to be known.
They had flirted via emails.
Not much.
It felt massive to Freya, though.
‘I need you there tomorrow at nine,’ James said. ‘I’m sure he’s going to have questions about the promotional side of things and I want a press release out saying that we have Zackary on board.’
‘Zack!’ Freya said. ‘He prefers to be called Zack.’
‘Noted,’ James responded. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at nine. I’ll flick over some details tonight.’
‘Thanks.’
Oh, God.
After the tame girls’ night with her smug married friends, Freya had poured another cocktail and opened up her laptop and located a certain series of emails.
She never got involved with people she worked with. Actually, Freya really didn’t get too involved full stop. But this teeny tiny flirt had been fun and Zack had outright asked if she was single.
Several daiquiris later, when Freya, who took her health seriously and didn’t often drink, had decided to embrace the merits of not being married, she had typed her response back.
Very single. (Don’t tell James.)
And now, tomorrow, she had to face him.
His response had made her blush and it was making her blush now.
I never kiss and tell.
Hopefully he wouldn’t get the role, Freya thought, but who was she kidding? James wanted Zack Carlton on board, so much so that he had him currently housed in a luxury apartment that The Hills owned and was interviewing him on New Year’s Day.
It had been a stupid flirt, a tiny one, but it had been completely out of character for her, and not just professionally. Freya wasn’t a flirty person at all, she was far too controlled for that.
Blame it on the daiquiris.
Actually, she couldn’t because the flirt had started a couple of emails prior to that.
She sighed. He was probably fifty and married with sixteen children. She’d blush about it tomorrow, but right now she had to deal with the wedding.
First, though, she texted her neighbour Red. Freya had a late checkout but hadn’t been intending to use it as she wanted to get home to her little dog, Cleo. Instead, she asked Red if he would let her out and feed her in the morning.
With that sorted she went to go but then Freya caught sight of her bare shoulders; she turned and looked again at her spine.
It had been that sight that had terrified James. Freya could still remember his shocked reaction as he had sat her up so that the doctor could listen to her chest.
‘Freya!’
She had always kept this part of her body covered, hiding her secret, denying to everyone she had a problem, partying her way through her parents’ appalling divorce and pretending she didn’t care.
It was hard enough having high-profile actors as parents and wearing the Rothsberg name, but when that marriage had ended, to have it played out over the media had been agony.
And when a journalist had pointed out that Freya was just a little bit younger than her father’s latest girlfriend, a magazine had taken it one nasty step further and pointed out that Freya was also considerably larger.
Her comfort during the very public break-up had, till then, been food and she’d had to endure the spotlight that had shone on her parents suddenly widening to accommodate both herself and James.
She had rigorously denied herself the comfort of food.
Very rigorously!
And she had also partied hard.
James had hauled her out of a nightclub and, too weak to row with her brother, Freya had collapsed and been rushed to hospital.
There she had been stripped and put into a gown and then James had been allowed back in, and that was when he had seen her spine and the true extent of her problem had been exposed.
Now, fourteen years later, she would stand today with the most loathed part of her body on show and, joy of joys, eat at the top table.
Freya was better now—so, so much better.
Recovered, healed, whatever the best word was, but there were still hurts and repercussions that she had to deal with, and one of the big ones was that she rarely had a period.
Seriously rarely.
Once, maybe twice a year.
‘It’s your own fault,’ Freya told her reflection, and then came away from the mirror and headed out to the elevator.
She got in and closed her eyes, resting against the wall as she angled her neck to release tension. When she opened them, instead of being on the mezzanine level, she was on the ground floor, and looking into the eyes of Him!
‘Well, you prove my theory,’ he said in a deep, sexy voice.
It was Him!
The man she had seen a few days ago.
Freya had been speaking with the hotel’s events coordinator and working out how long they would need to freeze the escalators for, when they’d both stopped talking as the sound of Cuban heels had rung out on the marble floor. And they had stopped talking with good reason. Tall, tanned, with shaggy, curly black hair, he had walked past them in dark jeans and tight T-shirt, carrying a large backpack. He had been just so sexy that he’d simply stopped conversations. Both women had watched him go up to the desk to check in and then shared a guilty smile once they’d finished checking him out.
And now Freya was in the lift with Him.
‘And your theory is?’ Freya asked.
‘That all the good girls are taken.’ He asked her which floor she wanted. ‘I’ve already pressed...’ Actually, no, her selection had been erased. ‘The mezzanine level.’ She watched as long suntanned fingers pressed said level and then he pressed for floor twenty-eight and she wished, how she wished, she had given the thirtieth floor as her choice of destination, just for a minute or two more alone with him.
‘Shouldn’t brides be smiling on their wedding day?’ he asked, and Freya tried to place his accent.
‘Believe me, the bride is smiling,’ Freya said in a dry voice. ‘I’m the bridesmaid.’
‘Did I hear the word maid?’
Freya laughed at the cheeky inference and the slow smile he gave in return had her stomach tighten. Sexy green eyes were looking right at her, and he didn’t make her feel like an old maid in the least...
Freya blinked at her own thought process.
The hotel
