Читать книгу How (Not) to Date a Prince - Zoe May - Страница 10

Chapter Three

I glance up from an article I’m reading on my phone about yesterday’s earthquake as I push the swing door open and arrive at work. I still feel a twinge of guilt as I read the serious news coverage, but I’ve got a spring in my step this morning because I’m determined to do Collette proud and make the most of this opportunity, even if it isn’t going to fast-track my career towards winning the Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Reporting any time soon.

‘Morning, Al,’ I say to the receptionist as I slip through the revolving doors. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Not too bad, not too bad,’ Al says, scratching his beard. ‘Haven’t had a day off for eight days now. Always working. Always working. But can’t complain, eh? A job’s a job.’

Al’s one of these people that somehow manages to be completely negative and misanthropic, and yet stays wholly likeable and down-to-earth. If I’m totally honest, I quite like his brand of whingey optimism. He’s a fellow news junkie and we often have a quick chat about the top stories of the day before I head up to the office.

‘True, true. Terrible about the earthquake!’

‘Tragic,’ Al agrees, looking up from a paper open in front of him emblazoned with images of the wreckage and people fleeing through the streets. Not only did the earthquake kill five people, but it shook the city at night, causing a few of its tallest buildings including the town hall to crumble to dust.

‘Can you imagine if it had been during the day?’ he says.

‘Oh yes, would have been so much worse.’ I shudder. ‘High-rise buildings and earthquakes clearly don’t mix.’

‘Definitely not.’ Al clears his throat and averts his gaze towards a man walking into reception.

I turn to look. He’s not just your average office worker; he’s different. He’s tall, probably around six foot two, with clear glowing skin, blond, perfectly-styled hair and striking eyes. He’s dressed in a three-piece navy suit and looks extraordinary. The Daily Post may be based in a swanky fifteen-storey office block, but no one, not even the most senior editors, dresses like this guy. His suit is clearly expensive; it’s perfectly tailored and fits him like a glove, unlike the frumpy Marks & Spencer numbers the unfashionable journalists always rock. He glances at me, no doubt sensing my lingering gaze, and the second his eyes land on mine, I look away.

I glance at Al, who subtly raises an eyebrow. Was I drooling that obviously? What’s got into me? The sight of a man in a three-piece suit and I turn to jelly? That isn’t me. I don’t do crushes or love at first sight. Surely Phil’s royal wedding Cupid plan to convince me love exists isn’t already having an effect?

‘I’m heading upstairs. See you, Al.’

‘See you later, Sam,’ Al replies, and I scurry off, not daring to look back at the gorgeous guy, even though I can feel him watching me as I head over to the lift.

I press the button for it and wait, expecting the doors to ping open immediately like they usually do. Except today, they don’t. I glance at the display to see the lift is stuck at floor fifteen. Floor fifteen! I sigh and try the adjacent lift, but it’s at floor eleven. I check the time on my phone: it’s five past nine now. Great, I’m late. I’ll have to sneak into the office and hope Phil doesn’t notice me, except he’s almost as much of a stickler for punctuality as he is for grammar.

Both of the lifts drop down a few floors but they’re still taking their sweet time. Holding my phone, I decide that while I’m waiting, I’ll see if any news updates have come through. On the train this morning, I set up Google alerts for every royal wedding key word and a few articles have already started pinging through.

I open one of the links.

‘Good morning,’ a man’s voice says. I look up and, naturally, it’s the guy from reception. Of course, it is, where did I think he was going to go after signing in with Al? He must have a meeting with someone from one of the other companies here. Although the Daily Post has five out of fifteen floors, there’s also a law firm, a rival paper called The Chronicle and a marketing agency. Dressed as smartly as he is, I’d imagine he’s heading to the law firm. Perhaps he’s some kind of fancy legal consultant.

‘Morning,’ I reply in a small awkward voice that makes me wince. I meet his gaze and quickly take in his eyes (bluest of blues, penetrating), his eyebrows (angular, artfully shaped, like bird wings) and his mouth (thin and wide, masculine, a little severe but somehow incredibly sexy.)

‘Will it be a long wait?’ he asks, glancing up at the number illuminated above the nearest lift: seven. His accent sounds Scandinavian.

‘Maybe. Not too long. Depends…on whether it actually stops at those floors. Obviously,’ I add, clarifying, but it comes out unintentionally snooty and patronizing. I wince. I’m so out of the game when it comes to romance that I can’t even answer a simply question to an attractive man without coming across as rude.

I smile in an effort to show I’m not being horrible, but, fortunately, he doesn’t seem put out. He simply nods.

‘Well, hopefully no one else will get on then,’ he says with a smile that suddenly transforms the hard line of his mouth into something humorous and playful, his eyes twinkling with what I’m pretty sure is flirtation. Even though, to be fair, I’m pretty rusty when it comes to these things.

‘Hopefully not,’ I laugh, glancing coquettishly at him. What am I doing?

Yes, he’s being a bit flirty, and yes, the idea of being alone in a lift with this mysterious stranger is undeniably appealing, but what am I doing getting hot under the collar when I should be focusing on the day ahead? I have a ton of work to do. I turn my attention back to my article and force myself to read it. What was I thinking? Comparing his eyebrows to bird wings!

Finally, one of the lifts arrives. The doors ping open and we step inside. I’m closest to the floor buttons so after pressing the button for my floor, I turn to him.

‘Where are you heading?’

‘Floor eight,’ he says, which is the floor of The Chronicle, meaning he’s here to visit the newspaper, not the law firm like I’d suspected.

‘Right.’ I press the button, trying to conceal my surprise. This guy looks nothing like the journalists at The Chronicle, who are even scruffier than our lot at the Daily Post. They treat pretty much every day like dress-down Friday, sporting faded jeans, baggy T-shirts and ratty old jumpers day in, day out.

‘And you’re heading to floor nine. Is that the Daily Post?’ he asks, glancing at the glowing button as the doors close and the lift shoots up the shaft. His accent is thick and strong, his voice deep. It almost sounds Norwegian.

‘Yes, I’m a journalist there. Where are you from?’

‘I’m from Norway,’ he replies. ‘My name’s Anders.’

‘So, do you work for The Chronicle?’ I ask and it’s only then that I notice that he’s carrying some wedding brochures under his arm.

He looks momentarily confused. ‘Oh, yes! Yes, I do.’

‘You’re new though, right?’

‘Yeah, I am.’

‘So, if you’re from Norway, are you covering the royal wedding? Holly and Prince Isaac?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ he says. ‘And you are…?’

‘Oh, sorry! I’m Sam. Samantha Fischer.’ I reach out to shake his hand and, as our palms clasp, it feels like a current is passing through us. The air fizzes and everything else is drowned out. I gaze into his eyes, deep and blue as a fjord. His face really is remarkably handsome, strong boned with high cheekbones, smooth skin and a healthy glow. He’s magnetic, but it’s not just his conventional good looks that are appealing, it’s the twinkle in his eyes that feels infectious. As we hold the handshake for a fraction of a second too long, our gaze lingering on one another, I can’t help wondering if he feels it too. Does he feel that pull? The tension? The spark?

My phone buzzes, piercing the moment.

‘Sorry.’ I let go of his hand and reach into my handbag to get my phone, but as I take it out of my bag, something falls off the back of it. A piece of card. One of Collette’s designs. It lands on the floor.

It’s one of her cheeky Valentine’s Day cards, featuring a picture of a sheep surrounded by love hearts with the caption, ‘I think ewe are sexy.’ My eyes widen in alarm as the card stares back at me and this ridiculously attractive man, taunting me like a gremlin. We both stand in silence, staring at it, for a horribly painful moment.

‘Oh my God!’ I plunge to the floor to pick it up. ‘Sorry. Flatmate. Card designer. Must have left it in my bag. She puts these stupid notes on them,’ I babble, unable to meet his gaze.

I turn the card over and scrawled in black ink inside is a message telling me: ‘Enjoy every second! Ewe are going to smash this!! Xxx.’ I shove it in my bag and steal a glance at Anders, whose lips are twitching with the effort of trying not to laugh. I can feel my cheeks blazing crimson. He can’t hold it in any longer and he lets out a chuckle, his eyes flickering with humour. I try to laugh too, but I’m dying inside and my cheeks are burning up. If the card wasn’t embarrassing enough, the fact that I can’t stop blushing shows that the ewe clearly hit a nerve.

The lift arrives at the eighth floor and the doors ping open.

‘Well, it was nice meeting ewe,’ Anders jokes, still smiling cheekily.

‘Yes. Uh-huh. Great!’ I groan.

He steps out of the lift and I avoid his gaze, my cheeks still hot.

‘See ewe around.’ He winks.

‘Yep, see you around!’ I sigh as the lift doors close.