Chapter 4
ANYA
The email with my contract comes through the Friday after the call and by Saturday morning, I have my Eurostar ticket in my inbox.
Pulling my suitcase down the aisle of the train, I glance up at the seat numbers overhead. I’ve never sat in Business class before. The aisle is significantly bigger with two seats on one side of the aisle and one on the other. Hopefully, I can sit on my own and not have to worry about awkwardly brushing elbows with a stranger.
My suitcase snags on the corner of a seat and I tug it impatiently. I am already overheating in my coat and I can feel sweat slide down my back.
Finally, I spot C24. Double checking my ticket I realize with a twinge of annoyance that my seat is indeed a two and to make it worse there is already a man sitting next to it. I was hoping for the window at least but if production is paying then I’m not complaining.
The man hasn’t looked up at me yet but I can see the mess of brown curls on his head and the long slender fingers holding his phone.
I place my case in the overhead container and settle in my seat, grabbing my own phone from my pocket. The motion of my arm bending finally causes C25 to look up.
I feel his stare on me, burning the side of my face.
“What are you doing?” the stranger asks. His brown hair falls haphazardly across his forehead as if he has run his hands through it, familiar blue eyes glare at me from beneath–frankly ridiculously–long eyelashes.
Stunned, I glance into the aisle, looking for whoever he must be talking to before turning back to him. “Excuse me?”
“What are you doing?” he repeats, as if the question suddenly makes sense.
“Sitting in my seat.” I try not to phrase it as a question.
He blinks. “Sit somewhere else.”
“What? No. This is the seat on my ticket.”
“Let me see it.”
“See what?”
“Your ticket.” He reaches out a hand, his fingers curling impatiently as if he expects me to hand it over.
“My tick–God, Eurostar are a lot more casual with the uniforms nowadays.”
The daggers C25 shoots me are so icy I could get freezer burn, but I meet him with a glare of my own.
“This isn’t your seat.”
I stamp down on the nervousness that maybe I am in the wrong seat. I remind myself I’ve already read my ticket and to refuse to give this guy an inch by checking again.
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
Unbelievable. “If you want to move, be my guest.” I bite out.
His nostrils flare. A shame, for it convolutes his strong Roman nose into a ghastly sneer.
“I was here first.”
“Well, if you’re not going to move and you can’t make me , you’re just going to have to get over it.” I send him a saccharine smile and turn back to face the front.
1 - 0 C25.
In an attempt to make myself even more at home, I start to shed my layers.
Spring is well under way in England but the weather has never abided by the calendar, and it’s been unseasonably cold. Which is why I am wearing a t-shirt, jumper, coat and a fetching lilac bobble hat. I can see now that it might have been overkill, as the run to the train–and the infuriating fight with Grumpy–has left me slightly overheated.
Praying I don’t smell and can avoid any further vitriol from C25, I aggressively strip layers, leaving them in a pile in my lap.
“It’s May.” The dry voice pipes up.
I groan, glaring at the seat in front of me. “Barely. And I run cold.” I pull off my hat.
Finally, the announcement of departure blares over the speaker and the train begins to pull away from the station.
I pull a tattered paperback out of my backpack and settle in, I only peek at C25 once and see him leaning back with his eyes closed. His moodiness at my sitting in a seat has momentarily ceased, and my eyes linger on his face. His long lashes brush against smooth cheekbones and a strong jaw. When he’s not sneering, C25 is actually rather handsome, I guess, although his personality has made that dry up like a good tea towel.
The train speeds through the countryside and from previous trips, I know the tunnel is coming up. I turn my attention to the window, pointedly not looking at the man sitting in front of it.
“Although you might believe it, you can’t actually see any fish through the tunnel.” C25 perks up sarcastically. He’s watching me through the glass reflection.
“I know that,” I say with as much venom as I can – despite the fact that I definitely did think you could see into the ocean when crossing the tunnel connecting the UK to mainland Europe, and had thought that until I was well into my teens.
I don’t know what it is about this stranger that makes me want to be as childish as possible, but I’ve ridden the wave too long to stop now.
He raises a brow, his mouth twitching.
We emerge from the tunnel and the countryside outside the window passes in a blur that I watch out of the corner of my eye, refusing to acknowledge the man beside me. Pulling out my phone, I scroll through my emails, intending to get ahead of my first day tomorrow. I try to refresh, in case someone has sent me fresh instructions or the call sheet has come through but the signal is sluggish.
Huffing, I reach into my bag for my charger. The socket is underneath the seat so I reach between me and the stranger. Unable to see, I fold myself in half, fiddling until I can get the wire plugged in. The man’s denim clad leg shifts uncomfortably. Straightening up and barely able to avoid hitting my head on the seat in front, I settle.
“Are you done?”
“Yes,” I reply in a prim voice.
The man shifts some more and clears his throat. “Can I borrow your charger?”
I raise my eyebrows, “Excuse me?”
He shakes his phone in front of my face. “My phone’s dead.”
“You didn’t bring your own charger?” I ask incredulously. “To a different country?”
“I forgot it,” he bristles.
“Not my problem.” I reply, folding my phone underneath my arms protectively. The audacity of this man.
He blinks at me as if he’s never been refused such a request before. “Come on, you’re on like seventy percent.”
“Still have thirty percent to go.”
He huffs and slumps in his seat, his head resting on the window like a petulant child.
I cross my arms over my chest and tuck my phone between them securely. I lean my head against the seat and attempt to get some sleep.
I blink awake some time later. From the corner of my eye, I see he is still slumped against the window, his eyelashes dusting his cheekbones. Glancing at my phone and it’s full battery, I spot his sitting on the tray table. Deciding to be the bigger person, I quickly unplug my phone and put his on charge. I glance at him to ensure he is really asleep. He doesn’t move but I swear I see his lips twitch.
The announcement rings that we are arriving soon, and the man wakes up. He starts using his phone, not acknowledging the charger that has suddenly appeared.
As we pull into the station, I glare at the phone in his hand still plugged into the seat beneath us. I try to catch his eye but he is steadfastly ignoring me. No ‘thank you’ incoming, then.
Huffing slightly, I grab his hand, the cool metal of the sleek phone in sharp contrast to the warm skin of his knuckles. I ignore the tingle that sparks at my fingers. I avoid his smirk as he turns his body towards me and the feel of his large, warm hand still under mine. Without looking at him, I tug my charger until it’s free from his phone. I sit up, fighting back my blush. I just manhandled a complete stranger. I think I might have left my common sense on the other side of the tunnel.
At least when I get off this train, I won’t ever have to see him again.
I get up to pull my bag from the overhead, but before I can, C25 stands in a fluid motion. His arms lift, his muscles bunching under his sweater as he grabs my bag and drags it down, handing it to me. My pulse races at the movement, who does that? Who is this man who is so rude one minute and almost swoon-worthy the next?
“Thanks,” I mumble, pushing my hair behind my ear.
“Thanks for the charger,” he replies.
I nod and shuffle into the aisle, swallowed up in the orderly queue of people. Glad to be rid of him.
As soon as I disembark, my phone rings. I pull my suitcase to a stop and answer.
“Ah Anya, finally got through.”
“Devon,” I straighten, coming to a halt on the platform, “Sorry, I was on the train and had no signal.”
“It’s fine, you were busy.” Devon brushes it off.
My senses twitch but I ignore them. Yes, busy being locked in a battle of wills with my seatmate.
“Anyway,” Devon starts, “How was it?”
“Uhm,” Is this how the industry is? Is everyone this polite about traveling? “Fine.” Apart from the irritatingly attractive stranger.
“I know Danny can be difficult, typical really.” Wait, what ? “You know how these actors are.”
My stomach drops. Danny?
“Uh—” I start.
“So Georgia has sent over the full job spec, this has come from the big boss obviously. It’s pretty detailed, hotel, transport etcetera, but good to have as a reference.” Growing dread climbs up my throat. “If you could make sure he gets to the hotel okay? He has the details too. And I’ll see you tomorrow on set. He’s coming in with the boss so don’t worry tonight but from the end of play tomorrow you’ll need to be stuck to him like glue, okay?”
“Like glue,” I mutter, turning back to the train. The crowd of people disembarking flood around me as I stand frozen on the platform.
Devon hangs up with a “See you tomorrow”.
I instantly open my email, and it doesn’t take long for me to see the document it would have been helpful to receive four hours ago.
DANNY COVINGTON DETAILS .
Danny Covington.
Danny Covington, household name, nepotism baby, heartthrob, star of teen blockbuster Better You Know , main feature of the poster hanging above my bed from the ages thirteen to fifteen.
A throat clears and I lift my head. Danny Covington is standing right in front of me.
Those swimming blue eyes twinkle despite the cocky smirk twisting his soft lips.
“I’ve got it from here.” he says, sardonically. “I’ll see you tomorrow, freckles.” He pulls a navy baseball cap out of his pocket and pulls it on his head. “Oh, and if you could get a charger sorted that would be great.” He doesn’t spare me a glance as he walks off into the crowd.
I watch his retreating figure in stunned silence. I’m in big trouble.