file to me. ‘All the details for my trip are in here, as well as the computer login. Dorothy isn’t great with technology, hence the paper file. Percy’s set you up an email. Contact him if you need help.’
It takes way longer than it should for me to reach for the file, and when I do, my hands are visibly shaking. He’s going away? This is good. Very good. ‘I’ll see to it.’
‘And get me the files on Antonio Alice.’ His hand brushes mine as he withdraws, and I gulp, shaking my head and my thoughts into line.
‘The painter?’
‘Correct. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. Just book seven nights for the meantime until I have a better idea on how the deal will pan out.’
‘Okay.’
‘And research Mason Cox, while you’re at it. I want everything you can find on him.’
I look up on a frown. ‘I’m sorry, that name isn’t familiar to me.’
‘Why not?’
I come over a little hot, scanning my mind for anything that’ll clue me in. Shit, have I screwed up? Should I know Mason Cox? I feel the heat in my cheeks begin to rise, my brain not helping me out.
Becker grins. ‘Don’t sweat it, princess.’ He turns and struts away, and I have to force my eyes upwards so they don’t take in his lovely arse. ‘He’s a small-time dealer sniffing around. No one knows him. His details are in that file.’
I clench my jaw. The wanker. ‘I’ll get it done,’ I answer tightly, holding up the file.
‘Thanks.’ He opens the door but pauses. ‘Oh, and Eleanor?’
‘Yes?’
Looking over his shoulder, his face deadpans. ‘Be quick about it.’ He winks and then exits.
I breathe in deeply and call Becker Hunt every insulting name that comes to mind. ‘Twat,’ I mutter, opening the file he handed me. I hope this deal takes months.
Chapter 7
It’s my third week in the job. Lucy and I have spent endless nights together, drinking wine, watching rom-coms, and talking until our tongues ache. She’s a true gem, the sturdiest friend I’ve ever had in my twenty-eight years. With both of us employed and loving it, we’ve enjoyed a few messy nights on the town, as well as a few well-deserved shopping trips. Life in London is finally becoming what I always hoped, my dreams have been realised.
I’ve continued to ignore calls and texts from my ex-boyfriend and my ex-best friend. Ignoring them is becoming easier by the week. David wants to see me. Wants to make things right. What an idiot. He is a distant memory. And an unfaithful fucking arsehole.
I’ve made it a point to call Mum at least every other day, and each time she’s sounded better, happy to hear how I’m getting on. The only thing hanging over my head is the chore of getting my arse home to sort out Dad’s shop. The urgency to see to it is even less now that things are working out here. I’m happy. Content. Going home could upset all that. It could reignite my guilt for abandoning my father’s beloved store. It could also have me bumping into people I never want to see again. So, I’ve been putting it off.
Becker Hunt hasn’t been around, his South American deal taking longer than expected, and for that I’m grateful. I’m getting used to The Haven’s routine without any annoyingly lovely/irritating distractions. Our contact has been limited to phone calls and emails, which is great because I don’t have to look at him. It hasn’t stopped him from trying to get a rise out of me on our calls, though. He’s intolerable, but I’ve worked hard to let it slide. In fact, I think I’m becoming immune to him. His sheer presence, even from the other side of the world, is potent, so I’ve focused on fulfilling what’s expected of me quickly and with as little interaction as possible. Becker Hunt commands attention. I’m getting closer to being able to give him that attention without fighting constantly to rein in my uncontrollable, unreasonable attraction. Yes, I’m becoming immune. Even to his constant innuendoes and fierce need to try and rile me. It seems that Becker Hunt absolutely loves winding me up.
One thing I’ve learned in my time at The Haven is that there is no dress code. There’s no need for office attire, so today I’ve opted for some beige capri pants and a fitted white shirt. I can’t bring myself to revert to the flats that always graced my feet back