‘No. I’ll need my tux dry-cleaned for the Andelesea Gala. Make arrangements with Giles at Fosters.’
The Andelesea Gala. It’s one of the biggest annual events in the art world. It’s always held at Countryscape, and usually exhibits some spectacular piece of art or treasure. I nod and draw a line under my list. ‘Got it.’
‘Good.’ Becker takes off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. He looks troubled all of a sudden, like the weight of a thousand elephants is on his mind. I inwardly laugh. Join the club. I open my mouth to ask if he’s okay but pull up when I remember that I’m on work time. The balance. I mentally yell at myself, and at Becker, too. I don’t know how to approach this situation; don’t know how he wants me to be. I need help.
‘Mr Hunt,’ I begin, and he looks up at me, startled. I’ve just interrupted some deep thoughts. I hope he’s worrying about the same things I am. Like how we proceed. What happens next? Are we crazy?
‘Mr Hunt?’ he says. ‘Really, princess?’
‘Well that’s just it, isn’t it?’ I flop back in my chair, exasperated and exhausted from the weight of my worries.
‘What is?’
‘This’ – I wave my pen between us – ‘after yesterday, last night . . . all of the . . . and the . . . with my job . . . and the thing that happened.’ I give up, struggling to articulate my issue. He’s not stupid. He must understand.
Becker flops back in his chair, too, exhausted by my nonsensical blabbering. ‘Yeah,’ he says quietly, sliding a palm on to his nape and massaging. ‘It’s screwing with my head too.’
Oh, thank God. I’m all kinds of relieved, and the air that gushes past my lips is proof. ‘You need to set some boundaries,’ I say. This is a stupid request. The boundaries since I’ve been here have always been blurred.
‘We have this.’ He looks a bit too pleased with himself when he raises the NDA above his head before slipping his glasses on and glancing down at it. ‘Maybe we could add a few more things.’
My jaw hits the notepad on my knee. ‘Are you serious?’
He grins down at the paper. ‘Totally.’
‘Seriously, Becker. We need to draw lines. Big fat black ones that are as clear as day.’
‘Probably wise,’ he agrees, placing the NDA in front of him. ‘What would you like to add to clause three?’ He arms himself with a pen and looks at me expectantly. He really is serious. ‘Oh’ – he takes his pen to the paper – ‘no . . . flirting . . . with . . . the . . . enemy.’ A dramatic full stop is added when he stabs the paper with the nib of the pen.
‘Then stop letting him in The Haven.’ I basically sigh my way through my words. ‘And so we’re clear, where it says in the NDA that there should be no client–employee relations, do you mean on the whole or just Brent Wilson specifically?’
‘Brent isn’t a client,’ Becker breathes tiredly.
‘Oh, yes. Of course. He’s the enemy. In that case,’ I go on, well aware that my next words might push a dangerous button, ‘do you mean no flirting with any enemies, or just Brent in particular? And if it’s the former, can you confirm if any other enemies you might have are as hot as Brent, because if that’s the case I might have to quit.’
I was wrong. I didn’t just push a button, I whacked it. Becker’s nostrils flare, his features going sharp. He looks murderous. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he warns.
There it is again. Possessiveness. Becker scowls, and I grin. I can’t deny it, I get a really big kick out of it, especially since I know Becker Hunt isn’t possessive about anything other than his treasure. So, really, doesn’t that make me different already? ‘Okay,’ I sigh. ‘No cavorting with any enemies. What about cavorting with co-workers?’ I ask.
‘You want to get familiar with Mrs Potts?’
I purse my lips. ‘What about cavorting with my boss?’
‘Oh.’ He feigns realisation, grinning. ‘That’s allowed.’
‘Of course it is.’ I roll my eyes and try to get us back on serious ground. ‘We need ground rules.’
He pushes the NDA aside and rests his forearms on the desk, leaning over. He cocks his head for me to come closer, so I pull my chair in and mirror him. ‘It’s simple, princess.’ He reaches forward and