Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Page 21

  “I’m scared too. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, but you can’t believe we’re soulmates if you think we would be wrecked by something like that.”

  His hand brushes mine. “Do you think we could survive that?”

  I search his face for clues. His expression is blank, but intense, like a burning log in an open fire. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Since we made that stupid bet, I’ve realised I don’t want to sleep with just anybody anymore. I want to wake up with the right person. Zoe and Erin and Carly and all those other girls . . . I thought they were what I wanted, but they weren’t. I look at who I am now, and all I see is someone who’s been going from place to place, person to person, hoping I’ll find something I like along the way. And then this week I realised that while I was doing all that, you were always there – by my side – with me.”

  “Ethan, I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. Please be clear.” My heart thinks it knows. I can tell because it’s leaping up and down in my chest, but my brain is furiously telling it to calm the fuck down.

  “I just know how I feel when I’m with you. And that I know . . . you’re different.”

  I want to ask him in what way he thinks I’m different. I want to ask him if he thinks I’m good enough, or special enough, or beautiful enough, or smart enough, or funny enough – all the things I want to be but know I’m not. Am I good-different or weird-different? Do people like him ever end up with people like me? I want to tell him that despite having a best friend, I’m lonely. I am totally and desperately lonely because I think I’ve fallen in love with him, but I’m terrified he can’t love me back. I want to ask if he’s bored and looking for someone different, anyone different – is that what he means? Is he just viewing me as something he’s never tried before?

  But I don’t ask him any of those questions.

  And I don’t notice his touch at first, then suddenly it’s there.

  His fingers intertwine with mine, and I don’t move. I don’t push him away. I don’t tell him he should leave like I did last time. Every inch of my body tingles as I feel the sensation of our fingers weaving together. My skin goosebumps as his thumb traces light circles on my hand, following the contours of my palm in soft movements. His other hand glides through the length of my hair, allowing the ends to coil around his fingers. “I love your hair,” he says as he sweeps it to one side and drapes it over my shoulder. My eyes are still lowered, but slowly I find the courage to look up and meet his gaze – the blue of his irises glinting under a veil of yearning that threatens to overwhelm me. “This feels so . . . right.”

  I feel it again. That same panic, just like before. I start to back away again. I shake my head. “We can’t do this,” I whisper.

  “We can.” He squeezes my hand just enough to reassure me. His other hand moves to my neck, slowly guiding me closer to him, massaging the base of my hairline and . . . I need to stop this. I should stop this. But this time I can’t because this time I don’t want to. My body doesn’t want him to stop. I feel myself fall, and this time I’m not afraid, because I know he’ll catch me.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers into my ear as his hand moves in soft caresses down my back, all the way to the base of my spine. My body dissolves at his touch and I clutch his hand tighter. A faint moan escapes my throat as his warm breath drifts over my cheek. I inhale his cologne, his shampoo, the washing powder that lingers on his shirt and that special scent that is just the smell of him – his skin, his flesh and his bones.

  His forehead touches mine again, and I look into his eyes and say, “Yes.”

  And then his mouth brushes against my mouth. Subtle at first. Soft, like he’s tasting the first strawberry of summer. I part my lips, allowing his tongue to brush wetness onto my dry skin. He tastes like whisky – bitter and strong – mixed with a tinge of antiseptic cream, but I don’t care. I want more.

  And then it’s me who’s kissing him. At least I think it is – it’s hard to tell. I grab fistfuls of his hair and I let my tongue slide into his mouth with a demanding urgency. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this about kissing anybody. Have I ever felt this way before, or have I just forgotten?

  He pushes me back on the sofa and I melt into the cushioned fabric. Our bodies are pressed together, and the weight of his chest on mine crushes the air out of me until I feel like I’m alive only because I’m inhaling his breath. But I don’t stop. I can’t. I suck on his lip, my teeth grazing over his skin until he groans low in his throat. I remember his injuries and whisper “Sorry”, but he doesn’t flinch. His mouth trails my jawline with kisses, then my cheekbone, then that amazing spot under my ear which sends wild tremors rocketing through to my vulva.

  It could very well be the best kiss I’ll ever have, and as if to prove its worthiness a siren goes off. It’s a loud and strangely familiar noise that rings in my ears, but as annoying as it is, it doesn’t make me stop kissing him.

  I plunge my tongue into his mouth as his fingers dance over my stomach and under my top. One of his warm hands dives under my bra and squeezes my breast until my nipple stiffens with longing. I let out a moan as his thumb rubs over the sensitive skin, and I hear the siren again.

  And he pulls away.

  The separation is agonising, as though my heart has been wrenched from my chest.

  “I should probably get that,” he says, his voice punctuated by short pants for air.

  “Get what?” I ask, my cheeks flaming.

  “Um, the door. It sounds urgent.” He looks at me with laughter in his eyes, and I realise the siren I heard was his sodding doorbell.

  It buzzes again. He straightens his clothes and walks into the hallway. I tuck my grey top back into my pencil skirt and smooth my hair down by twisting it into a loop then letting it fall over my shoulders. It’ll do. My hair is usually a tangled mess by the end of the day anyway.

  He’s out of the room for a few moments. I don’t know if we can continue from where we left off. I don’t know if we should continue. But when Ethan returns to the sitting room with our boss following behind him, I know I’m not going to find out.

  “So, is somebody going to tell me what the fuck just happened back at the office, or do I have to set this apartment on fire to find out?”

  Looks like Stella wasn’t kidding when she said it was time to unleash the dragon.

  22

  “I’VE JUST SPENT THE LAST hour persuading Malcolm and Ridley not to call the police. Tell me it was worth it.”

  Stella stands in the middle of Ethan’s sitting room, her hands on her hips and her curved silhouette reminiscent of an expensive perfume bottle. Something by Givenchy – Eau de Fierce or Eau de Formidable or Eau de Fucking Pissed Off. I know a shitstorm is brewing, yet all I feel is the aftermath of that kiss, and that means I’m floating on the ceiling and my focus has gone to hell. I’m hearing words, but I’m feeling, tasting and thinking about nothing but sex.

  Ethan offers Stella a drink, and she sits down on the corner sofa while he goes to his kitchen area to retrieve a third glass. I nervously sit down opposite her. Her lips are thinned to a narrow, angry line, and she’s more pissed off than I’ve ever seen her – and yes, I’m including the time Daniel Noble lost her a ten-million-pound client because he drove to Cheltenham to close the deal instead of Chelmsford.

  “Ethan told me about Ridley and Malcolm,” she says.

  I sink into the sofa. Her directness sets me on edge. “Um . . . yes . . . he said.”

  “You should have come to me sooner.”

  “I’m sorry, I realise that now.”

  “Good.”

  Short and not very sweet.

  We sit in silence until Ethan returns, looking more than a little flustered. His hair is ruffled, and the memory of me grabbing fistfuls of it whilst I was burrowing my tongue in his mouth flashes in my mind and sets off waves of fizzing energy in every part of my body. Stella takes the whisky from him and takes a gulp, a
nd then another.

  Stella’s eyes scan me from head to toe, and my stomach lurches. She knows. Could she know? My hand shoots to my hair and I try to smooth it down again as she watches me in silence.

  “So, Ethan . . .” She leans forward and puts her glass on the coffee table. “I’m wondering if I’ve been wrong about you these past seven years. What I saw earlier has given me very serious doubts about your character. I’m doing all I can to get you your job back, but I don’t know if I should be fighting for you.”

  Ethan rubs his sore face and I swear I can feel his temperature rise. “What are you saying?” he says.

  “I’m saying I don’t want a thug in my department.”

  “This isn’t Ethan’s fault,” I interject quickly.

  “Really, Violet? Please do regale me with the very good reasons Ethan had for beating the living daylights out of Ridley Gates and punching the CEO of the city’s largest and most prestigious ad agency in the face.” She rolls her eyes and I know she isn’t going to buy anything but the truth. “Tell me whose fault this is, Ethan. Malcolm Barrett might be a fucking prize prick, but he’s also twice your age, and if you can’t stop yourself lashing out against a sixty-year-old then I have to question what kind of a man you are.”

  Ethan sighs as if he’s already defeated, and all I can think about is the fact I should have handled this better. If his career is over because of me, I will never forgive myself.

  “So, what’s the story?” Stella asks Ethan. Her voice is calmer and softer, but her expression is still unreadable. “Is this about Ridley and Carly Hayes? You told me about them this afternoon, but the gossip I heard was that you were the one who was with her that night. In an alley, I believe?”

  He hangs his head. “The gossip was right.”

  “So you’re telling me this was some kind of duel over her honour? Carly Hayes is going to be in rehab for the foreseeable future so I think that ship has sailed.”

  Images of Ethan with Carly invade my mind again – her lips on his, his hands pushing up her skirt, the look on her face as she threw her head back in ecstasy. The memory knocks the breath from my lungs. He said he didn’t even like her. She was just ‘anybody’. Has he really changed, or was I about to become his next ‘anybody’?

  “It wasn’t about Carly,” he says.

  “Well what was it then? Look, you know my position on office flings. I don’t like them. If you let shit like this interfere with the running of my department, losing clients and work, I won’t hesitate to fire you myself.”

  “We weren’t having a fling. It was just once.”

  “I don’t care.” Stella tucks her long platinum fringe behind her ear. I can’t read how she’s feeling because her expression is stone cold. I’m learning that Stella never gives anything away. That’s what makes the sting in her tail so deadly when she strikes.

  She gets up from the sofa and pours herself another glass of whisky. She walks to the window, looking out over the theatres, bars and restaurants of Soho. The lights catch the gold in her hair and dance across her firm jawline. Slowly, she turns back to face us. “What did Malcolm do?”

  Ethan and I share a nervous, silent look. I can tell his frustration with me is still present.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Violet promised Malcolm she wouldn’t tell anybody,” says Ethan.

  Stella turns back to the window, her hands on the gentle curve of her hip. “That ship has sailed too. If you want me to save Ethan’s career, and stop him getting charged with ABH, then you need to come clean with everything.”

  “He begged me not to tell anybody, and I agreed,” I say as I leap to my own defence. “I haven’t even told Ethan.”

  Stella raises her eyebrows. “Okay, I admire that.”

  “You do?”

  “Professional loyalty is priceless in this industry, but . . .” She moves back to the sofa and sits down opposite me. “If Malcolm has committed a crime, I need to know about it so I can protect you and help that idiot get his job back. Has he committed a crime?”

  Should I lie, or shouldn’t I? When in doubt, go for a half-lie. “Sort of.”

  Ethan stirs. “Sort of? Jesus Christ, Vi, why the hell are you protecting him?”

  I pause. Has this gone too far now? I hear Ethan’s voice in my brain telling me we’re soulmates and I sigh deeply because I know I have to break the promise I made to my mentor. Ethan’s career and future come first. “When Malcolm’s wife, Emily, was sick, he borrowed some money from the company to pay for her medical treatments . . . without telling anybody.”

  Both of their mouths fall open.

  And I feel horrible.

  “Borrowed without telling . . . you mean he stole it?” asks Ethan. I nod. “How much money are we talking about here?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Six figures. And then some.”

  “Shit,” Stella says. “Does Emily know?”

  “No. That’s why he’s so scared. He’s paid most of the money back, but Ridley found out and he’s been using it to get what he wants from the agency ever since.”

  Stella seems to lose her fire-breathing-dragon persona as she gets lost in deep thought. The change in atmosphere is unnerving, but finally she speaks. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Forget you know about this – both of you. This isn’t your concern, and there’s a bigger picture at play. I have both of them where I need them . . .”

  Ethan clenches his jaw so tightly his neck starts to turn purple. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what I’ve just said. Forget about them.”

  Ethan shakes his head, but he’s in no position to argue with her. “I can’t forget, not yet. I wish I’d hit that fucking bastard a hell of a lot harder than I did. And if I get another chance, I’ll go for him again.”

  “Which one? Malcolm?” asks Stella.

  “Ridley,” Ethan replies. “That guy has more coming to him.”

  “No, it ends here. Enough is enough,” Stella says firmly. “I have what I need and I know how to play this.”

  “But you don’t know everything. He threatened Violet and she was scared, and if I was still in that bathroom . . . I don’t know what you’re planning, but he can’t get away with hurting her.”

  Stella’s body stiffens as she turns to face me. “He threatened you? How?”

  I shrink into myself and allow Ethan to speak for me.

  “He tried to blackmail her . . . and . . .” He looks at Stella, who I think is slowly realising what I meant when I told her Ridley deserved more than the few bruises Ethan had given him. “He told her he’d back off Malcolm if she slept with him.”

  “Oh my god!” Stella shakes her head in disgust. “And to think I reprimanded you this morning for calling him a vile pig. If I’d known about this I would have thrown a few punches myself. Why on earth didn’t you say something?”

  “I thought I had it under control.”

  “You must make a complaint. This is separate to what I’m planning, so you have to act.” She stands and walks to the window again. I’ve never seen her so pensive. Stella says what she thinks, directly and assuredly, but tonight she’s more cautious. She’s also been alluding to something “bigger” than this horrific mess since she got here. As her silence wears on, I glance at Ethan. He looks as confused as I am.

  “I need to speak to Ethan alone,” she says without turning around to face either of us.

  “Um . . . okay. Should I go home?” I ask.

  “Yes, if you don’t mind,” she says, finally swinging around to face me. “The chess pieces have fallen into place without me having to do anything. Which, if I believed in omens, would be the biggest and most beautiful fucking omen I could have dreamed of. I told you it was time to unleash the dragon, Violet, and it is.”

  I stand and get my coat, leaving Ethan looking worse than petrified.

  “I’ll . . . um . . . call you,” he says as he walks me to the door.

  Out of Stella’s
sight, I lift my hand to his face and softly cup his jaw, running my thumb over his cheek. “Goodnight . . . and good luck.”

  ***

  The upshot of yet another sleepless night is that I was able to thoroughly read through the information Lucille – my plucky Fairy Godmother – gave me. Again. Ten times over. I didn’t tell Stella about it because I wanted to help Malcolm find a way out of his mess, but I wonder if I need to now. I wonder if whatever she’s planning means I won’t have to use it. I hope so. I love Lucille’s give-no-shits attitude, but if I can keep her out of trouble I will.

  Ridley Gates’s dirty dealings and Stella’s “bigger plan” weren’t the only things keeping me awake last night. Every time my mind settled down to search for sleep, I felt him. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.

  He kissed me.

  I repeat:

  He KISSED me!

  And it was better than last time.

  And I wanted more, because . . . I’m in love with him.

  I’m totally, completely in love with him. I think. At least my heart thinks. My head isn’t so sure because I’m not convinced he’s really feeling what I’m feeling. He thinks he is, of course. He has initiated every sexually charged encounter we’ve had over the past two weeks, but an army of nagging doubts are charging into battle against my happiness. Why don’t I trust his feelings? Simple answer is because I know Ethan. I have no idea if the fact he’s kissed me means anything or nothing. Strange, isn’t it? How could a kiss mean nothing? I don’t know, but allowing myself to think of that wonderful, breathtaking kiss in any other terms than Ethan making a play for the only female in the room would be tantamount to doing a backflip in the street, cracking my head open on the pavement and knocking myself out. And I’m not sure I want to risk brain damage.