I tell myself this again as I prowl my living room. The house is silent around me. Too silent. I can hear myself think, and who the bloody hell wants to hear himself at one in the morning?

I should go to bed, but I can’t sleep. As in literally cannot fall asleep. I’ve been this way since arriving in London. Awake at night, exhausted come morning. In short: I’m in sleep-deprived hell.

Swearing, I take another turn around my room like some sort of deranged character in an Austen novel. Only I’m alone. I’m in the first house I bought myself. Eight million pounds to secure a private sanctuary in Chelsea. I love every inch of the place, every floorboard and old plaster wall. And yet standing in the middle of a room I paid a decorator to furnish, it feels like a tomb.

I should call one of the guys. Someone must be up; they’re all night owls. But I don’t want to talk to them. I want someone else entirely.

“Hell.” I pull at my collar. The cashmere lays light and warm on my skin, but I feel suffocated all the same.

She’ll be up. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.

It’s so silent, the sound of my feet striding across the floor echoes. I pick up my phone before I can stop myself. Don’t do it. Nothing good can come of engaging. She is an employee.

I put the phone down and circle the room three more times before my feet take me right back to the sideboard where it lies. My hand hovers over the damn thing. Just let it go. She’ll read too much into it.

“Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.” I grip the back of my neck where the muscles clench in angry protest.

In my head, I hear her light laugh. I see her face and the way the bridge of her nose wrinkles just a bit when she grins. My gaze drifts around the room, with its comfortable furniture and pictures of me and the guys on the wall. Despite the decorator, I had my say in every design decision made here. This house is a reflection of me at my most personal. What would she say about it? Would she find it cold or welcoming?

And why do I give a bloody damn?

“Because you’re finally cracked, mate.” And talking to myself as well. Perfect. Just perfect.

 

* * *

 

Sophie

 

* * *

 

My room is so cute, I’m still half-convinced I’m dreaming. Cream, white-paneled walls, earthy sisal rugs, a four-poster spindle bed. There’s even a clawfoot Victorian tub opposite the bed. It’s too romantic, really. The kind of setup where I’d be bathing in a seductive manner while my man reclined on the bed to watch until he couldn’t stand the torture any longer and crawled in to join me. We’d make a mess of the floor, spilling water, laughing while we fucked.

A nice picture.

Only I’m alone in the dark beneath crisp linens, utterly awake and watching the lights of passing cars below trail across the ceiling. I should be sleeping, but jet lag has snuck upon me with a terrible vengeance. I’m so freaking awake, my body hums with the need to get up. Bad idea. Sleep is needed.

I’m concentrating so hard on trying to fall asleep, the ping of my phone startles me. Fumbling, I reach for it on my nightstand. I’m not even sure who I expected to be texting me at 2 am. But I certainly didn’t consider him.

Sunshine: If you don’t sleep now, you’re setting yourself up for even worse jet lag.

I immediately bite back a ridiculous grin, as if he’ll see me through the phone.

Me: If you’re so worried about my sleep, you shouldn’t text me in the middle of the night.

He pings back an answer.

Sunshine: Small chance of waking you. I knew you’d be up.

Me: Oh? You psychic?

Sunshine: No. Just awake as well. And remembering your inability to calm down.

Me: False! I can do calm!!!!!

Sunshine: As exhibited by your subtle use of exclamation points.

I laugh in the dark of the room, drawing my knees up to my chest. My heartbeat has accelerated. I’m giddy like a damn schoolgirl. And isn’t that a bitch?

He’d stuck me firmly in employee land, then he brought me a sandwich. I’m not even sure he trusts me, and yet here he is, texting me in the middle of the night. Maybe he’s lonely. Or maybe he’s looking for a hookup. He’s nothing like the men I’ve been with before, so I can’t be sure. But I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy flirting with him, even if it ends up leading nowhere.

Me: Your sarcasm smells of slain interns’ blood and the souls of missing record execs.

Sunshine: False. That is what I eat for breakfast. Keep up, Darling.

I laugh, though he can’t hear me. I can almost see his expression, always deadpan but with that hint of crinkle at the corners of his eyes and full lips. That infinitesimal twitch of a smile most people clearly miss. The world fascinates Gabriel Scott, but he does a hell of a job pretending it doesn’t. That much I know already.

Me: Aw…terms of endearment already?

Sunshine: It’s your name.

Me: A convenient excuse.

Sunshine: A legitimate answer

Me: I’ve never had anyone call me by my last name. Should I call you by yours? Call you Scottie like the others do?

Sunshine: No.

I’m half teasing, because I don’t want to call him Scottie. That’s not his name to me. That’s a stranger’s name. But the emphatic force of his reply makes me wonder why he doesn’t want me to use it, when everyone in his circle does. My thumb shakes a little as I tap out a reply, adopting a more serious tone, because really, what the hell am I doing flirting with the big boss?

Me: Well, you caught me. I can’t sleep for shit. I’ll have to live with the consequences.

Little dots form at the bottom of my phone screen. They disappear, then start up again. I wonder what the hell he’s trying to write and if he’s erasing his text.

I almost send him a message just to prod his ass into whatever it is he’s trying to say, when his message finally pops up. And I gape. And gape. My heart stops and then picks up pounding. I’m not seeing things; it’s there, clear as day:

Sunshine: Would you like to come over?

What. The. Hell?

I’m clearly stuck in shock mode too long because he texts in a barrage of tense explanations.

Sunshine: For tea.

Sunshine: To help you sleep.

Sunshine: I make good tea.

He makes tea? Gabriel I’ve-no-time-for-mere-mortals Scott actually makes tea? And drinks it? Shut the front door and call me Mama.