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  ‘Brought him here, his spare bed, his bowl, and other doggy trappings.’ As though to prove a point, Sir L plods into the kitchen to begin slurping from his large water bowl.

  ‘H-how?’ And also, why?

  ‘I took the key from your purse. Someone had to look after him, and you were in no state to do so yourself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say sincerely. ‘I owe you big time.’

  ‘I don’t know about big time, but you owe me a blow job.’

  ‘Was Kallie’s credit card declined?’ I regret my words immediately as the smile slips from his face. ‘I-I’m sorry. That was mean. I meant it as a joke because come on; that must be how you see me, right?’ His smile hasn’t returned, and now he looks confused. ‘First, the man I went to meet doesn’t even remember me. And then I tell you I haven’t had sex in forever. I’d laugh at me, too.’

  If I didn’t feel like crying suddenly.

  ‘You’re not a joke, Sadie. You’re actually rather lovely. And Julian’s a dick of the first order. Where’d you meet him anyway?’

  ‘How do you know we’ve met?’

  ‘He might’ve blanked you, but your face told a different story. My guess would be a drunk hook-up but for the whole self-inflicted chastity thing.’

  ‘What’s wrong with being chaste?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing, especially if it results in an orgasm like last night.’ The more he says these things to me, the deeper my insides heat. It’s like the opposite to aversion therapy. ‘Why are you pulling that face? There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It was a thing of beauty.’

  ‘Who said I was embarrassed?’

  ‘The colour in your neck is a bit of a giveaway.’ He pulls a pair of scissors from a nearby drawer and begins cutting chives into the eggs. ‘What I don’t understand is how does a girl who looks like you end up not having sex for three years.’

  I guess Will’s sincere moments are few and far between as we return to his favourite topic; the ridiculousness of my sex life. Feeling a little off-balance, I place my head against the cool countertop, my words released along with a sigh.

  ‘And what I don’t understand is how the agency could’ve sent you to a neighbour’s address. Isn’t that a little too close for comfort?’

  ‘Nah,’ he answers immediately. ‘I’m not ashamed of what I do. Your turn.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, lifting my head again.

  ‘Your three-year abstinence. Please explain—it just won’t compute.’

  I imagine not. Not to him, at least. But when the first boy you’ve ever loved tells you he needs a few months away to “find himself”, only to get lost in the process, or at least, forgot to return, you find you have to move states to avoid people’s pitying looks. And the questions. And then find, even with a new slate, sex, never mind relationships, is the last thing you seek out.

  ‘You can’t force someone to love you,’ I eventually reply. I suppose that could be taken several ways.

  ‘True. Unless you want to share a cell with a man of questionable morals named Bubba and then be made to sign some kind of register once you’ve served your time.’

  ‘Are you ever serious?’

  ‘Depends on the company. I’m extra humorous around the extra snipe-y, even if I sympathise with the reasoning.’ I raise a brow, inviting him to continue. ‘You had your heart set on someone, and that’s a lot of pressure for one little heart. Take it from me, it’s best to protect that little fucker. Plus, you’re obviously extremely sexually frustrated. You haven’t had sex in so long, you’re practically a virgin again.’

  ‘I was practically a virgin before,’ I mumble. Twenty-six years old and I’ve only had one real boyfriend. What a joke. I mean, I date. Occasionally. Once in a while. Okay, maybe three times in three years. And let’s just say, each time I was underwhelmed.

  ‘How do you not have a trail of men following you about over there?’

  ‘Maybe because I don’t always look like I did last night,’ I say, pointing a hand to the current look I’m sporting. Bird’s nest hair and pale face.

  ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing unappealing about the way you look this morning. Especially in my t-shirt.’ I glance down, realising for the first time the item I’m wearing isn’t my marl grey nightshirt but a marl grey t-shirt. I pull it away from my body to read the slogan. Ultrasound techs do it better in the dark. Huh.

  ‘It was a gift.’

  Maybe he has regular ultrasound tech client? I allow the t-shirt to snap back into place and catch him trying to stare down the neck.

  ‘Now who’s ogling?’

  ‘Actually, I suddenly find I need that t-shirt back. Now, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Just as soon as you give me back my panties.’

  ‘Now that’s exactly what I mean.’ He turns to the stovetop, a bright flame jumping from a burner before he covers it with a saucepan.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The look you just gave me. The sultry purr. You must have men trailing you like tomcats to follow the proverbial pussy.’

  ‘You’re deranged.’

  ‘You have Tinder, don’t you?’

  ‘I prefer my love life to happen organically.’

  ‘And how’s that working out for you? Oh, I remember,’ he says, slapping his head. ‘Not too well for the last few months. Or the last thirty-six of them.’

  ‘I’m going to regret telling you that, aren’t I?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll regret lots more if you don’t let me put it right.’

  ‘But would that be on the cock or off?’ I ask saccharine sweet.

  ‘On, definitely.’ He nods solemnly. ‘On the cock. On my face. On your hands and knees, riding me, and if you have the energy, from behind while you hang onto that fireplace.’ He points the whisk in the direction of the vast fireplace. Marble, definitely original, and, like the rest of the open plan space, exquisitely tasteful.

  I’m still staring at the fireplace as I replay the sentence back in my head. ‘On the clock,’ I say slowly, turning back to him. ‘I definitely said on the clock.’ Didn’t I?

  ‘Ehhh!’ He makes a noise like a buzzer. ‘Freudian slip, love. A dirty bastard that Freud. A bit like someone else I know.’ His smug ass needs a kiss—I mean, a kick.

  ‘You’re not going to let up, are you?’

  ‘I feel like you know me already.’

  It turns out Will’s cooking skills aren’t as impressive as his shoulders. Or his abs. He makes beautiful scrambled eggs but terrible toast. The crumbling carbon tasting kind of burned toast. But as my hangover begins to abate, I still manage to eat two rounds slathered in butter along with a pile of fluffy, green flecked eggs. At the whitewashed kitchen table, we dance once or twice more around the topic of last night, but I just haven’t the heart to defend myself. So I’m sticking with drunk as an explanation. And it’s a reasonable one; drunk people do dumb things. True story.

  Not that I’d call Will a dumb thing. Quite the opposite. He’s mightily annoying, and if innuendo was an Olympic sport, he’d have a cabinet full of medals. But he’s also incredibly smart and, dare I say it, naturally empathetic. A rare thing in a man, I’ve found. Take Julian, for instance—take last night, for instance.

  How could I have been so wrong?

  I’m sure Will would reason that my error is due to experience. As in, a lack of. And maybe he’s right—maybe that’s what makes him so good.

  And what exactly is an escort, anyway? Does he really sleep with women for money, or is he just arm candy for lonely widows and businesswomen? I could ask, sure, but he won’t give me a straight answer. Whatever the intricacies of his career, it must certainly pay well, I think, as I glance at my surroundings once again.

  It’s hard not to like him. Especially when his mouth is busy doing something other than talking. Like eating his breakfast. Not that I’m suggesting I shouldn’t like him purely on account of the work he does. Especially when he does it so well. Between my legs suddenly begins to
pulse with remembrance. I came so hard and so long last night I feel like I’ve done a hundred crunches.

  ‘You okay?’ Will asks from behind his coffee cup.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You just pulled a face like you were in pain.’

  See? Empathetic. Or else he reads people really well. ‘I’m good,’ I answer brightly, concentrating on the contents of my own cup. I say cup, but really, it’s a glass. ‘I’m just wondering how long before this is cool enough to drink. You know, given that it doesn’t have a handle.’ A cortado, I think he called it. And I thought my Keurig was pretty special.

  ‘Philistine.’

  ‘When in Rome, I suppose.’

  ‘And when in London, let Will f—’

  ‘When will it end? Lord!’ I cast my eyes heavenward as he laughs.

  ‘If you’re not going to let Will . . . reconnect you to the sexual world, what are your plans for the rest of your holiday?’

  ‘My what?’ I ask, almost spilling my coffee.

  ‘You said you were here for six weeks. What are your plans?’

  ‘I was going to . . . ’ Fall hopelessly and ridiculously in love. Marry the man of my dreams and stay in London forever. Or something like that. I think I assumed I’d just go back home, if I ever considered this thing with Julian coming to nothing. Honestly? I don’t think I allowed myself to think beyond last night. And right now, that sounds kind of pathetic. Almost as pathetic as realising he didn’t remember me. ‘I was going to do touristy things,’ I answer quietly. ‘I’ve never been to London before.’ I’ve never been anywhere before. ‘See the sights, maybe a show.’

  ‘Then we should definitely hang out.’

  ‘Hang out?’ I repeat doubtfully.

  ‘I could show you around, help you see the bits of England’s capital that other visitors don’t see.’ Elbow on the table, he props his chin in his hand. It’s wrong that he has such beautiful lashes. Wrong that he looks so good even as he wears that smug smile.

  ‘Like your bedroom, you mean?’

  ‘I’m not averse to hanging out naked.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘So, Miss Sadie, pre-K teacher, where exactly are you from? I don’t think we’ve established that.’

  ‘In our vast acquaintance, you mean?’

  ‘I think we’re pretty well acquainted, given the brevity of our history.’

  You might think I’d be used to his teasing by now. ‘Way to make a girl feel like a whore.’ My head snaps up immediately, my concerned gaze meeting his. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with being a wh—sex worker. It’s an absolutely legitimate industry—a n-necessary service.’

  ‘You forgot, it’s also one of the oldest professions in the world.’

  ‘Yes, that, too,’ I continue, attempting to dig myself out of a hole Miss Manners couldn’t navigate.

  ‘Relax, plum. I’m pretty hard to offend.’ Leaning back in his chair, he’s the picture of ease and confidence. It just makes my blush all the deeper as I know he’s not referring to the shade of last night’s lipstick.

  His phone begins to buzz from across the room, and he pushes back his chair. I swear the ringtone is the opening few bars of Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It”, but due to the volume, I can’t be sure.

  With his back to me, he speaks in hushed tones that I try not to hear, even though I can’t help but strain to listen. It’s human nature, right?

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Will says, turning to me, his phone still in his hand.

  ‘Things to see, people to do?’ I close my eyes and internally cringe. ‘Oh, Lord.’ I blow out the prayer on a long breath, but as I push my chair back, I find his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘There’s no need to rush.’ A strange kind of hope springs in my chest as he winds a lock of my hair around his finger.

  ‘You don’t have to rush off?’

  ‘No, I do. But you don’t have to rush off. I’m not sure how long I’ll be, but . . . ’

  The end of his sentence trails away, leaving the implication hanging in the air. Wait for him to come back from his appointment? His rendezvous? Doesn’t that make me kind of pathetic? Sad sack Sadie. Sloppy seconds girl.

  ‘No, I’d better go,’ I find myself saying. The words sound sort of choked, which is just ridiculous. ‘I need take Sir Lancelot for his walk.’

  ‘I imagine that happens the other way around.’ He smiles kindly, then his gaze strays once again as I push back my chair and stand.

  ‘You really have to stop looking at me like I’m edible,’ I murmur. ‘Nothing good can come of it.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Sadie, that’s where you’re entirely wrong.’

  Chapter Ten

  WILL

  With my help, and a pair of my shorts clasped tight around her slender waist, Sadie made it back to Mo’s apartment mostly unscathed. I did have some pretty wicked thoughts about bending her over the bannister, but I’m sure the neighbours would’ve had something to say about that.

  We don’t get that sort of behaviour in this building!

  She did manage to send Sir Lancelot’s metal bowl clanking down a flight of stairs, but no one came out from the other apartments to see what that noise was. Sex, on the other hand . . . Everyone has a little bit of a voyeur in them. It’s basic biology.

  Once the mutt himself was returned to his rightful abode, he’d tried to shag poor Sadie from behind again. Not quite the doggy style I had in mind.

  ‘We need to work on your commands,’ I’d told her. ‘It’s all a matter of confidence.’

  And I would know.

  She walked me to the front door, and I offered to stop by another day to give her a few dog handling pointers, while keeping my plans of getting her naked to myself.

  She murmured a noncommittal response as I’d stepped out into the hallway, and then she promptly shut the door in my face. With a smile, I turned and made for the stairs. She obviously didn’t want to run the risk of me kissing her. And her kissing me back.

  But I can wait. And the payoff will be more than just a sweet goodbye kiss.

  I shower, dress, and then I head to meet my latest vagina appointment, though not for a bit of afternoon delight. Actually, I’m delivering a child.

  I’m lucky enough to live within walking distance of my Harley Street practice, but as Princess Jowhara Bin Salman Bin something or other has gone into the very early stages of labour, I hop into my car to drive to the private hospital where she and her entourage of fifteen have been housed in several suites. I’m not kidding—fifteen people, from her hairdresser to her poor put-upon maid. Her husband isn’t with her, but I think that’s somewhat normal. She’d flown in via private jet last week from the Middle East somewhere—Bahrain? Kuwait? One of those places—to have her fifth child, along with a fifteen-strong audience.

  Not really.

  In the UK, the majority of births without complications are managed by the care of a midwifery team. But for those with the means to pay, it’s private hospital and an obstetrician all the way. As London’s youngest consultant obstetrician, I have the pleasure of both working in the private and public medical fields. As well as delivering babies at St Lotte’s, I also work out of University Hospital, a hospital in one of London’s lower socioeconomic areas. I have the utmost respect for the midwives there, who happen to be all women. Though I’m sure there are male midwives out there who, I suspect, are viewed with the same kind of curiosity as any man who goes into my field.

  As it happens, I have the utmost respect for not only midwives, but also for women in general. Yes, I’ve been a bit of a bastard in my romantic life—a total chancer—and I might stretch the odd truth here and there for the purpose of getting into a lady’s underwear, but all that stops when I step into professional mode. Because, seriously, who wants to be spread wide and strapped by their ankles only to see the doctor holding the wrong kind of tool.

  Believe me, those scrubs hide nothing.

  But that’s not to say I ha
ven’t enjoyed playing the very same scenario in my private life. Or bent the odd woman over my desk.

  But never a patient.

  The idea of banging a doctor, in my experience, seems to be a popular one with a certain subset of women. Add in the word gynaecologist and you can often see interest double in their eyes. There isn’t a party I go to where I’m not sequestered in a corner to dole out advice “for a friend”. And when women find out my field of specialty is obstetrics, it’s pretty much the equivalent of walking into a room with a box full of Labrador puppies.

  It’s safe to say my profession serves me well.

  Why a man would choose gynaecology fascinates most women. But the word gynaecology literally translates to the science of women. Why wouldn’t a man want to study the science of half of the population of the world? And the more fascinating half, to boot. Women are wonderful, a fact I maintain in both my professional and private lives.

  And while others tend to illness and death, I bring life into the world. How fantastic is that?

  There are drawbacks, of course. I’ve been hit on by patients. At best, it’s awkward. At worst, a hazard. And men are the worst at understanding why I chose this field. But it’s harder to explain to them. The reasons are numerous. When asked, I generally just answer with a shrug.

  Because I didn’t choose the pussy life, the pussy life chose me.

  I slam the door to my Maserati, a car my profession wouldn’t ordinarily afford me. But I come from money. Old money. Old money that’s fast running out. Castles and homes that are national treasures cost a fuck tonne of money to maintain. And the running of it all will fall on my shoulders when my bastard of a father finally finds his way to hell. But those are worries for another day, especially as my phone buzzes with a text from the lovely Sadie

  I’m sorry I slammed the door in your face. Thank you for looking after me last night.

  You’re most welcome, I text back. Though I’m not sure you received the full service. I’m happy to slot you into my diary again.