double-padded bra and down jacket were on top of the job. Thank you to the God of Wonderbra for that. Then, grappling her ‘professional’ back with one designed-to-be-dazzling smile, she bounced in for an introduction.
‘Bryony Marshall, Sporting Chances TV – you must be Jackson Gale?’
Not that much of a wild assumption, given the way the decal-covered car was hollering it to the world. And something about the whole Teflon arrogance of the guy told her not to go in making excuses.
He thrust a hand in her direction.
‘Bryony! Hi, I’m Jackson.’ Riveting her to the spot as his face split into a grin the width of the promenade. ‘Going commando, as you just discovered.’
What?
‘Erghhh…’ Clinging onto his lean tanned hand under the tray of coffees as, for once in her life, words failed her.
‘No worries. At least now you can quash the rumours. Tell your viewers that I don’t shave my backside. Seems to be a subject of endless fascination to them. ’
If he was deliberately trying to wind her up, no way was she going to let him get the better of her.
‘I’ll certainly do my best to pass that on.’
‘And if you’ve finished with it, I’ll have my hand back please.’
‘Oh, yep.’ She unlocked her fingers. Shucks. Had she really been clinging onto him?
‘So what’s your preference? Shaved?’ Where the hell had that deep, gravelly growl come from? His dark eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Or not?’
‘What?’ she squeaked. Damn it! Was this guy for real?
‘Just wondering where you stand…’ His narrowed eyes locked onto her chest again. ‘In the rough-versus-smooth debate.’
She grappled a moment, to get control. ‘In that particular debate I’d say I stand firmly outside of the room.’ There – that told him. She tossed her head deliberately, shimmied him an unmissable ‘keep your distance’ smile. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
She thrust the tray under his nose.
‘Great. Thanks.’ Finally he unstuck his gaze from her boobs, allowing it travel to her face. ‘Got any black, without?’
Her stomach did an unexpected triple-flip as his dark eyes collided with hers, and she looked away quickly.
Reeling a bit at that molasses voice. Getting her breath back. ‘Sorry…?’
‘Mind still stuck on the underwear issue then?’ He let out a short guffaw. ‘Sorry to confuse you. I’m talking coffee here. No milk, no sugar.’ He flashed her another grin. ‘Keep up.’
Rude or what? And definitely pushing it.
‘Try the one with the green lid.’ Determined not to rise. So that was how he stayed in shape. She nudged a plastic cup towards him. ‘Muffin?’
His smirking snort with a triple shot of incredulity suggested she was talking dirty. Very dirty.
‘Do I look like I eat muffins?’
Good thing she hadn’t gone for pure porn cupcakes then.
‘Raspberry and white chocolate chip, freshly baked…’
And still he shook his head.
Whatever.
Muffins were today’s healthy option. She’d done a mega-order to ensure the crew stayed sweet, though no doubt by the end of the day she’d be hitting the cupcakes as usual, wading through an inch of buttercream for an instant sugar rescue.
‘Later perhaps.’
Was that him trying to be conciliatory?
‘Good luck with that given the gannets here; otherwise known as cameramen.’ Damn. She didn’t mean to let that beam get away. People who refused her muffins didn’t deserve smiles that effusive, even if they did have a great ass.
‘Did someone say white chocolate?’
Bryony turned to see Cressy swooping around the wing of the car, and coming to her own swooning halt right by Bryony’s elbow. ‘Lordy! Phwoar! Don’t mind if I do! Loving you for the muffins, Bry.’
Bryony, lips twitching, let her gaze skim firmly over the top of the OMG face Cressy was shooting sideways at her.
Cressy was so generous and warm, Bryony had forgiven her years ago for having the pint-sized figure she’d always wanted herself. But she was also a total man-magnet. Men falling at Cressy’s pretty, dainty feet was something else Bryony was totally inured to, even though it had landed them in a whole load of trouble more times than she cared to count.
And today could be shaping up for another Cressy train-wreck.
According to last night’s background research, fitted in by Bryony at two in the morning in her childhood bed after that shocker of a dinner with her Mum and Stepdad, it seemed that Jackson was exceptionally available. Apparently, cycle race podium-girls weren’t the only females he got up-close and personal with. Completely on the market by all accounts. Grabbing whatever he could wherever he could, and the more the better. Quality and quantity. Oh, and his nickname was The Howler, for three exceptionally good reasons: a) after howling gales, b) because of the way he howled as he crossed the finish line, and c) because…
The last reason went straight in the too-much-information bin. No way did she want to imagine his girlfriends’ ecstatic screams at the crucial moment.
More so, since she’d seen the guy in all his naked glory.
Especially since…
Bryony re-spun her brain cogs and landed, randomly, on last night’s crazy family dinner. Ouch! That would have to wait for later, when she had a whole lot of time and at least a full psychology department on hand for support. She had to remember: however hurtful the suggestions sounded, her mother was only trying to be kind.
Take one second to clear your head of all things family…And another to forget exactly why you’ve volunteered to bury yourself in work when you could’ve been shopping…
The frantic catch-up background reading was just one of the drawbacks of ending up working on a sports programme when you were the least-sporty person on the planet.
World famous cyclist Jackson Gale…
Getting up to speed for this sporting gig was time-consuming, not to mention stressful. Oh, and yawnsville too.
In theory TV production was the same regardless of the subject, but somehow it was a whole lot easier if you were in tune with what you were filming. It came naturally to her to be enthusiastic about filming pretty things and country houses, whereas with sport…even the word made her cringe. All wrapped-up with memories of humiliation in games lessons at school when she was not only a head taller than everyone else, but also
