LITMIR.BIZ

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as?’ Gordon Grant was an over-tanned man in his sixties. His American accent was smooth and polished and he was so damn sparkly, he had a way of making everyone in the room feel dull and dowdy in comparison.

      ‘Such as sport. I want to introduce a new show based on Australian sporting legends.’

      Faith groaned then looked up quickly as she realised everyone had heard her.

      ‘You don’t agree, Miss Harris?’ Gordon smiled, his teeth blinding her for a second. His eyes travelled over her face and down to her neck and landed right where the button on her shirt wouldn’t stay done up. She lifted a hand to it and sat up.

      ‘No, actually. I don’t.’ She glanced at Cash. He was frowning at her. ‘I don’t agree. There are enough sporting shows on television already.’

      ‘Australians love sport. It’s our culture.’ Matty Harbinger—the station’s sports reporter—spoke up. Faith always thought of a terrier dog when she looked at Matty. All big teeth with his tongue always hanging out. And he talked too fast. ‘Sport is in our blood. Cricket, tennis, footy. We can’t get enough.’

      ‘Sex is what Australians can’t get enough of, Matty. Studies show that Australians are more interested in sex than any other country. But that Australians are behind the US, the UK and most of Europe when it comes to sexual satisfaction.’ She glanced at Cash, who was now throwing death daggers her way with his eyes. ‘People in this country are more likely to want to try new things in the bedroom than anyone else, but less likely to actually do them.’

      Cash raised an eyebrow at her. The way he stood there, looking at her, made the blood in her wrists pump faster and her palms sweat. Betty was right, he was handsome. And tall, and broad-shouldered. She’d heard he was an ex-national rugby player. The muscles that rippled in his back whenever he took his jacket off meant he was still working out like one. He was tall and lean and chiselled and perfect. Except for his left eye. His one imperfection where a little bit of green had crept into the perfect brown rims. Which she was now beating herself over the head for thinking of. Right now. When her career was on the line and everyone was looking at her as if she’d just sprouted a second nose.

      ‘The Australian public need this show,’ she ended, her voice higher than before. She cleared her throat and swivelled her eyes to Gordon, who was smiling at her. Although leering seemed a more apt description.

      ‘Is that so?’ He turned away and set his glossy looks onto Cash. ‘Well, Anderson, Miss Harris here would know. She is the resident sexpert—or so they say.’ He tittered at his joke. As did Matty and half the other people in the room. She knew what they thought of her. The oversexed girl who reported on fetishes, orgies and polyamorous marriages. She’d heard all the nicknames. Fellatio Faith. Horny Harris. But she knew what she was. A good reporter. A vital part of this organisation. A woman who wasn’t afraid to talk about sex and relationships and love. And she wasn’t ashamed of what she did. But she was sick of having to defend herself at every meeting she went to lately. The chair scraped on the polished wood as she stood.

      ‘You’re wrong about this, Cash. The Australian public want to know about sex and love and relationships and communication. They want to know how to save their marriage. They want to feel like they’re not freaks and that they can explore their sexuality without feeling they’re doing anything wrong. And they’re sick of watching grown men play games with their balls!’

      The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Every eye was on her. Felicity—the producer of the breakfast programme—snorted and covered her mouth. Faith’s chest heaved. Her breasts strained against her shirt as it lifted up and down. She let her eyes lift to Cash and he stood there watching her. His eyebrow still cocked, his expression unreadable. Then she felt the breeze as the next button on her shirt popped open and exposed her bra to the table. The one Betty had given her. The one with the bows on the nipples.

      ‘Bloody hell!’ she cried before tugging her shirt back together, taking one final look around and fleeing from the room.

      TWO

      When he walked up to her desk, Faith was packing her coffee mug into a brown box. He recognised the mug. It was covered in red kisses and was usually full of black tea. He wondered why she bothered to make it as she always had to tip it out when it went cold.

      ‘What are you doing, Faith?’

      ‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing.’

      He decided to bite. Faith had a tendency to make him do that. She never agreed with him. She fought him on everything. It should irritate him, but it didn’t. Out of all the new employees he’d met in the last month it was Faith who interested him the most. She was smart and she told it as it was. And she never sucked up to him.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because I’m leaving. You obviously don’t want me here. You don’t get what I’m trying to do so I’m going to go somewhere where I’m understood. Where I’m appreciated.’ Her eyes were glassy. She was emotional. Faith was the type of woman who wore her emotions like a pair of very high heels. She teetered around on them. Fell over them. They got in the way. Which was one of the reasons he was canning her segment. She’d lost her edge. She’d become too invested.

      ‘I appreciate you, Faith.’

      ‘No, you don’t. You think what I do is pointless and stupid. Which is why you want to replace me with sport.’

      His eyes flicked to her shirt. She’d found a pin or something to do it back up but he could still see the curve of her breasts. He remembered those bows and swallowed hard, bringing his eyes back up to hers. She suited her segment. Sexy Sydney. But she’d suit something else. Maybe the weather.

      ‘I don’t want you to leave, Faith. I’ll find you something else. You’re a good reporter.’

      ‘What? Are you going to find me a position as the weather girl? Make me dye my hair blond and giggle as I point to a high westerly blowing right up my skirt?’

      Cash resisted the urge to laugh. Faith was funny. And quick and clever and he wondered why the hell she didn’t want to move on. Why she was so determined to stick to the sex show that just wasn’t working.

      He’d been trying to get more advertisers to support the programme but they were hesitant. The content veered from quirky and amusing to deep and heavy from week to week. He wondered who was helping her produce the show—he needed to look into that. Maybe it was a production problem. The real problem, he suspected, was that, like him, audiences were just not that interested in nonsense like love and relationships and the various types of dildos. Everyone knew love didn’t really exist. Everyone except Faith, who thought it made a difference when couples perked up their sex life with handcuffs.

      ‘I’m sure we can find you something else. Something you’d rather be doing.’

      ‘What I want to do is this. My Sexy Sydney show. I’ve built up a following. People love my reports.’ She could talk as fast as a used-car salesmen, he’d give her that. She was engaging; she made you actually start to believe the drivel she was spouting. Her show was—at times—brilliant. But lately the content was getting too heavy. She’d actually cried on camera last week when interviewing some sex workers. Too emotional. Admittedly, she did seem to have a huge following if the comments on their Facebook page was anything to go by. Most people she came in contact with seemed to be under her spell. But he wasn’t most people.

      ‘It’s just sex, Faith.’

      Her eyes burned into him. He hadn’t noticed before but they weren’t brown as he’d thought they were. They were very, very dark blue. An unusual colour that reminded him of the ocean out at the front of his apartment late at night. As the wind blew and the waves fell against the cliffs.

      ‘There’s no such thing as “just sex”, Cash. Sex always means more than just sex.’

      Cash’s lip curled into a half-smile as he watched her determined

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