âYouâre not allowed to touch your phone. Nor am I allowed to touch mine,â said Jack. âNot for the next six hours. Not even if they ring or beep or spontaneously combust.â
âSix hours?â They were going to be out that long?
âThat okay?â
âI⦠I guess.â It was better than staying the night, right?
âFirst to cave loses.â
âLoses what?â
His sudden unexpected smile was too wicked for her liking.
âWhat you should be asking is what the winner receives.â
Stephanie turned in her seat, her heart drumming heavy-metal style. âWhat do you win if I cave?â
âA taste.â
âOfâ¦?â
âWhat do you think?â he asked, too softly.
âMy blog is ready to be bought but Iâm not on the table, Mr Wolfe,â she breathed, trying to be icy. And failing.
âNot yetâand itâs Jack.â
âNot ever, Mr Wolfe.â
âYouâre afraid Iâll bite? I wonât. Iâm talking about one kiss.â
She stared at him. He was driving along as if he hadnât a care in the world. As if he hadnât just suggested something wildly inappropriate. And so wildly tempting.
Finally he glanced over at her. âYou canât tell me you havenât considered the idea already.â
NATALIE ANDERSON adores a happy endingâwhich is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be sure youâve got a happy ending in your hands right nowâbecause she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offeringâyou guessed itâa happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children.
If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to come and say hi on facebook/authornataliea, on Twitter @authornataliea, or at her website/blog: www.natalie-anderson.com
âYOUâRE NOT TO leave me alone with him, you understand?â Stephanie JohnsonâSteffi Leigh to her quadrillion blog subscribersâclosed the passenger door and glared at her best friend.
âStop stressing. Itâs not like heâs dangerous.â Tara rummaged in her oversized handbag as she walked round to the footpath, not bothering to look up or to lock the car.
âHeâs more than dangerous. Heâs like God,â Stephanie argued. Because Jack Wolfe held her whole world in his hands. âAnd you know I canât keep the act up for long.â
Long enough for the ninety-second vlogs she recorded in the corner of her bedroomâsure. But staying as âSteffi Leighâ for a three-hour meeting out in the real world? She hadnât a hope. At least not without help.
Absently she nibbled on her fingernail, only to get a bite of fabric. Ugh. Sheâd forgotten she was wearing sleek white glovesâtheir purpose to hide the chewed-to-the-quick ugliness of her nails. Her whole vintage look was to hide her real, slightly screwed-up self.
âWell, if youâd stop rubbing your faceâ¦â Tara stepped in close, her blusher brush raised like the weapon it was. âAnd stand stillâ¦â
As if that was possible. Her kitten-heeled shoes were half killing her toes, her stomach was churning and she was freezing, despite the weather app on her phone reckoning it was thirty-two degrees already. Stephanie waved Taraâs annoying brush away and checked the time on her phone again.
âLetâs go. We canât be late.â She didnât need the blusherâsheâd probably turn beetroot the second he asked her a tricky question.
As she turned towards the hotel her panic sharpened. She was going to give herself away in the first five minutes⦠Because Steffi Leigh was all fiction. And Stephanie Johnson was a phony.
âOf course you can be late,â Tara scoffed, burrowing in her bag again. âYouâre Steffi Leigh. Youâre going to make an entrance.â
Stephanie winced. That was going to happen anyway, given she looked as if sheâd just stepped out of a nineteen-fifties sewing catalogueâall full-skirted dress, nipped-in waist, kid gloves, kitten heels and pin-curled hair. She could see people driving past and turning their heads, probably wondering if it was a photo shootâwhat with the make-up artist touching up her face on the street.
If only she was a model. If only she wasnât going to have to speak and try to sell her site as some stellar investment.
âStephanie.â Tara looked up and eyeballed her. âYou can do this. You need to.â Tara smiled. âYouâve got to get on with your life.â
Stephanie looked at her friend and a fatalistic determination sank into her bones. Yeah, she could do this. Because she had toânot for her life, but her brotherâs.