Charlotte Phillips - All Bets Are On

‘I need to get out more?’ she snapped through the door. The simplicity of the suggestion, pigeon-holing all her problems into one easy sentence, infuriated her. ‘Like you, you mean? Your social life is the talk of the post room. You must be barely ever home. I’m surprised you’re able to fit work in. Don’t you ever wonder what the point of it all is?’

There was a surprised silence.

‘The point is to have fun,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m not trying to criticise. I’m just saying that the sun doesn’t rise and set with Innova. When did you last go out? Socially, I mean. For a drink or a meal?’

‘I go out,’ she said defensively, glaring at the back of the cubicle door, imagining him on the other side of it, with his dark tousled hair, crinkly-eyed smile, and his endless string of girlfriends and rampant social life. An image of her own previous evening flashed into her mind. Herself on the sofa, Kevin the cat on one side, stack of work files on the other, laptop open, CSI box set on the TV in the background. Hell, it might as well be an image of any evening this week. This year.

‘When? Where? Who with?’

‘What are you, my father? I see people.’ She frowned indignantly at the closed door.

‘See me, then,’ he said in a low voice and that soft melty sensation bubbled hotly back up inside her. She slid her hands across her middle and pressed hard to make it stop as she groped for a suitable response. Any response.

‘Alice?’ he said. Her stupid heart had begun to beat madly.

She took a deep calming breath.

‘What?’

His voice was low and close. She knew he must be literally right on the other side of the door.

‘If you haven’t dated for a long time and you’re thinking of getting back out there—’

‘I didn’t say that!’ she snapped. Oh, what the hell was she thinking, blurting out all her problems to him? At best he could go back to the office and report that Ice-Queen Ford was having a crying fit over being perpetually single. At worst, there really might be a Page Two of the damn bet pool and Harry Stephens could be right there on it with a big fat stake.

His voice was serious though, steady, making her feel as if he could see perfectly well through her bravado. Her insides felt suddenly squiggly.

‘Because if you were...’

‘Were what?’

Her thumping heart seemed to be working independently of her mind.

Please. Was she actually having a swooning moment over Harry Stephens of all people? After all she’d been through in the past had her body learned nothing? Did her heart have no reservations about reacting to the most unreliable playboy bachelor London had ever seen? Over the past year or so, he’d had more female workers in tears than she’d had hot coffees! She gritted her teeth. Obviously she’d been thrown off balance by discovery of the bet. Her usual defences had been scrambled.

‘If you were thinking about dating again, maybe you’d like to go for a drink,’ he said.

‘With you?’

The question exploded from her lips in the form of a laugh. Because it was laughable, wasn’t it? That after her past experiences she would look twice at someone like him.

‘Your amusement could be construed as an insult, you know,’ he said mildly.

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

Stock answer. No excuse required. Always worked on the run-of-the-mill guys in the office, those that dared broach the aloof distance she kept between herself and her colleagues. She could count the times she’d been asked out at work on one hand and, come to think of it, two of them had been in the last month or so. Her cheeks flushed hotly. Now she knew why—because there was a pot of cash waiting to be scooped by the man who managed to land her. She wondered again if Harry was involved.

‘Of course you can,’ he said. ‘No one works twenty-four-seven. Not even you. It’s only a drink. An hour. Everyone has an hour.’

‘I’m busy,’ she said again. ‘I don’t date.’

In Harry Stephens’s world, of course, no meant maybe. He realised it was a simple matter of finding the right approach. One that might appeal to her reluctance to get out there instead of feeding it. Start small. If she hadn’t dated for years, more than a drink or a coffee was going to seem monumental. And most important of all, offer some kind of incentive.

Make her think he could be part of the solution instead of part of the problem.

‘Just hear me out,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you.’

‘What kind of proposition?’

The upset tone had slipped from her voice. He could almost hear the ticking over of her mind, her attention raised because he’d given his question a detached work-style tone.

‘I’m exactly what you need,’ he said. ‘To help you get back out there.’

TWO

There was a snap as the lock twisted back on the cubicle door and then Alice was in front of him. The tears had dried and her face was no longer purple. She looked pale and tired, her eyes red-rimmed from all the crying. Her hair, still partially twisted into its chignon, stuck out at odd angles. She took a deliberate side-step around him and moved across to the sink, putting a good space between them. Harry saw her grimace at her own reflection before she turned her gaze back on him.

As her eyes narrowed a spark of sudden heat zipped up his spine. Obviously because Alice Ford didn’t do vulnerable, he decided, that was all. She did polished and professional. He was bound to react to such a change in her.

‘What do you mean, you’re exactly what I need?’

Her arms were crossed defensively, her face totally suffused with suspicion and he knew that convincing her he was genuine was going to be tough. Then again, tough had never caused him a problem before.

‘What if I were to offer you my services?’ he said.

She was looking at him as if she thought he might be crazy.

‘Your services? As what exactly?’

He shrugged, leaned back against the wall and looked her in the eye.

‘As someone who dates a lot. Someone who’s out there.’

He ignored the cynical expression on her face and forged ahead.

‘Instead of going to bars or restaurants on your own, come out with me. You said yourself just now, you’re rusty. And starting from scratch at anything is pretty daunting—right? Just think of the alternatives.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s internet dating, where you never know if the person showing up is a serial killer.’

‘As opposed to a serial dater,’ she said, eyebrows raised.

‘Hey, that’s an advantage! I’ve probably been on more first dates than anyone else you know. I’m used to the social scene. I know all the best places to go to meet new people. I’m perfect for the job. Whatever your reason is for staying out of the field these last three years, whatever moron has stitched you up or treated you badly in the past—’

‘How do you know that’s the reason?’ she snapped, his interest sharpening at her sudden defensiveness. ‘I’ve been putting work first, that’s all. Focusing on my career. It’s as simple as that. I don’t need your help.’

‘OK, OK.’ He held his hands up. ‘You’ve still been out of the field for a while. Out of the social scene, out of the habit of getting to know people.’

‘I get to know people!’ she protested.

He deliberately fixed his gaze on hers.

‘Professionally maybe. But what about getting to know someone for pleasure?’

He saw a soft blush touch the porcelain skin of her cheekbones. He had her on edge. He liked having that effect on her.

‘Just think about it for a minute. A few no-strings dates with me and you’ll have checked out a few nice bars, maybe a restaurant or two, you will have broken the ice, started talking to people about something other than work for a change.’ He winked at her. ‘You’ll be back out there. Problem solved.’ He paused, then added an extra touch of encouragement. ‘And no one needs to know we ever had this conversation.’