Читать книгу If We Ever Meet Again - Portia MacIntosh - Страница 10

Chapter One

The Fairy Tale

I wonder who started the bloody ridiculous rumour that women can multi-task effortlessly. I’d love to know so that I can send them a photograph of me right now (obviously someone else would have to take it for me) epic-failing my way to the office.

It’s 11 a.m. on an exceptionally cold Monday morning and I’m late for work. Again, and as always. Currently dodging my way through the busy streets of Leeds, I’m desperately trying not to drop anything. In my right hand I have four take-away cups of coffee – in a holder obviously, I’m good but I’m not that good – my massive Mary Poppins-style handbag hooked on my left arm and my mobile phone in my left hand. It’s still in my hand because, as I was leaving Starbucks, I received a call from work and without a free hand to put my phone back in my bag, that’s where it’s going to have to stay.

Thankfully work is just around the corner from my flat, although I was supposed to be at the office by 10 a.m. Stopping at Starbucks has only made me even later but I’m hoping the coffees will score me some brownie points with the staff. If you can’t be on time, the least you can do is suck up to people.

Just one more road to cross and I’ll be there. Balancing on the edge of the curb in my silly yet beautiful shoes, I feel like the slightest breeze could knock me off my feet. As the green man appears, I step off the pavement with the rest of the sheep. Eyeballing the window of my office for angry faces, I make it half way across the road when something hits me – literally hits me. As I fall to the ground in what feels like super-slow, Matrix-esque motion (although it probably doesn’t look quite so graceful to the people around me), my impressive coffee-handbag-phone balancing act comes to an abrupt end. Landing flat on my back, right there in the middle of the road, I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus. Was I hit by a bus? I can hear people fussing around me and the impatient blaring of car horns. They can piss off, I could be dead...although if I’m thinking that, chances are I’m probably still alive, right?

As I run my hands down my body to check for major injuries, I feel that my skirt is up around my waist. I have never been happier to be wearing such thick tights, God bless the crappy, cold weather we have up north.

There’s a strong smell of coffee coming from the double-digits’-worth of Starbucks puddle on the road next to me, which thankfully hasn’t trickled towards me, although I am tempted to roll over and lap it up.

Despite having the wind knocked out of me, I think I’m going to make it.

‘I am so sorry, let me help you up,’ I hear a deep, apologetic voice insist as a hand reaches for mine.

Flat on my back and in the middle of the road, with my skirt hitched up around my waist, I am in no position to be declining help, so I grab the stranger’s hand and let him yank me to my feet.

‘Here’s your phone, I hope it isn’t broken. Shit, there are a couple of scratches on it,’ the stranger informs me as he hands me my fairly battered-looking phone. My phone is noticeably scratched, but I don’t tell him that most of the damage probably occurred the time my phone took a tumble down the stairs, bashed against something in my handbag, magically escaped my grasp, etc. In fact, my phone has been dropped so many times it’s a miracle that it still works. I prod a button on the front with a very shaky finger and my trusty phone springs to life as usual. What a trooper. Only after making sure my phone is OK do I actually look the only person who stopped to help me in the eye. Ushering me back across the road (the side I don’t want to be on) is an absolutely gorgeous man. Shit, I can’t believe he saw me lying in the road like that. He’s wearing a very flashy suit and clutching a fat, important-looking file stuffed with papers. Oh, and he has one of my shoes tucked under his arm, which explains why I’m limping – I thought I’d snapped my ankle or something.

‘Thanks for helping me. I’m not sure what happened, I was crossing the road and—’ I stop mid-sentence. The truth is, I have no idea what happened.

The good-looking stranger sits me down on the nearest bench.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks me with a very concerned look on his face. He looks like every portrayal of Prince Charming I have ever seen in the movies, with an added (and well-used) gym membership thrown into the mix.

‘I’m OK, just a bit shaken up. Did you see what happened?’

‘Please, wait here,’ handsome stranger insists. ‘I have to get this file to someone in that building.’ He gestures towards the offices behind us with the fat file. ‘Just...don’t move. I’ll be back in five minutes, I’ll explain everything then. Get your breath back, OK?’

I nod my head and watch him dash into the building behind me, my shoe still tucked under his arm which means I couldn’t leave if I wanted to – not that wearing only one shoe concerns me, but just one of these particular shoes is worth more than most of my other pairs.

Whatever happened to me, I am so lucky that I landed on my bum because I think it broke my fall. I’ll never complain about the size of it again, I promise.

I check my phone again and then my bag to make sure nothing is damaged – or even more damaged than it was before I fell. Everything seems to be OK, and despite feeling a bit achy and a lot embarrassed, I think I’m OK too. The only things that suffered are the coffees – the poor coffees! It breaks my heart watching cars driving over the empty cups in the middle of the road.

‘Right, are you OK?’ the gorgeous stranger asks when he returns. ‘I feel like such a dickhead. I was in a bit of a rush, I completely knocked you off your feet.’

Ah, so that’s what happened.

‘No harm done. I’m fine,’ I assure him, although part of me is thinking I should be a bit pissed off – but who could be mad at that silky black hair and those perfect teeth? To be honest, I just want to get another coffee (for medicinal purposes) and get to work.

‘I feel terrible. Can I replace your drinks? It’s the least I can do. I’m Tom by the way.’ He offers me his hand for the second time, this time for me to shake.

‘I’m Nicole, nice to meet you. I think,’ I reply as I shake his hand. He has a tight, manly grip and I’m certain I’m blushing right now.

‘Nice to meet you too, Nicole. Let’s get those drinks.’

‘Honestly, it’s fine, I—’

‘Please?’ Tom flashes a smile that I can’t bring myself to say no to and so I give in, but not before he gets down on one knee and delicately places my shoe back on my foot. If the smile didn’t have me saying yes, then the Cinderella moment sealed the deal.

Soon enough I’m in Starbucks, again, only this time it’s much busier and we’re forced to wait for our order. We chat for a few minutes and it turns out that Tom works for a firm of solicitors not far from where I work and, despite the fact that he practically assaulted me, and the fact we’ve only known each other for about twenty minutes, we’re getting on really well.

As soon as the drinks are ready, we walk back towards our offices. This is the second longest time it has ever taken me to walk the short journey from my flat to where I work. My record was set a couple of months ago when I spied a sale at one of my favourite shops, or a ‘dental emergency’ as I explained it to my colleagues, bursting through the doors several hours late with lots of suspicious-looking carrier bags.

‘This is me,’ I say as we arrive at the revolving doors that lead to my office. ‘I’m sure I can handle it from here.’

‘I’m sure you can.’ He smiles that smile again. ‘I know this must seem a bit weird considering the circumstances, but I’d really like to see you again. I’ve already swept you off your feet.’

That’s the kind of cheesiness that would normally make me sick all over a man’s shoes, but being so gorgeous, even a line as lame as that sounds utterly charming as it leaves his lips.

‘Erm, knocked me off my feet,’ I correct him, and he laughs.

‘I’ll give you my card, give me a call if you want to go for a drink sometime.’

After thanking him again, I take the card and say goodbye. As soon as I am in the building and out of Tom’s line of sight, I toss the card into the nearest bin, because there’s no way I’m going to call him. Yes, he’s good-looking, charming, funny and has a really good job, but that’s just not my type. He may be any normal/sane girl’s type, but I’ve never been that normal. Or sane.

Anyway, I’m late for work. Better get a move on.