One Night Stand With The Billionaire Boss Free Preview

Heidi

It’s Tuesday the twenty-sixth of July, the first week of the English school summer holidays, and I’m in the kitchen making bread when my phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans, announcing the arrival of a message.

Assuming it’s another unwanted text, my heart sinks as I take the phone out with floury fingers. I do a comical double-take when I see it’s a Facebook message from Lawrence Oates.

I feel a wave of relief, then a flutter of pleasure deep inside. My heart racing, I go over to the sink and wash my hands, then pick up the phone and bring up the message. It’s short but sweet.

Your Royal Highness! Don’t suppose you’d be around for a Zoom call at 8 p.m.?

I laugh at his greeting. My full name is Heidi Rose Huxley, and the first time we met, he commented that my initials were HRH.

Still smiling, I sit on the kitchen chair, bring up his Facebook profile, and study his picture.

His real name is Lawrence, but everyone calls him Titus. He got the nickname from the Antarctic explorer of the same name who sacrificed himself for his teammates in 1912 by going out into a blizzard. That Lawrence Oates was nicknamed Titus after the English priest who invented a conspiracy to kill the English king, Charles II, in 1678.

How do I know all this? Because when I was sixteen, tipsy on one glass of sparkling wine at my brother Oliver’s twenty-first birthday party, I asked his gorgeous mate for a kiss. Instead of getting exasperated with the irritating young teen who was trying to pretend she was sassy and sophisticated, he proceeded to kiss the living daylights out of me. Shy and innocent, I’d never even had a boy kiss me on the cheek before, so to be French kissed by a gorgeous older guy completely blew me away.

After the kiss, I found out everything I could about him, convinced I’d found my Prince Charming and that we were destined for a happily ever after.

We weren’t, of course, and unsurprisingly after the party he didn’t contact me and declare his undying love. We did see each other relatively frequently over the years, either at Oliver’s business club or at my parents’ house. Every time our gazes met with a mischievous smile as we both clearly recalled that kiss, although we never spoke of it openly.

We’ve been friends on Facebook for some time, although we’ve never communicated on there. Two years ago, I moved to England, and I haven’t spoken to him since. He was the first guy to burst my girlish, romantic bubble, but he wasn’t the last. Einstein said insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I think, from that definition, I’m pretty bonkers, as the English like to say.

His profile picture is an old one, taken when he was at university, of him with his arms around Oliver and their friend Mack. It’s a bit blurry and doesn’t do him justice. I remember him as tall, dark, and handsome, and being impressed because he’d been approached to play rugby for the Auckland Blues. The only other thing I remember about him is that his mother is Scandinavian, and he has Viking tattoos down each arm.

As I scroll down through his Facebook feed, I can see why I’ve never read any posts from him—he hardly ever goes on there. Oliver has mentioned him in passing when I’ve spoken to him on Zoom over the past two years, but I don’t know anything about what he’s been up to, apart from that he works with computers.

Why on earth does he want to talk to me?

Then it comes to me—it must be about Oliver’s wedding. Oliver is marrying his girlfriend, Elizabeth, next month, and I’m flying to New Zealand for it. Maybe Titus is organizing something he wants me to be a part of. Yes, that would make sense. Much more sense than him deciding he wants to chat up the tipsy teenager he snogged eight years ago.

Blowing out a relieved breath, I reply to his message.

Hey Titus! Sure! 8 p.m. your time or my time?

He responds almost immediately:UK time.He includes an invitation to the Zoom call, then says:Great, speak to you tonight.Wow. Captain Concise.

Putting the phone aside, I return to making the easy-bake bread, adding a can of beer to the flour with the baking powder. I mix it all up and tip it into the loaf pan.

Then I scoop it back into the bowl, add the salt and sugar I’d forgotten, and put it back into the loaf pan again. I top it with grated cheese and salt and pepper, and slide it into the oven.

Then I remember I haven’t added any olive oil, take it back out, drizzle the oil over the top, return it to the oven, and set the timer.

Even though it’s clearly not a romantic call, he has me all flustered.

I huff an irritated sigh at myself and check the time on my phone. It’s nearly ten a.m. now, and I’m due to have another Zoom call with my sisters. I go into the living room and collect my laptop, then take it out of my tiny cottage into my even tinier garden, and set it up on the plastic table under the umbrella.

I’ve learned that summer in England can be extremely variable, especially where I live, in the county of Devon in the southwest, where the hills of Dartmoor generate mild, wet weather. Last year, it rained the whole of July and a good part of August. This year, June proved to be one of the wettest on record, but the weather has miraculously cleared up for the start of the school holidays, and today the sky is the color of bluebells.

I click on our Zoom link and discover that two of my three sisters—Chrissie and Evie—are already there, waiting for me. There’s a moment of delay, and then their pictures spring up on the screen.

“Hey!” They smile and wave as they see me, and I grin and wave back.

“Hey you lot!”

“Ooh, it looks like a lovely day there,” Chrissie says.

“It’s a beautiful summer morning,” I reply.

Evie shakes her head. “It must be so weird to have summer in July!”

“You get used to the seasons being reversed,” I tell them. “Christmas in winter wasn’t as strange as I thought, because our cards Down Under tend to feature wintry scenes despite it being in summer. And it makes sense that Easter takes place in spring here, with all the lambs and chicks being born.”

“I guess,” Evie says. “But Halloween in autumn? That’s just weird.”

I smile. I can’t imagine that either Evie or Chrissie would take to living in England. There’s a tendency for Kiwis to think of the English like cousins because so many of us have relatives back in the UK, but the fact is that the two cultures are very different.

Chrissie is thirty-three and, like me, a schoolteacher, although she teaches science at a large secondary school, which is a world away from my position teaching five-year-olds at a tiny Devon primary school. Evie is twenty-seven and a police officer, bossy and no-nonsense. They’re both quite frank and outspoken, and I think they’d struggle with the way most English people are reticent and reserved.

“Where’s Abigail?” I ask, referring to our oldest sister.

“She’s in the South Island with Sean at the moment,” Evie says. “They decided to have a weekend away to celebrate their third wedding anniversary, so she won’t make it tonight.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. Have they taken Robin with them?” Their little boy is eight months old.

“No, they’ve left him with Mum and Dad,” Chrissie replies.

“I can’t wait to see him,” I say longingly. Robin is my first nephew, and I’m desperate for a cuddle.

“Not long now,” Evie says cheerfully. “It’ll be great to see you. We’ve missed you so much.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s going to be such fun. Hey, do you know if Titus is organizing something for Oliver?”

Chrissie shrugs. Evie says, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just got a message from him asking if I’m free for a Zoom call tonight. I assumed it was something to do with the wedding.”

“Are they having a stag do?” Evie asks Chrissie.

“Not as such. Hux says he didn’t want one,” she says. Even though his first name is Oliver, everyone calls him Huxley or Hux, except me. It always feels odd to me, especially as my surname is Huxley too. “He says he’s too respectable,” she adds. Evie and I snort. Chrissie grins. “When we go to Lake Tekapo, the night before the wedding, the guys and the girls are having some kind of separate wine and whisky event. That’s all he wanted, as far as I know. And Mack’s organizing it, so it’s nothing to do with Titus.”

“Hmm.” Now I’m puzzled. “What do you know about him?”

“He’s got a big knob,” Evie says.

My eyebrows shoot up as Chrissie bursts out laughing. “Jesus,” I say. “Evie!”

“What?” she grins. “You asked.”

“I meant, you know, his personality, what he does for a living.”

“Oh… sorry.”

“How do you know how big his knob is, anyway?” Chrissie asks. “I didn’t think you were in the knob business.”

“Claire referred to it once,” Evie says, ignoring the jibe, used to her sister’s teasing about her sexuality. “She’s his ex,” she explains to me. “They were together for a couple of years, but they broke up a while ago. I met her at Huxley’s club one evening. She was absolutely out of her tree, and she told us she called his dick ‘Sir Richard’ because it was so big.”

“Oh my God,” I say, as Chrissie dissolves into giggles. “Now I’m not going to be able to think about anything else while I’m talking to him.”

“I wonder what he wants,” Evie says curiously.

“He works with computers, doesn’t he?” I ask.

“He doesn’t just work with computers,” Chrissie says. “He’s the CEO of NZAI. New Zealand Artificial Intelligence?”

“Oh. Wow.”

“He started the company not long after leaving university. You know that Mack Hart created New Zealand’s fastest supercomputer?”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“Well, Titus works with him in developing Artificial Intelligence. At the moment they’re also working with Elizabeth on an IVF project. Something to do with using AI to choose the best embryos or something. Elizabeth did explain it to me, but it went a bit over my head.”

My brother’s fiancée, Elizabeth Tremblay, is a chemist who runs her own pharmaceutical company. He told me about her IVF project the last time I talked to him, a few weeks ago. “Didn’t they get an offer of some serious funding from an English company?”

“Yeah,” Chrissie says, “and they wanted Elizabeth to move to the UK and head the project from there, but she decided not to go. That’s why Titus is over there. He’s meeting with the company to discuss it.”

I blink. “Wait, what? He’s here, in England?”

“Yeah,” Chrissie says. “Sorry, I assumed you knew.”

“No! I had no idea. Where is he?”

“Don’t know. London, I’m guessing. When Elizabeth turned Acheron down—that’s the name of the pharmaceutical company—they asked Titus if he’d spearhead the project instead. They want him to move there for two years, but obviously he has his own company to run, so I guess he’s trying to talk them out of it while keeping the money.”

“How much is the funding?” Evie asks.

“Oliver said it was five hundred million dollars,” I reply.

“Wow. That’s a lot to turn down. Mind you, I think he’s a billionaire. He could just pay for it himself.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Chrissie says, amused. “He’s like Dad and Hux—a lot of their money is tied up in stocks and shares. Besides which, I think Acheron is promising more funding if the research goes well.”

“Hence Titus’s trip, I guess,” Evie says.

“I still don’t understand why he wants to talk to me,” I comment.

Evie shrugs. “You might be the only person he knows over there.”

“I doubt it,” Chrissie says. “He’s got a lot of connections. All joking aside, he’s big news in the AI industry. Have you heard ofAtamai Tuatahi?” When we shake our heads, she continues, “It’s the Aotearoa AI Summit. It features leading industry speakers, panel discussions, all that kind of thing. It’s a huge event.”

“He went to it?” I ask.

“He was the keynote speaker last year.”

“Oh.” Now I’m impressed.

“He also spoke at a conference on Robotics and AI in Melbourne, another one in Toronto, and the AI Summit in Seoul. He’s big news in the industry.”

“Didn’t you snog him at Hux’s twenty-first?” Evie wants to know.

I blush. “Might have. That was a long time ago, though, before he became so intimidating.”

“He’s not that scary,” Evie says. “I chatted to him at Mack’s wedding on the yacht. He got drunk, knocked over Mack’s grandmother’s wine glass, then fell asleep and snored for the rest of the night. They left him there when everyone went to bed, and he was still there in the morning, apparently, covered in dew.”

I chuckle. “Sounds like he needed a rest.”

“He works hard,” Chrissie says. “Twelve to fourteen-hour days usually, like Mack.”

“So what’s he like?” I ask curiously. “I remember him being really tall and kinda gorgeous.”

“He’s still tall and gorgeous,” Evie says with a smile. “He plays a lot of rugby.”

“Didn’t he trial for the Auckland Blues at university?”

“Yeah. They wanted to sign him, but he said no because he thought it’d take him away from his studies.”

“I partnered him at a tennis tournament in January,” Chrissie states. “I wasn’t anywhere near his league. He could have won if he’d had a better partner, but he was very kind about it and said it was his fault because his serve was off.”

“That was nice,” I say.

“He’s a lovely guy,” Evie replies, “when you get him talking. It takes a bit of doing. He’s quiet and sorta brooding. Elizabeth said he’s like the Dark Knight without the cape.”

That makes me laugh.

“I don’t think he’s moody,” Chrissie says, “I think he’s just preoccupied, you know? He’s like Mack—all he thinks about is work.”

“Like Mack used to be,” Evie corrects. “Now he’s met Sidnie, he has other things on the brain.”

My lips curve up. “She’s managed to drag him away from Marise?” I know that Mack was obsessed with his supercomputer.

“Amazing what the power of the pussy can do,” Chrissie states. “From what I’ve heard, the two of them hardly get out of bed.”

I grin. “So is Titus dating?”

“Don’t think so,” Evie says. “He went out with a girl called Maisey, but Hux said that Titus told him she talked all the time—even during sex. I mean… Jeez. Poor guy.”

“I thought most men liked dirty talk,” I say, amused.

“No, apparently she used to list what she needed at the supermarket.”

Chrissie and I dissolve into giggles. “Not so bad if it’s whipped cream,” I comment. “Less interesting if it’s bleach for the loo.”

“Loo,” Evie echoes with a chuckle. “You sound more British each time we speak to you.”

“Still enjoying it there?” Chrissie asks. She says the same thing every time we have a conversation.

“Yes, but I’m looking forward to coming home for a bit.”

I don’t like being too effusive about the UK when I’m talking to them, as I know they miss me, but the truth is that I love my job in the tiny primary school, and I adore the picturesque village I live in. There are a lot more people in the UK—sixty-seven million compared to New Zealand’s five million, and the countries are a similar size—but most of New Zealand’s population is concentrated in the biggest cities, and so traffic and overcrowding is as much of a problem there as it is in the UK.

But the most important thing is that I love being surrounded by history. In New Zealand, the oldest building is Kemp House in the Bay of Islands, which was constructed in 1821. In the UK there are prehistoric, Roman, Saxon, Viking, and Medieval buildings. My degree is in history, and it’s a dream come true to be able to wander around castles and churches in my spare time.

“Mum and Dad will be pleased to see you,” Evie says.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to seeing them, too.”

“Once more with feeling,” Chrissie says wryly.

I scrub at a mark on the bottom of my keyboard and don’t reply.

“Are you going to see Dad?” Evie asks.

I don’t want to. But I do want to go to Oliver’s wedding, and to see my mother and sisters and the friends I left behind, so I’m going to have to see him at some point.

I don’t like talking to them about it, though, because I know they don’t fully understand why I feel the way I do. It’s not their fault. I haven’t told them everything.

“Can we change the subject?” I ask.

They exchange a glance, but Evie says, “Okay, how are Gran and Grandpa?”

“They’re great.” Our mother comes from England, and much of her family still lives there. “Gran’s taken up pottery making. I’ve got odd-shaped bowls all over the house. Grandpa caught a thirteen-pound bass last week. I’m guessing he sent you a photo.”

“I think he sent one to everyone in New Zealand,” Chrissie says.

I laugh. “He was very proud of it.”

“When’s your flight to New Zealand?” Evie asks.

“A week Wednesday. Third of August.”

“Have you got anything planned until then?”

“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “It’s been a hectic term, and the trip’s going to be busy, so I’m taking it easy. Reading, some sightseeing, and lots of cream teas!” And panicking about seeing Dad again, obviously.

Chrissie clears her throat. “And… what about you-know-who?”

“Yeah,” Evie says, “has Voldemort gotten the message yet?” Her attempt to make light of my breakup with Jason doesn’t hide her concern.

My smile fades, and I look away, across the lawn to where a thrush is trying to pull a resisting worm from the grass. There must be something about me that makes men think I’m weak and helpless and easily controlled. I’m not as small as Oliver’s fiancée, who’s tiny. I’m five-foot-five. But I am slender and have a girlish figure, and I can easily pass for seventeen or eighteen, even though I’m twenty-five now. I broke up with Jason over three months ago, but he’s refusing to take no for an answer.

“I’m working on it,” I tell them.

My sisters fall silent for a moment, though, and I know they don’t believe me. I can feel their worry seeping through the screen.

“Have you been to the police?” Evie asks.

“Not yet. I will, if it gets worse.”

“Did you contact that helpline I sent you?”

“Yes,” I say, although I haven’t.

Evie glares at me. “I wish you’d do as you’re told.”

I poke my tongue out at her. “Yes, Mum.”

“You shouldn’t make light of it,” she tells me. “These things can turn serious very fast.”

I don’t reply, because I can’t argue with her when she deals with problems like this on a daily basis in her job. I shouldn’t have told her, because now they’re both worried.

Jason has never been violent, he’s just persistent in sending me texts and messages on social media. Nothing threatening, and no dick pics or anything. If I were to show anyone else the messages, they’d look innocuous—he chats about his day, talks about movies and music he thinks I’d like, sends me funny memes and jokes, and occasionally asks me out. Whatever Evie says, I can’t help but think that the police would wonder why I hadn’t dealt with it myself rather than run to them—surely they have more serious problems to deal with?

“Enough about me,” I say cheerfully. “What are you two up to?”

Evie tells us about a training course she’s being sent on, and Chrissie chats for a bit about the school inspection she’s preparing for. We talk until my timer goes off to say the bread’s ready, and then we say goodbye, excited to see each other soon.

I take my laptop inside, retrieve the bread from the oven, then glance at my phone as it buzzes again. This time it is a text from Jason, and I pull it up with a sigh.

Don’t suppose you want to go to the cinema this evening?he asks.

I answer with:No thank you.

He comes back immediately:Come on. I know you want to see that new sci-fi.

I feel a surge of irritation. How do you convince someone it’s over? I suppose I could block him, but it feels like a massive overreaction. I don’t want things to turn nasty. I just want him to leave me alone.

I turn off my phone, leave it on the counter, and go out into the sunshine with a book. I’m not going to think about him again. I’m going to think about Titus and Sir Richard.

Smiling, I open my book and begin to read.

Titus

My first week in England has proven to be super busy, filled with meetings, conferences, and industry talks, and Tuesday the twenty-sixth turns out to be more of the same.

In the morning, I attend a symposium on Interpretation and Knowledge Representation at University College London in Holborn. Then in the afternoon I give a lecture on Artificial Intelligence Reasoning and Decision Making for the college’s Master’s students. The lecture theater is packed out for the whole of the two-hour talk, and afterward I answer questions for a further hour, until eventually I have to beg for a break to have a cup of coffee.

It doesn’t end there, though; half a dozen members of staff and a gaggle of students follow me to the coffee shop, and I end up talking with them for another couple of hours before I finally tear myself away and head back to the Rosewood Hotel. There I have dinner with the CEO and two other directors of an AI and Data Science Consultancy, and it’s nearly eight p.m. before I finally excuse myself and make my way up to my suite.

I’m staying in the Garden House—a suite with a private garden terrace. I call room service and request a latte, and when the butler arrives with it, I ask him to take it out onto the terrace. I set up my laptop on the circular glass table, thanking him as he lights some of the lamps and the deck heater as, even though it’s July, I’ve learned that the evenings tend to be cooler than they are in summer in Auckland.

He withdraws, and I sit in one of the chairs, stretch out my legs, enter the Zoom meeting room, and turn the video on. There’s about an hour until sunset, and the darkening sky behind me is brushed with orange, but the lamps mean that I’m clearly visible.

I’m tired, which is unusual for me at eight p.m., but I still haven’t gotten over my jetlag. I should have said I’d call Heidi in the morning, but hey ho. I doubt it’ll take long.

In under a minute, she joins the meeting room. Her picture pops up, the same one she uses for her Facebook profile. It’s a couple of years old, of her with her three sisters. After a few seconds, she appears in the flesh.

We first met at Huxley’s twenty-first birthday party, held at his parents’ house because they have a large pool. Ever the host, Huxley introduced his four sisters to all his friends, then promptly told us to keep our hands off them on pain of death. I had no trouble doing as I was told with sporty Abigail, outspoken Chrissie, and somewhat aggressive Evie, who I discovered preferred women anyway. But Heidi was a whole other matter.

Just sixteen, with straight blonde hair that was so long she could sit on it, Heidi’s lips permanently curved upward. I also remember that the bikini she wore was a startling fluorescent orange. Funny what sticks in your mind.

I watched her for a couple of hours, getting in and out of the pool, hovering on the edge of the party, too old to play with the children, too young to join in with Huxley’s friends, and thought how beautiful she was, like a spring goddess, a budding rose full of promise, a soft fruit close to being ripe.

When I went into the kitchen to get myself a beer and discovered her there helping her mother organize sausages and burgers for the upcoming barbecue, I hung around until her mother left the room, then went and leaned a hip against the countertop next to where she was preparing a salad for the table.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m Titus.”

She glanced up at me and blushed. “I know who you are.”

Flattered, I said, “And you’re Heidi Rose Huxley. HRH. Should I call you Your Royal Highness?”

She gave a little laugh and tucked a strand of her long hair behind her ear. Then she turned to rest her butt against the counter, leaning her hands on the edge. “I like your tattoos,” she said, her gaze brushing down my arms like a feather, making me shiver.

I looked down. I was wearing a sleeveless tee, mainly to show the tattoos off. I’d gotten them just six months before—a stylized dragon on my left arm and a wolf on my right, both wrapped around Norse great axes. “My mum comes from Norway,” I said.

“The Striking Viking,” Heidi teased. “Isn’t that what Elizabeth calls you?”

“Yeah.” I grinned at her, then offered her my bottle of beer. “Want a sip?”

“I shouldn’t. I’ve already had a glass of sparkling wine.”

“Do you always do what you’re told?”

Her eyes met mine, and she held my gaze as she reached out, took the bottle, and had a swig. When she’d done, grimacing slightly at the taste, she wiped her mouth, her gaze dropping to my lips.

“Would you like to kiss me?” she said, bold as anything.

I don’t know whether she expected me to act the gentleman and say I couldn’t possibly, and to walk out of the room. Or if she thought I’d look shocked, maybe tell her off for being so audacious.

Instead, with all the confidence and foolishness of youth, and inspired by at least two beers, I said, “Fuck, yeah,” put the bottle on the countertop, and moved up close to her, taking her face in my hands. Her blue eyes widened. “You’re sure?” I murmured, half-expecting her to shake her head. Instead, though, she just nodded, her eyes full of excitement, and so I lowered my lips to hers.

I remember hers being incredibly soft, and to this day I can recall the heat that surged through me when she gasped, her lips parting. I brushed my tongue into her mouth, and her soft moan sent fireworks off in my belly that made me give a low growl as I deepened the kiss and slid my hands into her hair. She rested her hands on my chest, and we exchanged a long, luscious smooch that must have lasted a good fifteen seconds before someone suddenly said, “Oh! Sorry!”

As shocked as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over me, I stepped back, lowering my hands. It was Elizabeth, who was staring at us with much amusement.

Alarm rang through me, and all I could think was that if Heidi’s brother found out I’d just snogged his sister, he was going to murder me in front of both his parents, and if he didn’t carry it through, I had no doubt that Peter Huxley would finish the job. Huxley had commented several times how protective his father was of his youngest sister.

“Don’t tell Huxley,” I said. Which, on the face of it, wasn’t the most romantic thing to have come out with.

Elizabeth just grinned. I glanced at Heidi, whose face was scarlet, then turned and walked out, back to the party.

And that was that. I saw her several times socially over the next few years, but we didn’t get the chance to talk alone—we exchanged amused glances when we said hi and that was about it. She moved to England two years ago, and I haven’t had any contact with her since.

So it’s been a while since I’ve seen her, and I have to admit she’s fixed in my mind as Huxley’s kid sister. I’m therefore shocked when her image forms on my laptop screen. She’s wearing a cherry-red T-shirt, and her blonde hair is now cut in a chin-length bob, parted on the left, with the shorter side tucked behind her ear, and the longer side hanging down like a shining curtain. She has large hoops in her ears. Her lips still curve up naturally, and she still looks younger than her years, but she’s matured into a summer goddess, gray eyeshadow giving her sexy smoky eyes, and a touch of gloss making her lips look soft and kissable.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Long time no see.”

She stares at me for a moment, and I wonder whether I’ve changed as much as she has. Then she smiles, which lights up her whole face, and says, “Titus! Oh my God, it’s good to see you! I didn’t realize you were in the UK. Chrissie told me this morning.”

“Yeah, I’m over here on business.” Behind her is a series of bookshelves. She looks as if she’s in a study, or maybe a living room. “Are you at home?” I ask.

“Yes. I’ve got the tiniest cottage in a little Devon village called Briarton. It’s wonderful—it has oak beams from the Armada, and a coffin hatch in the ceiling.” She tilts the laptop up to show me the square shape above her head. “It’s so if you die in your sleep, they don’t have to get your stiff corpse down the spiral stairs.”

“That’s amazing.”

“It’s actually a converted Saxon longhouse. It’s made from cob—straw mixed with cow dung. You can’t smell it though.” She grins, then says, “Where are you? In London?”

“Yeah, I’m staying at the Rosewood Hotel in Covent Garden.”

“Ooh, snazzy. Where are you right now?”

“Just outside. It has a garden terrace.” I turn the laptop to show her.

“Jesus,” she says, “that must have cost you a fortune.” Then she grimaces. “Sorry. Oliver’s always telling me not to mention money.”

I grin. “I think you’re the only person apart from your parents that calls him Oliver.”

“Well, technically you can call me Huxley too.”

“Ah no,” I reply mischievously, “I’ll always think of you as Your Royal Highness.”

That makes her laugh, and her eyes dance. “Eight years,” she says, “and I still blush when I think of that afternoon. I can’t believe you kissed me.”

“You asked me to,” I point out.

“I did. You could have said no.”

“I absolutely should have.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Nope.” I smile, and she giggles.

“This is a bolt out of the blue,” she says. “What made you contact me today?”

I scratch my cheek. “Actually, I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not leaving for the wedding for another week, right?”

“Yeah. I fly out on August the third.”

“Well, the reason I’m here is to meet with a company called Acheron Pharmaceuticals.”

“They’re the ones offering funding for your IVF project, right? Chrissie told me this morning.”

“Yeah. The CEO, Alan Woodridge, lives just east of Exeter, and he’s invited me to stay for the weekend. He’s holding a cocktail party on Friday night, a murder-mystery evening on Saturday night, and then on Sunday morning he’s organized a hot-air balloon ride across Devon.”

“Wow, sounds great.”

“Yeah. Monday I’ll get a tour of the company, and we’re meeting with the board in the afternoon for a more formal discussion. But anyway, so I’ve got to go to these events, and… well… I’m on my own, and I don’t know anyone else here. And so I was wondering whether you’d like to come with me.”

She stares at me. Her lips part, but no words come out.

Concerned that she thinks I’m hitting on her, I add, “Not as a date, just as a friend. Absolutely no obligation at all. I’m sure you’re busy, and it’s the last thing you’d want to do.”

“It’s not that,” she says. “Did Huxley ask you to check on me?” She doesn’t look annoyed, just suspicious. I decide honesty is the best policy.

“Yes, he did, and I promised I would. But it was a kind of kill-two-birds-with-one-stone thing. I don’t want to spend the weekend at this house alone, and I thought it would be a chance to catch up and have a bit of fun.”

Her lips curve up. “I see.”

“I think if Huxley knew I’d ask you out, he might have had second thoughts about asking me to contact you.”

“I thought it wasn’t a date,” she says.

“Ah… yeah, nah, obviously it’s not, because we live on opposite sides of the world. It’s purely platonic.”

“How dull. In that case, the answer’s no.”

I laugh. “You haven’t changed.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” I smile. “Will you come?”

“Well, how can I pass up the chance to go on a platonic date with the Striking Viking?” Her eyes twinkle.

I feel a surge of pleasure. “Excellent. Well, like I said, there’s some kind of cocktail evening on Friday night, so I thought I could pick you up in the afternoon and…” I trail off as I hear a doorbell, and she looks past her laptop.

“Fuck,” she says.

“Everything all right?”

She bites her bottom lip. “Someone’s at the door. I’d better answer it.”

“Okay.”

“Give me five minutes and I’ll call you back?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” She folds down the lid of her laptop—but she doesn’t close it completely. I don’t think she’s realized she’s still transmitting. I can’t see anything, but I can still hear what’s happening in the room.

I stare for a moment, my cursor poised to end the call. But then I hear her say, “What the hell are you doing here?” and I lower my hand, concerned.

If she’d been anyone else, I might have told myself it was none of my business, and waited for her to call back. But before I left, Huxley took me to one side and said, “Can you do me a huge favor?”

“Of course,” I replied.

“Can you check on Heidi?” He gave me her phone number, email address, and physical address. “Just a phone call would be great, but I’m worried about her.”

He’d already told me that she’d broken up with her boyfriend a few months before, but this was the first time he’d expressed concern. “Why?” I asked.

“She won’t talk to me about it,” he says, “but she’s told my sisters that her ex is harassing her.”

“Oh no. In what way?”

“I think it’s mostly online. Evie said she’s trying to get her to report it to the police, but she doesn’t think Heidi’s called them yet. I’m worried it’s more serious than Heidi’s letting on.”

“Have you talked to her about it?”

“She changes the subject. I worry about her, that’s all.”

“I’ll contact her,” I told him. “Although I don’t know that she’d be likely to tell me any more than she’d tell you or her sisters.”

“I dunno,” he said, “you two seemed to click last time you met.” He gave me an amused look.

“That was eight years ago,” I replied wryly, “and the only conversation we had was with our tongues.” I blanched as his eyebrows rose. “I mean… ah…”

He rolled his eyes. “Anything you can do would be greatly appreciated.” And that was the end of the conversation.

So being in the middle of talking to her when it sounds as if her ex might be at her door has put me in a difficult position. I wait and listen, prepared to close the laptop as soon as I know she’s okay.

A male voice says: I need to talk to you.

Her: I’m busy.

Him: What do you mean? Have you got someone there?

There’s a bang, and an exclamation.

Her: What the fuck? Jason! You can’t just walk into my home.

I stiffen, alarmed. Shit. What should I do? Phone the police? I pick up my mobile, ready to call them.

Him: Where is he? Who is it?

Her: There’s nobody here. I was on the phone.

Him: Who were you talking to?

Her: It’s none of your business. I want you to leave.

Him: Don’t do this. I just want to talk.

Her: Well I don’t. There’s nothing to talk about. We’re done. You’ve got to stop this and accept it.

Him: I’m never going to accept it. I want you back.

Her: You can’t browbeat me into going out with you again. You’ve got to stop calling and messaging me. What you’re doing—it’s harassment, Jason. It’s stalking. Do you understand that?

Him: That’s bullshit! I love you. And I’m trying to show you. It’s not harassment!

Her: Are you drunk? Jesus. You’re fucking drunk.

Him: Who were you talking to? Tell me.

Her: An old friend.

Him: From New Zealand?

Her: Yeah, but he’s in London, and we’re going to meet up.

Him: Do you have feelings for him?

Her: We’re just friends. But if you were a fraction of the man that he is, we might still be together.

I’d have blushed if I wasn’t so worried.

Him: Don’t say that. I love you.

Her: Don’t you fucking touch me.

She sounds furious, but I know that doesn’t mean she’s safe. What the hell is the emergency number out here? It’s 1-1-1 in New Zealand. 0-0-0 in Australia. 9-1-1 in the States. I think it’s 9-9-9 here?

Him: Please, I love you…

There’s the sound of a scuffle, shuffling feet, a squeal from Heidi that makes me leap to my feet, and then a deep male groan.

Him: Ahhh Jesus… Oh God…

Her: Get thefuckout of my house.

Him: Heidi…

Her: GET OUT! Stop calling me. Stop texting me. And stop messaging me on social media. We’re done, and if I see you here again, I’m going to ring the fucking police, do you hear me?

There’s more scuffling, then the bang of a door closing.

I slowly sit again and stare at the screen. It sounds as if she threw him out. Good on her. Do I wait for her to open the laptop and see that I heard everything?

I hear footsteps, then the squeak of the sofa as she sits.

Then, to my horror, she bursts into tears.

Her sobs are deep and heartrending, and my insides twist as I listen to her, one hand over my mouth. At least she’s safe, for now anyway. She wouldn’t let him in if he knocked again, would she?

The sofa squeaks, and then the connection is cut—she’s closed the laptop lid.

I sit back and look up at the darkening sky. Will she call me back when she feels better? I wait for fifteen minutes, but the screen remains blank.

I pick up my phone, dial her mobile number, and put it to my ear. After a few rings, it goes to voicemail. She’s turned off her phone. I end the call without leaving a message.

Maybe she’ll answer if I call in the morning. But she doesn’t want to talk to me right now, and I need to honor that. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, when she’s hopefully feeling better.

I let my gaze drift over the rooftops, up to the night sky, fighting with my natural instinct to take action. I think of her deep sobs, and Huxley’s concern for her. She has family here, and plenty of friends, I’m sure. She doesn’t need me riding in on a charger to rescue her. It sounds as if she can handle herself just fine. She doesn’t need me.

If you were a fraction of the man that he is, we might still be together.

Pursing my lips, I pull up Google calendar and see what I have planned for the next few days.

Heidi

I awake with a start. It’s dark, and I’m in the living room, on the sofa. I look at my watch; it’s 1:03 a.m.

I groan. After Jason’s surprise arrival and our subsequent argument, I cried for thirty minutes non-stop. After that, I was so exhausted from all the emotion that I must have crashed out.

My laptop sits on the coffee table, next to my phone. Ah, Jeez, Titus. I told him I’d call him back. I was so upset, and worried that Jason would try to call or message me, that I turned off my phone, too.

I pick it up, hesitate, then turn it on. My stomach flips with worry as I wait for any messages to download. Tomorrow I’m going to block Jason’s number, and I’ll also unfriend him on Facebook and block him on all my social media channels. I’m done trying to be nice.

He’s sent me two texts, but I ignore them. Instead, I pull up the one that’s waiting from Titus.

Hey, hope all is well. Let me know when you’re up in the morning and maybe we can chat. T.

I rest my forehead on a hand, cursing myself. I should have cut Jason out of my life as soon as we broke up, and then I wouldn’t be in this position. What must Titus be thinking? I know that Oliver must have told him what’s been happening in my love life. I’m sure the last thing he wants is to spend time with someone recovering from a bad breakup. It wouldn’t surprise me if he withdrew his offer to go with him for the weekend. Dammit.

I decide to send a reply to his text. I’m going to be totally honest. There’s no point in trying to squirm my way out of it.

Hey, I know you’re probably asleep now. Just wanted to say sorry for not getting back to you. Can we chat tomorrow? I’ll understand if you’ve changed your mind, though. H x

I add the kiss and send it before I think better of it. Oh well. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, and I’d rather be myself.

I should go to bed, but I feel discombobulated and decide to make myself a cup of tea first. I go to get up, and then to my surprise my phone vibrates, announcing a text. It’s from Titus.

Him:Hey, glad you’re okay. Would you mind if I called you now? No worries if you’re off to bed though.

Me:Sure, I’m just having a cuppa.

I flick on the kettle, trying to calm my breathing. No doubt he just wants to make sure I’m okay. Damn Huxley for telling him about Jason. Even from the other side of the world, my family still manages to make me feel like the baby sister.

My phone vibrates again, and I answer the call and put it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says. “Hope you don’t mind me calling.”

“No, of course not. Look, I’m so sorry for not getting back to you.”

“It’s okay.” There’s a strange noise in the background. It sounds like cars. I know his room has a garden terrace, but the traffic sounds more like a motorway.

“Where are you?” I ask curiously. “In your hotel room?”

“Ah, no. Actually I’m on the outskirts of Exeter, in the service station.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“I was worried about you. I was going to come to your house and make sure you were okay. I settled up here and hired a car. But when I got to Exeter, I realized you’d probably be in bed, and the last thing you’d want after an argument with your ex is a stranger turning up at your door. I decided to get a motel room, but they’re fully booked. So I thought I’d crash in the car and then call you in the morning.”

My jaw drops as I think over what he’s said. Then something strikes me. “Wait, how did you know I’d had an argument with my ex?”

He doesn’t reply for a moment. Then he says, “I have an admission to make. You didn’t completely close your laptop lid, and it didn’t end the Zoom call.”

I cover my mouth with a hand. “You heard the whole thing?”

“Uh, yeah. I know I shouldn’t have listened. I was going to hang up, but then I heard him come into your house, and I was really worried about you. Shit. I’m so incredibly sorry. Now I sound like a fucking stalker. Look, just forget I even exist, okay?”

“Titus,” I say softly, “it’s okay. I’m touched that you were concerned. I know that Oliver must have told you all about my breakup.”

“Only that your ex has been harassing you. And I’d never have forgiven myself if something had happened to you. I was close to calling the police when you threw him out.”

“Look,” I say, “do you know where I live?”

“Yeah, Huxley gave me your address.”

“Why don’t you come here? It’s only about fifteen minutes from Exeter. I’ve got a spare room, and I make a mean cooked breakfast. You’d be better off staying here than sleeping in your car, anyway. Tomorrow we’ll find you a hotel.”

“Heidi, I couldn’t do that after the night you’ve had.”

“I’m fine. Honestly, it wasn’t all about tonight. I hadn’t really processed the breakup, and I’ve been in denial about his harassment. It just all came crashing down on me. I’m okay now. I mean I have panda eyes, but I’m all right. I won’t go weepy on you.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t mind. But you don’t want a stranger in your home.”

“Christ, you’re not a stranger. I’ve known you for eight years. You’re one of Oliver’s best mates. Evie and Chrissie had nothing but good things to say about you this morning.” I smile. “I can’t believe you left your posh hotel for me, that’s so sweet. You should know that my house is incredibly small, not what you’re used to at all.”

“Well, size isn’t everything.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say mischievously. “I’ve heard the rumors about you.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I can’t believe I’ve said them. God, what is it with this man? Why does my brain refuse to function when he’s around?

But he just gives a deep, sexy chuckle. “Glad to hear my fame is spreading,” he teases. “All right, I’ll head off now. You reckon about fifteen minutes?”

I’m glad he can’t see me blushing. “Yeah, about that. There isn’t any parking right outside the house, but there is a small car park just down the road.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you.” I hang up.

I sit there for a moment, totally bemused. He listened to my argument with Jason? Oh my God, what did I say? I try to remember, but it’s all a blur. I recall Jason trying to slide his arm around my waist, and I yelled not to touch me. Titus said he was close to calling the police, so he must have heard that bit. I decide there’s no point in worrying about it. Although he shouldn’t have listened in, I’m kind of touched that he did. Now, though, I need to get ready for his arrival.

I dash around tidying up, then go up the stairs to the spare room. The furnishings come with the house, which I rent from my headmistress at the primary school. I’ve never used the spare single bed, and it’s heaped with boxes containing books and other personal effects I’ve never bothered to unpack. As quickly as I can, I move them into my own bedroom, stacking them up in the corner. There’s a spare duvet in the laundry cupboard, rolled up in a black bag, and I take that out and quickly stuff it in a fresh cover, and make up the bed. Finally I put on an oil burner with a few drops of lavender and bergamot to make the room smell nice.

I check my appearance in the bathroom mirror, wincing at the state of my mascara. I take out a wipe and clear up the worst of it, brush my hair, then go back down to the kitchen. I pop a couple of slices of the bread I made today in the toaster, just in case he’s hungry.

The poor guy must be absolutely shattered. I can remember when I first came over from New Zealand—I woke up at four a.m. and had to go to bed at seven p.m. for what felt like weeks before I gradually adjusted to the twelve-hour difference. It makes his four-hour journey all the way from London even more impressive. How on earth did he manage to hire a car at this time of night?

Then I remember Chrissie’s comments about him speaking at conferences in Australia, Canada, and South Korea, as well as being the keynote speaker in Auckland. I keep forgetting how important he is. He obviously wasn’t staying in a hostel. No doubt the kind of top hotel he’d been in would be used to organizing requests like that.

I check my watch; it’s been nearly twenty minutes. He should be here soon. I put some Miles Davis on in the background, then open the front door and go outside. The road is quiet; there’s very little traffic at this time of night. It’s a narrow street, as the houses on both sides have medieval origins. A Norman church sits on the hill up the road, overlooking the village. Down the road, the street splits around a central clocktower, the right-hand fork leading up toward the moors, the left-hand down to the river.

There’s not a lot of light pollution here, and the sky is brilliant with stars. I turn to the northwest and find Ursa Major, the Great Bear—also known as the Big Dipper and the Plough—and follow two of the stars—Dubhe and Merak—to Polaris, or the Pole Star. These stars aren’t visible Down Under, and I always get a thrill when I see them.

Then I drop my gaze back to the road, and I inhale at the sight of a lone man, walking toward me.

It’s been a few years, but I recognize him immediately. He’s tall—I think he’s six three—and built like a rugby player, with powerful shoulders, muscular arms, and big thighs that stretch the material of his jeans. He was wearing a suit when I talked to him on Zoom, but he’s obviously changed, and now he’s wearing a gray T-shirt, which means his gorgeous tattoos are visible on his forearms.

His hair is short at the back, fashionably styled on top to make it look like he doesn’t give a damn, or maybe he genuinely hasn’t touched it since he got up this morning, it’s hard to tell. He’s clean shaven, although as he gets closer I can see the shadow of stubble, suggesting he didn’t stop to shave before he left this evening.

Oh my God, I assumed I’d imagined how handsome he was, but my memory is better than I thought. He’s absolutely gorgeous.

He smiles and lowers the bag he’s carrying over his shoulder as he nears. Just in front of me, he drops the bag onto the pavement. Then he walks right up to me and takes my face in his hands.

For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me the way he did when I was sixteen, and I inhale like I did back then, my heart skipping a beat. But he just stares into my eyes as if he’s shining a flashlight into the corners of a cave, looking for buried treasure.

“Are you okay?” he whispers. “Really?”

I nod, emotional welling inside me at his concern. “I’m all right.”

“Thank God,” he says, and then he pulls me into his arms and wraps them around me.

He’s warm and solid, and as I press my cheek against his T-shirt, I can smell his really nice aftershave. It’s lost its intensity after his long drive, but it’s still rich, sensual, and spicy. Three words I’d definitely use to describe him.

Embarrassed that he might be aware I’ve just sniffed him, I go to draw back, but he doesn’t release me, and so I slide my arms around his waist and let him hug me for a while.

I hadn’t realized until I came to the UK how different the men are here to Kiwi guys. Don’t get me wrong, I love Englishmen, and, on the whole, they tend to be self-effacing and polite, while plenty of them play sports, or have jobs outdoors. But Kiwi guysaredifferent. They’re matter of fact and practical, open-hearted rather than reserved, and speak their minds rather than holding back out of politeness. Also, because the weather tends to be nicer up in Auckland and the Northland, much of our childhood is spent outdoors, and even if they don’t have Maori blood in them, the guys usually have light-brown skin. He looks young, fit, and healthy, and he’s a connection with my homeland that I hadn’t expected. Although I love it here, and I haven’t thought too much about New Zealand, a sudden wave of homesickness makes tears spring into my eyes.

“I promised I wouldn’t go weepy on you,” I whisper, fighting not to let the tears roll down my cheeks again.

He rubs my back. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

I lean my forehead on his shoulder, and he rests his hand on the back of my head.

“You cut your hair,” he murmurs, running a strand through his fingers.

I nod without looking up, waiting for him to echo my family and say something likeWhat a shame.

“I love it,” he says. “You look all grown up.”

Aw, this guy is killing me. I put both hands on his chest, unable to miss the hard, defined muscles beneath my fingertips, and push back. “Come in,” I say, smiling, and I back away into the house.

He follows, bringing his bag, and I close the door behind him.