Mr. Park Lane (The Mister)

Which was exactly why a second date was an excellent idea.

“I’m not sure if I liked him. I mean, yes, he was nice enough. I’m just not a people-person. You know?”

“No, I don’t know. You’ve made friends with the people on the desk downstairs, with some guy who works at a food bank. You attract all sorts of people. Is Tom someone you want to attract?” I’d not picked Tom with any intent. I’d promised to find a date for Hartford and my secretary’s brother was available. But now we were talking about it, I wondered what kind of man Hartford would be happy with. Probably someone who did lots of altruistic things. Someone who worked for Greenpeace, or another doctor maybe. Even if I did do relationships—which I didn’t—Hartford should be with someone better suited to her.

“It’s been a long time. What if he wants to kiss me? Sleep with me?”

“You don’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

“You’re an excellent kisser,” she said, her eyes flicking down to my lips and then back up again.

My jaw tightened and I tried to mentally bat away the images I had of holding her, pressing my lips to hers, breathing in her sweet scent. Every time I thought I’d created some space between us, she said something like that. “What can I say? I like to set the bar high.”

“Don’t go using your dimple on me. You know what it does to me.”

My dimple? “No, I don’t know, but I’m thinking I’d like to.”

Her fork fell to her plate with a clatter and she slid off her stool to stand in front of me. Was that an invitation? “Good, God, Joshua. No wonder women worship you. Everything you say suggests hot, sweaty sex.”

I laughed. “It does?”

Before she answered, she headed to the door. “I’m going to have to leave now. If I stay another five seconds, I’m going to be dry humping your leg and trying to kiss you.”

I watched as she gave me one of her exaggerated waves and left.

I was grateful she’d gone because I’d been hoping she’d stay.

Thirteen

Joshua

The restaurant in Covent Garden wasn’t one I’d been to before. Hartford had picked it, though it didn’t seem like a place she’d choose for herself. It was modern industrial, with exposed poles and pipes crisscrossing the ceiling, metal chairs, and a concrete floor. I imagined Hartford would be more comfortable in a restaurant with oak beams, exposed flagstones, and a roaring fire. Given that my date was the model Hollie had been trying to set me up with, no doubt Hartford had picked the restaurant on a recommendation from one of the girls. It was like they were all conspiring to get me to fall in love.

Wasn’t going to happen.

I scanned down the menu and quickly made my choices so I could focus on my date. And then I pulled out my phone.

Food better be good or as punishment, I’m going to bring you back here, I texted Hartford.

Quick as a flash, my phone buzzed.

All food is good food. But I’m sitting here hoping the food is not up to your usual standards so I get a free meal.

Her reply was typical. Unfiltered but vaguely wise. In the places she’d worked, I imagined she was used to seeing people who would have thought eating in a restaurant was one step away from heaven. Her worldview forced me to look at everything and everyone in a new light. It was unsettling. Unnerving. Uncomfortable.

But for some reason, I craved it.

I enjoyed hearing what she thought about things. About everything.

When I saw a tall, very thin blonde coming toward me, I knew this must be Natalie—or Mavis, as Hartford had nicknamed her. I stood and grinned. Then turned down my smile, conscious of my dimple.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Joshua and . . . you’re beautiful.”

Her eyes darted to the floor and she looked up at me from under her eyelashes. “Thank you.” She was a model with all the attributes you’d expect: long legs, clear skin, big eyes, and a pout she knew how to use. She reminded me a little of Kelly, except with strawberry-blonde hair. “This place seems nice. I’ve never been before.”

We both took our seats and exchanged small talk. After we’d got our drinks and placed our dinner order, we found common ground in a couple of photographers we had both worked with—her in front of the camera and me for campaigns.

“It’s a small world,” she said.

“Especially London. You wouldn’t think we’d cross paths so often in a city of nearly nine million people.”

“I have to admit, I’ve heard things about you. I think you’ve dated a couple of my friends.”

We were at a fork in the road; the evening could go either way. Either she’d grill me about my relationships with her friends or not.