One Night: Denied Read Free

But I escape safely and hurry to the Tube. While my eyes are thankful for the reminder of Miller Hart’s perfection, my mind is not.

 
    Chapter Two
    As soon as the lunchtime rush dies down at the bistro where I work, Sylvie is on me like a wolf. ‘Tell me,’ she says, dropping to the sofa next to me.
    ‘Nothing to tell.’
    ‘Livy, give me a break! You’ve looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp all morning.’
    I cast a sideways frown to find my co-worker’s bright pink lips pressed into an impatient straight line. ‘A what?’
    ‘Your face is all screwed up in disgust.’
    ‘He texted me,’ I grumble. I’m not telling her the rest. ‘He texted me to ask how I am.’
    She scoffs and takes my can of Coke, slurping loudly. ‘Supercilious moron.’
    I jump forward without thought. ‘He’s not a moron!’ I shout defensively, immediately snapping my mouth shut and retreating back on the sofa when I clock Sylvie’s knowing look. ‘He’s not a moron and he’s not supercilious,’ I say calmly. He was loving, attentive, and thoughtful . . . when he wasn’t being a supercilious moron . . . or London’s most notorious male escort. I drop my head on a sigh. Landing myself with one hooker is bad luck. Two? Well, that’s just unreasonable of the gods.
    She reaches over and squeezes my knee. ‘I hope you didn’t entertain him with a reply.’
    ‘I couldn’t even if I wanted. Which I don’t,’ I say, pulling myself up.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘My phone’s broken.’ I leave Sylvie on the couch with a wrinkled brow and no further explanation.
    All I’ve told her about my break-up with Miller is that there was another woman. It’s just easier that way. The truth is unspeakable.
    When I enter the kitchen, Del and Paul are laughing like hyenas, each with a vicious knife in one hand and a cucumber in the other. ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, making them both halt their happy tittering, their faces morphing into a wash of pity as they each assess my weak body and mental state. I stand quietly and allow them to reach the only conclusion there is. I still look washed out.
    Del’s the one to snap back into action, pointing his knife at me, clearly making himself smile. ‘Livy can judge. She’ll be fair.’
    ‘Judge what?’ I ask, taking a step away from the blade.
    Paul pushes Del’s hand down on a tsk and smiles at me. ‘We’re having a cucumber-chopping competition. Your silly boss here thinks he can beat me.’
    I don’t mean to, but I laugh. It makes both Paul and Del jump back a little, shocked. I’ve seen Paul slice a cucumber, or I tried to see. His hand is a blur of motion for a few seconds until the vegetable is splayed out neatly, each slice perfect. ‘Good luck!’
    Del smiles brightly at me. ‘I don’t need luck, Livy, sweetheart.’ He spreads his legs and lays his cucumber down on the chopping board. ‘Say when.’
    Paul rolls his eyes at me and stands back, a wise move judging by the hold Del has on the knife. ‘Are you ready to time it?’ he asks, handing me a stopwatch.
    ‘Is this a regular thing?’ I take it and reset the display.
    ‘Yep,’ Del answers, focusing on the cucumber. ‘He’s beat me on a pepper, onion and lettuce, but the cucumber’s mine.’
    ‘When!’ Paul shouts, and I immediately press down to start the timer as Del flies into action, bringing the knife down repeatedly and savagely on the poor cucumber.
    ‘Done!’ he yells, out of breath, looking over at me. He’s broken out in a sweat. ‘What did I get?’
    I look down. ‘Ten seconds.’
    ‘Pow!’ He jumps into the air, and Paul immediately confiscates the knife from him. ‘Beat that, Mr Master Chef!’
    ‘Piece of cake,’ Paul claims, taking up position by the chopping board and scraping away the dismembered cucumber before setting his own down. ‘Say when.’
    I quickly reset the timer, just in time for Del’s, ‘When!’
    Paul, as I knew he would, sails through the cucumber with finesse and