“James, Eliza just survived second-year law,” I said.
“She gets to choose. And anyway, we need kittens today.” After the night my sister and I’d had, London’s most popular cat café was just the right kind of therapy.
I’d hardly been able to sleep, irritated with myself for the primal attraction to Liam that seemed to have hijacked my body—not to mention my better judgment.
“As I was saying. If I can do this”—he gestured around at the wonderland of cat trees, tunnels, and smizing moggies—“then the least you can do is consider going to a wedding. In France.”
“But he’s even more of an arse than we realized,” I said, crossly.
Eliza’s forehead crinkled into a skeptical mask, which she quickly dropped when she saw me catch her expression.
“Ahem.” James blew on his tea, then lifted it to his lips. “Arse or no arse, we have to accept that the rules of the game appear to have changed. Rather oddly. You can’t really blame Mr. von Roth for that. You broke into a society event. And got caught.”
I frowned. It had certainly complicated things.
Whether that was good or bad, I wasn’t sure.
Still, it had been worth it to see my painting on display.
It was weird to see people pausing and commenting, not knowing it was mine.
It had looked better than I remembered, somehow.
Like I was actually an artist and not just a sales rep with paint under her nails.
I felt that old pang in my gut and pushed it down.
At any rate, Liam Roth pissed me off more every time I saw him. And I really needed to keep my job.
“Far out, Andy. When you smashed that heavy door into the wall—” Eliza looked at me, grinning at the memory. It was awful. Hilarious, but awful.
We’d nearly cleared the security desk—Eliza striding like she owned the place, me tripping over my own heels in the attempt—when the side door betrayed us.
It should’ve been a discreet slip inside.
Instead, I yanked the handle like a medieval battering ram, and the door slammed back with a crash loud enough to echo through the Dark Ages.
Thank God we’d gone ahead without Christian and saved him the embarrassment.
“I’m sure there’s a restructure coming, Andy.” James folded his arms. “Gerald’s been dropping hints again.”
It fell quiet, and I reached for a raspberry and rose macaron. Sting’s “Englishman in New York” played faintly in the background.
“Look. What I’m saying is, you’re in quite a good position with the HR letter we’ve got on file.” His face was serious. “But ClotRx isn’t our biggest seller. I don’t think you should take any chances. You’ll need all the help you can get if they’re cutting headcount.”
“You don’t even have a science degree, Andy,” Eliza said, in case I’d forgotten.
“You’ll be first on the chopping block. And Liam …
well … he is—” She shrugged, as if no explanation was needed.
Damn this man and his hypnotic good looks.
No wonder he was so arrogant—even my terminally picky sister wasn’t immune to his charms.
James set down his teacup with a clink. “You’re thinking about this the wrong way, hon. He can deny your little ‘moment’ happened—”
“In the lift and in your bedroom,” said Eliza. “Or smother it under lawyers.”
“Quite. Pretend-girlfriend-at-a-wedding, on the other hand …” James spread his hands wide, like a magician revealing a very obvious trick.
“It gives you leverage. Over a really hot billionaire. Honestly, you couldn’t make this shit up.
” He looked over one shoulder, then the other, as if he almost expected someone to be listening.
“Is he actually a billionaire?” I asked. “Hard to tell from his Wiki.”
“Well, he’s certainly got a couple of quid,” said James. “Put it this way—does it really matter once you get past fifty mil? Billionaire is just branding at that stage.”
Eliza lifted a tiny ginger kitten onto her knee and stroked its head with her index finger. “Whatever he’s got going with this politician bloke, Andy, von Roth needs you on his arm. Like, really needs you. Which means, you’ve got the upper hand. And he knows it.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. I had to admit, the thought of Liam having to depend on me like this gave me a deeply petty glow.
A man like that—so used to being in charge.
He’d hate it. Watching him grit his perfect teeth every time I smiled sweetly for the photos at his friend’s fancy-pants chateau would almost make the Chewbacca rash incident worth it.
It was nothing to do with fancying Liam. I couldn’t stand the man.
And he clearly was no great fan of mine, either.
But I did like France. And a chateau sounded nice.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” James said, catching the flicker of my expression. He waved his jammy knife at me like a gavel. “This is strategy, not fantasy.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s a little bit fantasy.”
Eliza snorted into her drink.
“Redundancies, darling.” James sniffed. “Keep that in mind. It’s musical chairs, and you’ll want to be the one still sitting.”
I let the macaron crumble between my fingers. They were right. This was about job security. But the rare, delicious chance to watch Liam von Roth squirm didn’t hurt.
My phone vibrated on the table, and two cats jumped backward as if they’d seen a snake. It wasn’t a number I recognized. Who was messaging me at 6:10 p.m. on a Saturday?
Unknown Number: Hi, Andrea. It’s Liam. Can we catch up, please? If you’re not too busy.
A bolt of adrenaline slammed through my heart.
“It’s Liam.”
Eliza’s eyes grew round. James leaned so far over the table that he nearly headbutted a macaron. “Liam Liam? No. What does he want?”
“How should I know?” I said, panic already rising. “Maybe to fire me?”
Another buzz.
Unknown Number: Where are you?
James flapped his hands like he was bringing in aircraft. “Don’t tell him. That’s how people end up with their picture on a milk carton.”
“Maybe just … keep it vague?” said Eliza.
“Too late.” My thumbs had betrayed me.
James covered his face. “You told him where you are?”
“Well … yeah.”
What had I done?
Unknown Number: I’m close by. I’ll come to you. Five minutes.
Shit. My hair. My clothes. I was totally rocking a mad cat lady look. My lap was covered in little white hairs. I started brushing them off, to little avail.
Eliza and James exchanged a look. “We’re leaving,” Eliza said firmly.
“Yep. No audience necessary,” James added. “You’ve got … whatever this is. Want us to wait around the corner in case he tries anything?”
“Um, I’m not—”
“We’re waiting next door,” said Eliza. “Just in case.”
“Okay.”
Eliza and James went up to pay and scurried out.
Fuck. Did I have time to dash into the bathroom? Did I have mints?
Dammit! I didn’t like the arrogant prick. Not one bit. So why was I checking my teeth in a teaspoon?
The bell over the café door jingled. My stomach dropped. Too late.