I clutch my bag to my chest like a protective shield as I peek up. His hair is mousy brown, cut neatly and close to his head at the sides, but longer on top, set with what I know would have been a rough muss of wax-coated fingers. Hazel eyes with flecks of green are shining at me from behind thick-rimmed glasses that rest perfectly on his perfect nose. His eyes, framed with long lashes, are heavy and angelic, almost feminine, and look at me with a lazy, almost amused stare. Jesus, it’s all I can do not to step closer and study them. He looks familiar, and I cock my head, wondering where I could have seen him before. I’m being silly. I’ve been cooped up in Helston for most of my life. I couldn’t possibly know him.
My eyes drop like stones when I realise I’m staring, landing on some smart grey trousers. His stance widens, like he’s aware of the observation he’s under and has decided to showcase it in its best light. The material is pulling on his thighs a little from his hands filling his pockets. He has sturdy thighs. Strong thighs. Rugby-player thighs.
I cough my throat clear. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, taking hold of the cab’s door handle. But he moves fast, sweeping past me and jumping into the cab. My cab. ‘Hey,’ I say indignantly, my arm jarring as I lose my grip of the handle when he pulls the door shut behind him. I step back in shock. He doesn’t even look at me, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s left me stranded on the kerbside. What I do see, though, is a broad back beneath a grey blazer and a navy scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. And then, when he settles in the seat, I catch sight of his profile. I’m rendered pathetic again for a second. He has the most perfect profile of any man I’ve ever seen.
I shake myself from my inappropriate observations. This wanker just stole my cab – an arsehole move that wipes out the fact that he saved me from my fall in the first place. Or that he’s a gorgeous son of a bitch. I will him to look at me so I can toss him an evil look, but the bastard evades my eyes and the cab pulls away before I can yank the door open and hurl a load of abuse at him.
Stunned and irritated, I stand on the kerb with my mouth open, staring at the rear of the cab driving away. He slowly turns his head and looks out of the back window. The cab might already be fifty-odd feet away, but I definitely see the slow formation of a smug smile.
‘You arsehole,’ I breathe, and stare for far too long until the cab gets lost among the other traffic. ‘Shit.’ I pull myself together.
My eyes shoot across the road, my arm flying into the air once more, but I don’t get lucky again. Every cab sails right past.
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head as I reach down and remove my heels. I don’t have the time or freedom to be bothered by what I’m about to do. ‘Excuse me,’ I sing as I rush down the street in my bare feet, weaving and dodging everyone in my path. My legs work fast, and despite drawing a few frowns from the pedestrians jumping from my path, I focus on making it to my interview on time.
But I’m not on time.
I land outside the grand building at quarter past ten after taking too many wrong turns. My face is damp, my long, red hair is in my eyes, and my cheeks are probably pinker than usual. I must look a mess.
Holding the side of the wall, I slip on my shoes then take a risky peek at my reflection in the window. ‘Bollocks.’ My fears are confirmed. I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. My brown eyes are watery, my mascara running. Hardly fitting for an elite auction house.
I spend the next five minutes straightening myself out, which now makes me a full twenty minutes late. If I wasn’t so desperate for the job, I wouldn’t be so cheeky as to present myself at reception and reel off my excuses. But I am desperate. I really need this job. And I really, really want it. This particular London auction house – Parsonson’s – is renowned for dealing in only the most famous and collectible pieces. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Okay, Eleanor. You can turn this around. Smile. Stand tall. Let’s do this.
My phone starts ringing, and I growl my frustration as I dive into my bag. My ex-boyfriend’s name on the screen adds to my already frazzled nerves. ‘Go away, David,’ I mutter, rejecting the call before turning off my phone. I said everything I had to say while he chased after me yanking his boxers on. Which was a basic fuck off. Hasn’t he got the message yet?