LITMIR.BIZ

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CHAPTER THREE

      ‘WHO IS THAT HOTTIE? What?’ Emma looked round at her friends, indignation flashing in her eyes at their splutters. ‘I’m married, blissfully and happily married, but I still have eyes—and, Sophie...that man is sizzling. Tell us all.’

      Sophie slid into her seat uncomfortably aware that her cheeks were probably bright red under her friends’ scrutiny. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she said, picking up her white linen napkin, dislodging a drift of small glittery paper snowflakes as she did so. ‘I didn’t miss the starter, did I? I’m starving.’

      ‘Tell me my eyes are deceiving me and I didn’t just see you emerge from a closet with him.’ Ashleigh leaned in to stare intently at her and Sophie’s cheeks got even hotter if that was possible—she was almost combusting as it was. ‘Ha! You did. Nice work, Soph. Quick work though. We’ve only been here for twenty minutes.’

      ‘I didn’t go into the closet with him.’ Sophie reached for her glass of champagne and took a much-needed sip, wincing at the unexpectedly dry taste. She pushed it aside and grabbed some water instead. ‘He followed me in there.’

      ‘He did what? I take it back. He’s not hot. He’s creepy. Well, kind of both. Do you want me to set Jack on him?’

      ‘I’m sure Lukas would be only too glad to have a word,’ Ashleigh chimed in with a dark look over at the corner Marco had disappeared into.

      ‘Finlay can be very intimidating,’ Grace said, smiling dreamily at her very new and very large pink diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand.

      ‘No, thanks for the offer, but I don’t need defending.’ Sophie lowered her voice. ‘I know him. He’s the guy...’

      Three faces stared at her blankly.

      She sighed. It wasn’t as if there had been many—or indeed any—guys since she’d moved to London. ‘The guy. From a few weeks ago. The export party guy. You know, in the snow... Italian, we went to a bar...’

      ‘Oh, the one-night-stand guy?’ Ashleigh exclaimed.

      ‘Just a little louder, Ash, I don’t think he heard you over on the other side of the room, but just one more decibel should do it.’

      ‘What’s he doing here? It must be fate.’

      ‘No, Grace, it’s not fate. It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is. I didn’t expect to see him again, that’s the whole point of a one-night stand.’

      ‘Ah, but the real question is are you going to see him again? Now that he’s the one-night stand and the quickie-in-the-closet guy?’ Emma’s eyes were twinkling.

      ‘We did not have a quickie in the closet. Your mind! Call yourself a Countess?’

      ‘It’s My Lady to you.’ But Emma’s smile was rueful. Her friends hadn’t got tired of teasing her about her newly acquired title. Sophie wasn’t sure they ever would.

      ‘You didn’t answer the question, Sophie. Are you going to see him again?’

      ‘Look, just because the three of you are all besotted doesn’t mean that I’m looking to settle down. I’ve been there and done that and it very much didn’t agree with me. I have agreed to dance with him later. But that’s all I want. Honestly.’

      But the scepticism on all three faces showed that none of them believed her. And she didn’t blame them because she wasn’t entirely sure she believed herself. Oh, she didn’t want or need what her friends had, she wasn’t hankering after a diamond ring the size of Ashleigh’s or Emma’s, nor, beautiful as it was, did she want to wear Grace’s huge pink diamond. She was quite happy with a ring-free third finger, thank you very much. In fact Sophie’s ambitions were as far from domestic bliss as it was possible to get. She wanted to make something of herself. Prove to her family—prove to herself—that she hadn’t thrown her life, her chances away when she’d moved in with Harry. She didn’t have the time or the inclination for romance.

      But shocking as it had been to see Marco, it hadn’t been unpleasant. After all, Emma was right: he was smoking hot. Smoking hot and charming. Smoking hot, charming and very, very good in bed. Not that she was planning to sleep with him again. Once was an excusable lapse, twice would be something far too much like a relationship.

      But a dance wouldn’t hurt—would it?

      * * *

      Sophie had had no intention of using any of the secret signs Marco had suggested. She kept her hands firmly on her lap, on her knife and fork, or wrapped around her water glass to ensure that she didn’t inadvertently summon him over. But, as the night wore on, her resolve wavered. It wasn’t that her friends and their partners intentionally excluded her, but they just couldn’t help themselves. They kept separating off into cosy little pairs to sway intimately on the dance floor, no matter what the music, or to indulge in some very public displays of affection over the smoked salmon starter. In some ways it was worse when they emerged from their love-struck idyll and remembered Sophie’s presence, tumbling over themselves to apologise and making Sophie feel even more like a third—or seventh—wheel than ever.

      Then when the men sauntered off to the bar between courses, leaving the four friends alone, the conversation turned, inevitably Sophie supposed, to Grace’s and Ashleigh’s forthcoming weddings.

      ‘Definitely a church wedding,’ Grace said. ‘Probably in Scotland, although it would be a shame not to hold the reception at The Armstrong. After all, that’s where we met. The only thing is a church can be a little limiting. Do you think it would be okay for the bridesmaids to wear short dresses in a church?’

      ‘The bridesmaids were in minidresses at the last church wedding I attended. They were certainly effective.’ So effective that Harry, Sophie’s ex, hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the head bridesmaid as she had paraded down the aisle all tumbled hair and bronzed, lithe legs. Nor, it had transpired just a few hours later, had he been able to keep his hands off her either. Sophie swallowed, reaching for her water blindly to try to mask the metallic taste she always noticed when she thought about that night. The taste of humiliation. Not just because Harry had treated her like that; if she was honest with herself, he’d behaved like that for far too many years. Nor was it because he had chosen to do so in front of all of their friends; after all, Sophie had spent many occasions making excuses for him or turning a well-practised blind eye. No, the scalding shame she still experienced every day was because it had taken such a blatant humiliation to force her to act, to realise that this bad boy couldn’t be redeemed and he wasn’t worth one more of her tears.

      How had it taken seven years? Her parents had known it almost instantly, as had her few friends. And yet she’d chosen Harry over every single one of them, sure that she saw something special in him nobody else could see. Maybe if she’d been more confident, maybe if she hadn’t felt so alone when she met him...

      No, there were no maybes. She had only herself to blame. What a fool, young and blinded by lust and romance. Never again.

      She looked over at her friends, forcing a smile. ‘I have a request, no, a demand. You must promise to seat me at a table full of fabulous, fun single ladies. No set-ups with your cousin’s best friend’s brother’s boss just because he visited Manchester once and so we’ll have lots in common and no nudging me towards the best man because that’s what happens at weddings. I want a party table.’

      ‘It’s a promise,’ Ashleigh agreed, turning to greet Lukas with a brilliant smile as he put another champagne-filled ice bucket down on the table along with another bottle of mineral water. Maybe she was too used to cheap cava, but Sophie just couldn’t drink the champagne; every sip tasted sour. Not only was she a third wheel, but she was a sober third wheel...

      What was wrong with her? She should be having a good time; she looked okay, her dress had got several appreciative comments, which was always warming to a designer’s ears, the food was really tasty, the

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