Zoe May - How

‘I know!’ I laugh. I’m not generally one for celebrity culture but part of the reason I know about Holly’s rise to fame is because Collette adores her. She grew up in the same part of Leeds as us and, while that doesn’t really mean much to me, it’s part of the reason Collette loves her so much and has followed her career so closely as Holly’s catapulted to stardom. Collette’s always watched the shows Holly’s presented, meaning that she’s often been on our TV, in the background on lazy Saturdays or when we’re making dinner together. Holly’s pretty face has been the backdrop to quite a few of our evenings, with her big blue eyes and sweeping blonde hair. Collette is probably the reason I’m also so familiar with Prince Isaac. When the pair first announced their engagement, Collette bought all the gossip magazines and pored over all the glossy photos of the couple, looking perfect together. Prince Isaac is the kind of man little girls dream about marrying when they grow up: tall, strong and breathtakingly handsome, with kind-looking blue eyes. The adoring, affectionate, smitten way he looked at Holly in the pictures was almost enough to make my cold single heart melt.

Collette fixes me with a serious look. ‘I know you’re not the biggest fans of weddings, but this isn’t just a wedding, this is a super wedding. This is a movie brought to life. A fairy tale before our very eyes. You have to enjoy every moment, Sam. Even if you just do it for me!’

‘Okay, okay!’ I insist, but Collette holds her imploring stare.

‘You’re living every girl’s dream right now. You have to make the most of it. Think of it as a holiday from all the serious stuff you write about. A bit of fun!’

She looks so incredibly earnest. I give her hands a squeeze. Thinking of it as a holiday isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe it will be fun, and maybe I should try lightening up for once.

‘Okay, you’re right,’ I tell her. ‘I promise I’ll make the most of it.’

Collette grins. ‘I can’t wait!’

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!