THE FLAT IN NOTTING HILL

Love and lust in the city that never sleeps!

Izzy, Tori and Poppy are living the London dream—sharing a big flat in Notting Hill, they have good jobs, wild nights out … and each other.

They couldn’t be more different, but one thing is for sure: when they start falling in love they’re going to be very glad they’ve got such good friends around to help them survive the rollercoaster …!

ENEMIES WITH BENEFITS by Louisa George

Dear Reader

When I was invited to participate in a continuity series for the Modern Tempted™ line I was absolutely thrilled, and when I found out who my co-writing partners in crime were I knew we were in for a fun and very special time. I’m a huge fan of authors Nikki Logan, Joss Wood and Charlotte Phillips, so creating characters and stories with them was a real treat.

The Flat in Notting Hill series follows four couples—eight very busy people—living, working and falling in love in London. For my couple, Poppy and Isaac, that means living and occasionally working together whilst ignoring the attraction between them that has been simmering for years!

Poppy made a big mistake a long time ago and has been trying to make amends ever since—with the consequence of not fully living her life. Isaac, on the other hand, with his own demons to conquer, has grabbed life by the horns and thoroughly made his mark by being very successful in his business life but not so much in his personal one. It takes one night of them being left alone together in the flat for the tensions to come simmering to the surface and for them to take a step into unknown and very uncertain territory.

It was such fun to write about a cast of characters who have become family to each other over the years, and to steer Poppy and Isaac along towards the future they both deserve—even though they’re very reluctant from the outset! And setting a book in London is always great for me as it brings back wonderful memories of living there (in a flat in Notting Hill too!).

I hope you enjoy Poppy and Isaac’s story. This is book four in the series, so if you want to find out what happens to Izzy and Harry, Alex and Lara, and Tori and Matt their books are THE MORNING AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE, SLEEPING WITH THE SOLDIER and YOUR BED OR MINE? I know you’ll love their stories too.

For all my writing and release news visit me at www.louisageorge.com

Louisa x

Enemies with Benefits
Louisa George

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Having tried a variety of careers in retail, marketing and nursing (where a scratchy starched uniform was mandatory), LOUISA GEORGE is now thrilled that her dream job of writing for Mills & Boon® means she gets to go to work in her pyjamas.

Originally from Yorkshire, England, Louisa now lives in Auckland, New Zealand, with her husband, two sports-mad teenage sons and two male cats. Writing romance is her opportunity to covertly inject a hefty dose of pink into her heavily testosterone-dominated household.

When she’s not writing or reading Louisa loves to spend time with her family and friends, enjoys travelling, and adores eating great food (preferably cooked by someone else). She’s also hopelessly addicted to Zumba®.

Visit her at www.louisageorge.com

DEDICATION

To Nikki Logan, Joss Wood and Charlotte Phillips—thanks so much for the fun and the friendship during the creation of this wonderful apartment and the people in it. It was an absolute pleasure working with you all—I hope we can do it again some time.

To #TeamKISS for help with the cocktail names—many thanks to you all! I hope we all get to have a Merry Margarita together one day!

This book is dedicated to my fabulous editor Flo Nicoll. Thank you for your continued support, help and advice—you are amazing!

Table of Contents

Cover

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

1st December. Operation Christmas

CHRISTMAS MUSIC. CHECK.

Dodgy Christmas tree and decorations from attic. Check.

Decent bottle of red and one extra-large glass. Check … Oops … one bottle down. Better make that two bottles of decent red …

Poppy Spencer dumped the years-old artificial tree by the corner window and started to pull back its balding branches, creating a kind of … sort of battered tree shape.

It was about time someone in this apartment got into the Christmas spirit and if that meant she had to do it on her own, then she would. So what if her AWOL flatmates were too busy to care about the festive season? She had to do something to fill the long, empty holiday that stretched ahead of her.

‘Never mind, poor thing.’ She was talking to a tree? That was what being alone in a flat, which until recently had resembled a very busy Piccadilly Station, did to a reasonably sane woman. ‘Looks like it’s just you and me. We’ll soon have you shipshape and looking pretty and sparkly for when everyone comes home. Cheers.’

She chinked a branch with her glass and took a large gulp. There were few things in life that beat a good Shiraz. It went down rather quickly, coating her throat with the taste of blackberries and … well, wine. She poured another. ‘And here’s to absent friends.’ All of them. And there appeared to be more going absent every day.

The box of baubles and decorations seemed to have ended up in a similar state to the tree: a nibbled corner, depilated tinsel. Mice perhaps? Surely not rats? She shuddered, controlling the panicky feeling in her tummy … Rats were horrific, nightmare-inducing, disease-ridden rodents and mice their evil little siblings.

So maybe she wasn’t alone after all.

Standing still, she held her breath and listened. No telltale scurrying, no squeaks. Quiet. The flat was never quiet. Ever.

Oh, and there was some woman crooning about not wanting a lot for Christmas. Yeah, right, said no woman ever.

Note to self: ask big brother, Alex, to look for evidence of four-legged friends—the man had fought in Afghanistan; he was more than equipped to deal with a little mouse infestation.

Second note to self: Unfortunately, Alex was sunning himself on an exotic beach somewhere with Lara. And Isaac, the only other male flatmate, was … well, hell, who ever knew where Isaac was? He was like a sneaky, irritating nocturnal magician, here one minute, gone the next, probably expanding his über-trendy bar portfolio along with his list of short-term female conquests.

Tori had gone with Matt to South Africa. Izzy had moved in with Harry. That was it, all her friends out, happy, settled. Doing things with significant others—or, in Isaac’s case, insignificant others.

Was it too much to want a little bit of their collective happiness? Someone to care if she died alone, suffocated under a box of musty decorations or knocked out by a toppling balding Christmas tree, toes nibbled by starving mice. More, someone to care if she never ever had sex again. Like ever.

She imagined the headlines.

Doctor’s body found after three weeks! Nobody noticed recluse Poppy Spencer had died until the smell …

Or …

Miracle of regrown hymen! Autopsy of sad, lonely cat lady Poppy Spencer discovers born-again virgin …

No doubt somebody somewhere who bothered enough to listen would say she had lots of things to be thankful for. A good job—albeit varicose-vein inducing, with long hours of standing. Friends—albeit all absent. A flat—albeit leaky.

And a new, less-than-desirable flatmate, with fur. Which she would tackle, on her own, because she was a modern evolved woman … and not because she was the only person around to do it. Seriously. It was fine.

She took another decent mouthful of wine. Mr Mouse could wait; first, she’d cheer herself up and decorate the tree. Putting a hand into the box, she pulled out a bright red and silver bauble and almost cried. This was the first house-warming present Tori had bought her. Tori always bought the best presents; she had an innate sense of style.

And Poppy missed her.

‘No.’ More wine fortified her and put a fuzzy barrier between her and her wavering emotions. ‘It’s okay. I’m a grown up. I can be alone.’

She’d read, in an old tattered magazine in the doctors’ on-call room, about a famous reclusive actress who’d said that once. German? Swedish? Poppy couldn’t remember; in fact things seemed to have gone a little hazy altogether.

She picked up two baubles and hung them from her ears like large, gaudy earrings, grabbed a long piece of gold tinsel and draped it round her shoulders, like an expensive wrap over her brushed-cotton, pink-checked pyjamas. Lifted her chin and spoke loudly to the street below. ‘I want to be alone. Or is it, I want to be alone …?’

Louder, just so she could feel the words and believe them, she shouted to the smattering of falling snowflakes illuminated by the streetlights, to the dark, cloudy sky, and to the people coming out of the Chinese takeaway with what looked like enough delicious food for a party. A far cry from her microwaved meal for one. ‘It’s fine. Really. You just go and enjoy yourselves with your jolly Christmas laughing and your cute bobbly hats and fifty spring rolls to share with your lovely friends and don’t worry about me. I’ll just stay here, on my own, and think about adopting a few stray cats or crocheting toilet-roll-holder dolls to pass the time. Crochet is the new black. It’ll be good for my … fine motor skills. I’m fine. I want to be alone. I do.’

‘Oh,’ came a voice from behind her. ‘In that case, I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight.’

‘Ah! What the hell?’

Isaac. She’d know that voice anywhere. Half posh, half street. All annoying. And very typical. Strange kind of skill he had, always turning up at her most embarrassing moments.

She winced, slowly swivelling, bringing her arms down to her sides—had she ranted out loud about her pathetic misery and lonesomeness?

Damn right she had.

The tinsel hung pathetically from her shoulders and the baubles bashed the sides of her reddening neck in a not-quite-in-tempo accompaniment to her heart rate. She probably looked a complete fool, but then, where Isaac was concerned, she was used to looking like a prize idiot.

He, however, looked his usual scruffy ‘male model meets bad-boy done good’ self. He needed a shave and a decent haircut; his usually cropped crew cut stood up in little tufts making him look angelic—which he wasn’t. His cheeks were all pinked-up by the cold winter air. A light dusting of snow graced his shoulders. No doubt some unknowing bimbo would think he looked adorable. But Poppy knew better. Isaac’s looks were deceiving.

He’d been part of the Spencer family’s life for so long he was almost a member of it, and had a habit of turning up like a bad penny at the entirely wrong time, giving her that disappointed shake of his head he’d perfected over the years. But it didn’t affect her quite as much as he hoped because her parents had been doing the exact same thing since she was in nappies.

And now he was here, occasionally living in her lovely flat, because her big brother, Alex, had let him rent a room without asking her first.

Isaac’s head shook. Disappointedly.

She feigned nonchalance because any kind of in-depth conversation with him was the last thing on her Christmas wish-list. ‘So, the missing flatmate returns.’

‘I wasn’t missing. I was working in Paris and then on to Amsterdam, checking out some decent bar venues.’

‘Oh, lucky for some. The other day I managed to get all the way to Paddington for a sexual-health meeting, and once I even made it to the dizzy heights of Edgware Road.’ She loved her job, she really did, but sometimes delving into women’s unmentionables lacked any kind of glamour. And definitely no travel—apart from visiting the dark underworld of repairing episiotomies and doing cervical smears. Where she discovered a lot of women were having a lot of sex. Sadly, she wasn’t one of them.

He shrugged. ‘Oh. You got a whole mile away. Whoop-de-doo. Aren’t you adventurous?’ The animosity was a two-way thing.

He dumped his large duffel bag on the floor and threw his coat on top, cool blue eyes roving her face, then her ears, the tinsel, her flannelette pyjamas. Which had to be the most sexless items of clothing she owned. Which didn’t matter. Isaac was just a flatmate. Her big brother’s best friend. Nothing else.

Apart from … weird, his eyes were vivid and bright and amused. And somebody else might well have thought they were attractive, but she didn’t. Not a bit. Not at all. They were too blue. Too cool. Too … knowing. He gave her one of his trademark long, slow smiles. Which didn’t work the way he might have hoped. She did a mental body scan to check. Nope. No reaction at all.

Through her pre-pubescent years she’d done everything to garner his attention—and had probably appeared as an exasperating little diva. Then she’d woken up to the reality that he was not interested, and then neither was she once she’d discovered bigger and—she’d thought—better men to chase. Real men, not teenage boys … and then … The shame shimmied through her and burned bright in her cheeks. Eight years and she still felt it.

Well, and then Isaac had been lost in the whole sordid slipstream.

He took a step forward and plucked the tinsel from her arm between his finger and thumb, gave it a sorry little look then let it drop to the floor like an undesirable. ‘I’m very sorry to have to break this to you, Poppy, but I think your Christmas fairy days might be over.’

Grabbing a bauble from her ear, she wrapped it round one of the needleless branches. Then did the same with the other one. In a last act of defiance she placed the tinsel from the floor in pride of place in the middle of the tree. ‘Well, gee, thanks.’

‘I just think it might be a little unstable.’ He glanced up at the wonky, droopy top of the tree, then watched her sway. ‘Like you perhaps?’

‘Hey, be rude about me all you like, that’s normal service. But you do not insult my tree.’ She eyed the wine bottle behind him. No harm in a little more. ‘Me and this tree have been together a long time, and no one’s going to criti … be rude about it. Pass me that glass?’ She pointed to the bottle and the glass and then realised that, irritating or not, she should at least be polite to him. Who knew? He might be an expert at rodent removal.

‘D’you want to get yourself a glass, too? There’s plenty … oh.’ There appeared to be a lot of bottle and not a lot of anything in it. ‘You want the last dribble? Or we could open another one?’ Two bottles downed already? Now she was all out. ‘Beer? Eggnog?’

‘No. Thanks. I’ve just been working down at Blue and I’ve had my share for tonight.’ His too-bright, too-blue eyes narrowed as his gaze roved her face again. ‘And you look a little like you might have, too?’

‘Hmm. I thought there was more in there. I’m just …’ His smile made him look like some major celeb. She’d never noticed that before either. Gangly teenager Isaac was now pretty damned handsome? Who knew? And now he was swaying, too. Oops … no, it was her … What was she doing? The tree … yes, the tree. ‘I just need to finish this decorating. Then I really should go to bed.’

‘You need a hand?’

‘Going to bed? No. I don’t think—’ She looked down at his palm. It was a nice hand. Slender fingers, neat nails and the slightly roughened skin of a man who worked with his hands …

Oh, and his brain. Because he was also too clever and too successful—seemed the man just knew instinctively about bars and where to put them and who to market them to. Clever, and her brother’s friend. And then he’d found out her deepest, darkest secret …

Stupid. Stupid.

‘No. Thanks. I’m just finishing this. You can go.’ She wafted her hand to him to leave, needed him to leave as that memory rose, scoring the insides of her gut like sandpaper.

She slid her fist back into the decorations box. Something warm banged against it, then darted out of the hole. Something brown. Small. With more legs than she had time to count.

‘Yikes!’ Jumping back, she stepped on Isaac’s booted foot, banged against his body—which was a whole lot firmer than she ever remembered—and ricocheted off him into an armchair, which she scrambled on, all the better to get out of the way of a man-eating furball. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. ‘What … the … hell was that?’

Isaac laughed as he ducked down to the floor. ‘Shh … it’s just a little mouse. Very frightened now, too, by your crazy demonic scream.’ He crawled along the carpet, hemming the creature into a corner, then swooped in and grabbed.

It darted away, under the TV cupboard and into a very dark corner. Now the only view Poppy had was of a very firm-looking jeans-clad backside. And a slice of skin between his belt and T-shirt, skin that for an odd reason made her tummy do a little somersault. Seemed Isaac had recently been somewhere sun-kissed as well as wintry northern Europe. ‘Have you got it?’

A muffled voice came from underneath the cupboard. ‘For an educated woman who uses scalpels for a living you’re mighty squeamish when it comes to tiny pests. I think it’s escaped.’

‘You think? You think? I can’t live here thinking I don’t have mice. I want to know I don’t have mice. I don’t like them, they scare me, however irrational that makes me. And where there’s one, there’s always more. There could be fifty of them.’

‘Then at least you won’t be alone, right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Sure you are.’ He scrambled up, looked at her all hunched up on the chair and grinned. ‘So you were yelling at some poor, unsuspecting, innocent bystanders. Very loudly.’

‘They were down there across the road and I’m up here behind a window. They didn’t hear.’

‘No. But I imagine the rest of the building did. Where is everyone?’

She slumped down, choosing not to have any more wine, because, seriously, two bottles were way more than she usually had. The mouse had done a runner, so she shovelled her feet under her backside in case it decided to retrace its teeny steps. ‘They’re all out. Gone. Holidays, shopping … all insanely happy and …’ Left behind.

He perched on the arm of the chair, arms folded over his chest—looking as if he was trying to appear sympathetic but inwardly laughing. The way his face lit up when he laughed … that mouth, so nice, so weird. And maybe it was Shiraz-coloured glasses because he was so good-looking weird. Attractive weird. Sexy weird. Infuriating Isaac was eye candy, too. Who knew?

She’d been so busy being annoyed at him living in her space that she hadn’t thought anything else about him at all. Apart from being aware of an electric current every time she was in the same room as him. She’d always assumed that had been caused by her anger at his general class-A irritatingness. ‘Fancy them going off and having a nice time without you. Poor Poppy. Lonely?’

And he was a mind-reader, too, but no way would she fess up to such an idea. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s great that they’re all sorted—it gets them off my hands. Finally.’

‘You love it, though, playing the mum, looking after them all, nurturing them … putting up the tree as a surprise for when they get home. Sweet. You don’t want to be alone at all, do you?’

‘You make it sound pathetic when really I’m just using you all to pay the mortgage.’

He leant towards her. ‘Hey, I was joking—at least you were the sensible sibling and put your money into bricks and mortar instead of partying it away like Alex. And it’s a great flat even if it does get a little busy. And leaky. But the company helps, right?’

‘Some of the company does …’

‘Don’t worry, message received loud and clear. I’m sorry Alex gave me the room without talking to you first. I wouldn’t have moved straight in if I’d known. But I’ll be out of your hair as soon as my apartment’s done.’ Isaac’s grin smoothed into that soft smile again and for some strange reason her unmentionables suddenly got hot and bothered.

What? No. It was just unseasonably warm tonight. Or a vasoconstrictive response to the wine. Or something. Whatever was making her body parts flush it was definitely not Isaac Blair. ‘Oh, yes, the swanky South Ken penthouse. I’ve heard it’s going to be very nice. Very swish and expensive.’ Very uncluttered, too, no doubt. Isaac liked to keep things simple—most notably his love life, which, she’d observed over the years, was more like a revolving door of heartbroken women trying to ensnare him, and nothing stable or serious. Or committed. Ever. ‘And the renovations will be finished when?’ Hope rose.

‘A couple more months, I imagine. There’s Christmas coming and everything shuts down so there’ll be no progress made for a few weeks. Mid-February?’

Hope fell, but, God knew, she needed the cash to fund her home loan. Alex might well have spent all his inheritance but he’d had a good time in the process. All she’d got out of ploughing her grandmother’s inheritance cash into a bijou flat was a financial noose around her neck, dodgy plumbing and four-legged furry friends. Regardless, she didn’t feel overly comfortable being on her own with Isaac and flushing unmentionables. ‘Okay, so you stay on longer than February the twenty-eighth and I’ll charge you double rent.’

His eyes widened. ‘You drive a very hard bargain, Dr Spencer.’

‘Indeed I do.’ Her eyes locked with his and there was a strange rippling in the atmosphere between them. Was she imagining it or did he feel it, too?

He dragged his gaze away, but not before she caught a glimpse of tease there. Maybe a little heat. Whoa. Isaac? Heat? With her? Maybe she hadn’t imagined it.

‘So it’s just you and me here tonight, then?’ he asked.

‘It appears so.’ And why did that make her feel suddenly nervous? No, not nervous … tingly. Tingly happened to other people. Not her.

She looked across the wooden floor to the dark hole under the TV and tingly mingled with fear. Although she had to admit she did feel a lot better with Isaac in the flat. ‘Just you, me and our furry friend, of course … plus his babies, wife, mother, grandparents, probably a community the size of a small tropical nation living in the rafters, the walls … under my bed.’

‘I’ll get a trap tomorrow from the hardware stall at the market and have a word with the café and let them know we have guests. They’ll need to know for their own health and safety measures.’

‘Oh, I don’t want it hurt, or dead. I just want it gone. Out of here.’

‘Like me? Right.’

Got it in one. She couldn’t hide the smile. ‘You can stay if you can keep the rodent population to a minimum. Humanely. Yes. Yes. The mice. Do things … with them.’ Was she rambling a little?

‘Is that all I’m good for, really?’

She could think of a few things—starting with that mouth. Her stomach joined her head in all kinds of woozy. Definitely too much alcohol on an empty stomach. ‘I’m sure you’re good for a lot of things, Isaac …’

‘I’ve never had any complaints.’ He stood up, the flash of cheekiness gone. She wondered how it would be to really flirt with him, just a little. But then she didn’t know how. He brushed down his T-shirt and strode towards his bag.

There was something she was supposed to ask him. She couldn’t remember … Something about work or Christmas … Her head was getting foggy … Oh, yes … She held up a finger. ‘Wait. One thing.’

He stopped and turned, the bag still in his hand. ‘Yes?’

‘I have a problem.’

Smug eyebrows peaked. ‘Oh? Just the one?’

‘Don’t be cheeky. I’m organising the department Christmas party and the venue has double-booked us. Any chance Blue could fit us in? I’m in a bit of a pickle because I’m organising the party …’ Had she already said that? He might just save the day. She put her hand on one hip and flashed him her best winning smile. ‘Pretty please?’

It appeared to have little effect apart from the eyebrows rising further. ‘Now you’re just being nice because you want something. Poppy, Poppy, should I charge you double rates, too? What night?’

‘Next Friday.’

‘I’ll check the diary tomorrow. Shouldn’t be a problem, though. That’s early for a Christmas party.’

‘Things tend to hot up the closer we get to Christmas. Everyone wants a Christmas baby so they either try to hold on … or try to get it out early. We want to get the party out of the way so we can focus.’ Focusing was a bit of a problem right now, but she figured she’d be fine by Christmas.

‘So you’re working over Christmas? Not going home?’

She snorted at the thought. ‘You’re joking, right? I offered to work Christmas Day so the staff with families that actually cared for each other could spend time together. That way I have a good excuse to stay away from the family pile. So do me a favour and make sure my work Christmas party’s a good one? I want at least one thing to look forward to this festive season.’ Give me a good time, Isaac?

Geez, she was funny.

‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do. And now, I’m definitely going to bed.’ He turned again, his back straight, shoulders solid and that backside giftwrapped in jeans, all tight and firm and … her mouth watered.

What in hell was she thinking?

She watched him reach the door and felt an overwhelming desire to talk to him just a little more. She didn’t want to be on her own. And for some reason she felt a tingling down low and a need to … to what?

She hadn’t been able to think about sex for so long and now … well, right now she was thinking about it a lot. And not just because she was on the obstetrics and gynaecology rotation, although if that job taught her anything it was that women were either doing it a lot or not able to do it and wanting her to fix problems so they could do it some more.

But she deserved a little fun—and some much needed sexperience—maybe Isaac would know how she could find some. ‘Hey, Isaac, wait.’

‘What now?’

‘You have fun, right?’

She couldn’t read his expression as he turned to face her. Something between grumpy and irritated. And downright insanely sexy. ‘Sure. I work hard so I figure I should play hard, too.’

‘That’s it … that’s just it, right there. I’ve worked so hard for so long and I just want … more. Is there more? What more is there? What am I missing? How do you … you know, have fun without getting messed up in the process? Do you understand?’ She wasn’t sure she did. Not a lot of anything made sense right now. Except that Isaac had come closer and was looking at her with those bluest of blue eyes—okay, he was a little out of focus … And she wanted to stroke his hair. No, she wanted to breathe in his smell. It was smoky, very masculine. Yummy. She wanted to breathe him in and stroke his hair. ‘Is there more, Isaac?’

‘Oh. Okay, I see, we’re at stage three already.’ He disappeared into the kitchen and brought back a pint glass filled with water. ‘Drink this.’

She took a sip. He pushed it back towards her mouth and she drank a whole lot more; it was refreshing but nowhere near as nice as the Shiraz. ‘Stage three of what?’

‘It goes like this. The tipsy stage. The funny stage. The “pondering the universe” stage. Then, the “I love you, you’re my bestest ever friend” stage. And finally, the upchuck. We see it all the time at work and, trust me, you do not want to get to stage five.’

She put the glass down on the coffee table. ‘I am so not at any stage.’

‘Walk in a straight line, then, preferably towards your bedroom to sleep the alcohol off.’

She doubted she could stand in a straight line. ‘I don’t have to. I’m fine, thank you very much. Very fine indeedy.’

He held her gaze. A challenge. The heat in his eyes was flecked with serious. So nice. So very, very nice.

And very, very Isaac. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll walk.’ Oh, yes, she could do that. She could do that perfectly; show Isaac Blair she wasn’t afraid of any challenge from him.

CHAPTER TWO

STAGE THREE. WITHOUT a doubt things could well get messy. After spending hours dealing with this kind of stuff at work Isaac really did not need it at home, too, but he took Poppy’s hand and pulled her up from the chair. For the second time that night she bumped against him and he steadied her, feeling the softness of her body as she leaned into him. Cute that she wore old-fashioned pyjamas to bed, but with Poppy’s slightly restrained approach to life it wasn’t surprising.

The way she felt was, though. She had curves where curves should very definitely be and right now, pressed against him, they certainly chased away the London winter chill.

Hell, she’d grown up. A lot. And even though he’d caught up with her over the years he hadn’t really looked at her. Hadn’t wanted to—and she clearly hadn’t wanted anything to do with him either. Not since the night he’d held her thick dark hair while she vomited into a rose bush and cried for a man who wasn’t him. ‘Hey, careful.’

‘Oops. Sorry.’ She looked up at him through a fringe that grazed long black eyelashes and something flashed behind her deep brown eyes. Caution. Poppy’s normal mojo. She’d trodden a safe, sensible path for the last however many years—never letting herself get out of control, always steadily working towards her career goal. But there was something else in those eyes, too—something glittering—need? Lust?

First time he’d seen her let her guard down in for ever. Amazing what a bit of wine could do.

‘Right.’ He stretched a piece of tinsel along the floor. Hell, it wasn’t his problem; she wasn’t his problem. But he had to make sure she was safe. Way he saw it, he could probably do this tinsel line straight to her bedroom and she’d hardly notice. ‘Now, walk along this line and we’ll see what stage you’re at. Then you should definitely get some shut-eye.’

‘See. I can do this, no problemo.’ Her right foot rested on top of the tinsel, scarlet-painted toes pointed as if she were perfecting a gymnastic display on the barre. Left foot. Then the right flailed in mid-air, she wobbled, fell sideways and into his outstretched arms. She grabbed on to his shoulder and he got a whiff of clean citrus, shampoo possibly or shower gel. The woman smelt good. She smiled. ‘Oops again. You’re a good catcher, Isaac. Thank you for being here. You’re very kind. Very nice actually, I think. Underneath that standoffish mask. Very nice indeed. We could be friends, you know … You know a lot about me. More than anyone—’

‘Shh. Let’s concentrate on the walking thing.’ He placed a finger over her lips. Rapidly approaching stage four—he did not want to deal with that. ‘Then I think we should get you to bed.’

‘Absolutely … Is that … is that an offer?’ The heat in her body slammed against his. Her lips parted ever so slightly as she smiled.

Then closed again as he shook his head. ‘Thanks. But, no. If we were ever to do anything in bed, Poppy … which we won’t … I’d want you to be able to remember it in the morning.’

Sleeping with Poppy? Insane idea. But the thought lingered for just too long, and he hadn’t been with a woman in a while.

Absolutely not.

He gently removed her from his arm, and within a nanosecond of that touch his body zinged with a shot of pure feral desire. Here she was offering herself to him, this attractive grown-up woman—although he’d only just awoken to that fact. He could take her to bed and ease away some of the stresses of the past week. Show her the fun she so obviously craved.

Only, this was Poppy and there were a dozen or more reasons why that would be the worst damned idea he’d had in a long time. Not least the fact she was drunk, lonely and, until she’d uttered that last sentence, he would have sworn she hated his guts. He’d been there at her lowest, her weakest and worst moment, and somehow she’d never forgiven him.

Not that he’d ever cared. Impressing women past a flirty dalliance had never been on his agenda. He’d spent enough time watching too many marriages fail to contemplate one himself, and he wasn’t about to change that any time soon.

It had been a busy few days—he was tired, was all, having put every ounce of effort into getting the Paris bar up and running. He needed sleep. On his own. ‘Come on, let’s get you to the bedroom.’

‘No! Bathroom first. Teeth. Floss. Wee.’

‘Too much information, lady.’ For some reason his hand seemed to have slipped back round her waist. She wasn’t so drunk that she’d fall over, but he thought it best he should steady her as they walked towards the bathroom. Her head rested against his shoulder and she looked sweet. Smelt great. Felt … sexy as all hell. Was it possible to be jet-lagged from a one-hour flight? Because he couldn’t think of any other reason for this strange disorientation.

He tried to keep his eyes on the bathroom decor and not on Poppy’s backside as she dipped to rinse her toothbrush. She’d done a reasonable job painting the flat in bright, light colours. The bathroom still needed a little TLC as the plumbing was cranky at best but it was clean and tiled in muted stone. A large skylight shed light from above although now all he could see were glimpses of stars in a cloudy night sky.

What gave the room colour were the multi-hued bits of lace drying on the radiator on the far wall. Still unused to sharing a house with so many women, he wondered what the correct response should be to finding flimsy underwear wherever he looked. He doubted it should be the spike of interest, and trying to match the panties to the woman. Now he tried not to imagine Poppy in the red and black number.

Hey, he was a hot-blooded man after all.

After a few moments of brushing her teeth she looked at him through the reflection in the large mirror. ‘You know it’s a medical impossibility to become a virgin again once you’re not. Right?’

‘Uh-huh. You’re the doctor, not me. But I think it’s a given that once the seal is broken it can’t exactly be unbroken. And where are you going with this, Miss Einstein?’ Grabbing the towel, she dried her mouth, then turned to him.

‘I’m a fraud. I advise women every day about their sex lives and I don’t have one. How can I talk to them about sex when I don’t even remember what it’s like? I don’t want to be an almost-virgin when I die, Isaac, but I’m headed that way.’

Like he was the right guy to be having this conversation with. Especially when he was the only person in the universe who knew why she’d given up sex. Anger started to rise from nowhere. She’d run away from any kind of relationship ever since, when she could have been happy. Happier. ‘You really do need to sleep off that wine. There’s plenty of time to get a sex life and plenty of men who, I’m sure, would be willing to help you in your … dilemma.’

‘Would you?’ Those pretty painted toes took a step towards him.

‘Would I what?’

But instead of answering in words, she pressed her mouth against his. Pressed her body against his. Made little mewling sounds that activated every hot-blooded cell in his body. And, hell, he should have pulled away, put her straight to bed and left. But she tasted so damned good …

Someone was playing bongo drums in Poppy’s head. And someone else was stomping in her stomach. Her throat hurt. Her mouth was dry. She felt like hell.

Worse than hell.

After a couple of minutes stabilising herself she twisted in the sheets about to sit up but her foot collided against something warm. Something large. In her bed. Her eyelids shot open and she managed to stifle the scream in her throat, holding her breath as she tried to make sense of it. Her heart thumped in conjunction with the annoying beat in her head as her toes gingerly tested the object.

A leg. Human. Hairy.

What. The. Hell?

She closed her eyes again until her stomach stopped churning. There was a man in her bed.

Isaac?

It took all of her strength to turn over quietly so as not to waken him up. Yes—same hair, same smell. She clamped her eyes closed again.

Isaac.

A bare leg. Two bare legs. She felt down her front … no cosy pink flannelette pyjamas, but a skimpy silk cami top? No PJ bottoms, but matching silk and lace French knickers? Lara’s expensive design—for best times only. What in hell had she done?

Please no.

Surely not?

Surely, surely not? She’d spent the night with a man. With Isaac. First time in eight long years and she couldn’t even remember it?

The vodka and Coke she’d had at the pub before she came home she easily remembered. And … ugh … the red wine gifts from her clients. Bile rose to her throat. She was never ever drinking again. Fuzzy flickering images of Isaac arriving while she was putting up the tree gradually came into focus. But how had they gone from that, to … this?

But oh, oh, God … she suddenly remembered kissing him in the bathroom. Remembered how she’d felt bold and brave and very sexy. And how he’d tasted so nice, his kiss so tender … Even now she could smell his scent, firing flashes of heat through her belly.

‘Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up.’ He turned, naked shoulders peeking out from her sheets, sat up, eyes as bright as the daylight splicing through her curtains. His hair was mussed up and he looked devastatingly hot. ‘Sleep well? Eventually?’

‘Why are you in my bed?’ Bunching the sheet around her throat, she sat up, too. No way was she getting out until he’d gone.

‘You don’t remember, Poppy? What a shame. It was a spectacular night and you don’t remember at all? I’m so disappointed.’

There was that shake of the head she knew so well. Daddy Spencer would be a proud man to see someone perfect that frown, even if it wasn’t his own flesh and blood.

‘I remember … we kissed.’ Oh, God, kill me now. ‘And then …’ She tried to force the cogs in her brain to work harder, faster, but they were stuck in fog. ‘Not a lot else.’

His hands clasped at the back of his neck showing mighty fine pectoral muscles, impressive biceps … Her mouth dried to something beyond the Sahara. Mortified she might have been, but she could still take time out to appreciate a beautiful human specimen when she saw one. She’d touched that? Lain under that? Or had she been on top? Or both? Who knew?

Aargh! Why couldn’t she remember?

He appeared to be struggling to keep a straight face. ‘You surprised even me. And I’m used to pretty much anything. Not exactly a screamer, more a gasper …’

‘A gasper? I didn’t … We didn’t …?’ A flash of him running his hand through her hair emerged through the soup in her brain. No, that had been years ago. But … the image in her head was of her current bathroom. Of safe hands stroking her back. A soft smile as he’d picked her up and carried her across the apartment and into her bedroom.

‘You kissed me.’ No way would she forget that in a London minute.

‘No, Poppy. You kissed me.’

‘You kissed me back.’

Those magnificent shoulders shrugged. ‘Glad to help out a lady in need. You said you wanted me to teach you a few things. Asked me … begged me.’

Oh, good Lord. Begged Isaac? ‘Well, that was the vodka talking.’

‘Vodka? No, a couple of bottles of Aussie Shiraz by the looks of it.’

Her stomach lurched with just the thought of it. She swallowed hard. ‘Vodka with colleagues in the pub before the wine on my own.’ Could it get any worse? He’d kissed her because she’d asked him to help her. Begged him. Not because he’d fancied her. Not because he’d wanted her. He’d kissed her out of pity.

She’d begged him?

‘I have to say you are an almost textbook drunk.’

‘Good to know.’ That’d be right. Usually Poppy did everything by the book, because not doing so caused too much harm and mayhem. And she never wanted to go there again.

‘But what is it about me, Popsicle?’ His use of her childhood nickname made her cringe, and he damn well knew it, making her pull the sheets more tightly round her cleavage as he spoke. ‘Is it something I do? Is it the way I smell? Every time we get a moment alone we end up with your head down, bum up. Gasping. Stage five implemented to perfection. You are a champion upchucker.’

No. Not again. ‘I was sick?’

‘Yes. Spectacularly.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ No wonder her stomach hurt.

‘Not pretty.’

‘So we didn’t, er, you know.’

He shrugged. ‘Hey, you know me, I never give away our secrets.’

She’d begged him not to before and he’d been true to his word. She threw him a glance—his grin widened and she wasn’t sure if he was referring to back then or last night. But he was clearly not going to enlighten her. Irritating.

Over the ensuing years that evening had hovered between them like an ominous dark cloud—would he ever confront her? Would he put her in a situation where she’d have to confess to everyone what she’d done and show who the real Poppy Spencer was?

So far he’d kept schtum on the whole thing—but then she’d never allowed herself to be in any kind of situation where she owed him anything more. And ever since then the all-new shiny reformed Poppy Spencer hadn’t put a foot wrong.

But still—he knew. And for that reason alone she kept him at a distance.

Fast forward to the second most mortifying moment of her life—if they’d actually done the deed surely she’d know? She’d feel different—her body would feel less nauseated and more … excited. Surely? No, they hadn’t had sex, she was pretty certain. Relief flooded through her. ‘So why are you in my bed now? Why am I in different clothes? Where are my pyjamas?’

His head shook. Disappointedly. ‘Don’t panic, I put a quick stop to the kiss and you’re still an almost-virgin.’

‘A what?’

‘Never mind. Just something you said last night. Amongst a whole lot of other stuff.’ His voice rose a couple of octaves. ‘“Please don’t leave me, there’s a mouse on the run. I’m scared. Too cold. Too hot. I need a drink. Headache. I’m going to be sick again. Please, don’t leave me, Isaac, I’m scared.” Eventually your demands exhausted me and I fell asleep right here. You are one hell of a snorer, by the way. I hope for your sake it was just because of the alcohol.’ He smiled his slow, lazy smile. ‘And now you’re wearing the only things I could lay my hands on in the dark at four-thirty this morning during the too-hot phase. Very, very nice, too.’

His eyebrows rose as his fingers plucked the blush-pink lacy straps of her cami. At his touch her body reacted in a very un-Poppy-like way—with a frenzied surge of what she could only describe as lust. And he knew it, too, judging by the glittering in his eyes. ‘Must have cost a fair bit.’

She slapped his hand away from her straps, not least because of the effect his skin was having on her skin. ‘They did, even with mate’s rates. And did you look … did you see …?’ She’d learnt to be forthright with her patients; why couldn’t she be forthright with him? She needed to know the extent of her absolute mortification. She took a deep breath, not wanting to hear the answer to her question. ‘Okay, so who undressed me? Did you help with that or did I manage it all by myself?’

‘Don’t worry, I closed my eyes.’ He leaned forward and whispered against her neck, making her shiver and shudder and hot and cold at the same time. ‘Most of the time.’

‘What? No!’

Then he winked. ‘All I can say is that someone’s going to be a very lucky man one day.’ But he clearly wasn’t referring to himself because with that he threw the sheet back, revealing a pair of extremely well-toned legs, thigh-hugging black boxers with the outlined shape of something she only allowed herself a moment’s glance at before she was totally and utterly lost for words … Wow … just wow. And a body that she could have sworn she saw advertising aftershave in a glossy yesterday. ‘Got to get to work, Popsicle. I’ll make sure I get a mousetrap on the way back. Thanks for a very entertaining evening.’

Then he was gone.

‘Damn. Damn. Damn.’ She leaned back against the pillows and breathed out a huge sigh, unsure of what to make of it all. Because, despite the Macarena in her stomach, she could have sworn she should be feeling a whole lot different from the way she felt right now. She should definitely not be feeling turned on. Her breasts should not be tingly, her heart should not be pounding, her lady bits should definitely not be wide awake and singing hallelujah at the mere hint of Isaac’s presence. Or at the thought of him seeing her naked. No. She should not be feeling like this at all. Especially when the startling, belittling, humiliating truth of it all was that, without any thought of consequences, she’d got drunk, accosted him and he’d kissed her back out of pity.

CHAPTER THREE

‘WE HAVE MICE. At least, we’ve seen one little critter upstairs. I thought I should let you know.’ Isaac paid for his coffee and nodded his thanks to Marco, the café owner. ‘I’ve got a couple of traps and we’ll sort it out our end. Just keep an eye out down here in case they migrate.’

‘Okay, cheers, mate, I’ll have a look, but we’re usually on top of zeez things. No mices here.’ Marco pushed Isaac’s coffee towards him and started to serve the next customer.

Isaac took his cup, negotiated the defunct fireman’s pole that connected their upstairs apartment with Ignite café, and found a seat, aiming to fortify his strength with a sharp caffeine buzz before he nipped back to the flat. The last thing he wanted was to bump into Poppy and relive the awkwardness of earlier. A coffee shot would help. Plus keep him awake for the long night’s work ahead.

He took a sip. Added an extra sugar for luck. Opened his smartphone and reviewed his notes. The only thing of any consequence he’d managed to achieve today was to check the availability of the bar for Friday, for Poppy. Then he’d sorted out a mousetrap, for Poppy. Spoken to the manager at Ignite café, for Poppy. And hidden in the café, from Poppy. The woman was invading his every living, breathing moment, not to mention his to-do list.

Which was very interesting. He never allowed any woman to ever invade anything at all. Work came first. Always. Work was predictable and straightforward. Work didn’t change the goalposts or come with an agenda that you didn’t understand. He knew where he stood with his business—knew what he needed to do to be the best. And he’d made damned sure he had been, throwing hour after hour, year after year into transforming his bars into award-winning establishments. Being pretty much uprooted and homeless by the age of sixteen, he was used to travelling, liked the challenge of working in different countries, of winning the hearts and loyalty of the Parisians and the Dutch. Next stop, the States, and he’d be a success there, too. That would show everyone who’d ever doubted him.

But despite what he’d said and what he’d tried to convince himself to believe, he’d really enjoyed that kiss. The cheeky glimpse of Poppy’s half-naked body bathed in moonlight hadn’t been half bad either. Which, hands on heart, had not been his fault. She’d said she was ready, when in reality her silky top hadn’t quite covered everything it needed to. He’d turned away … too late.

Hell. He closed his eyes briefly at the mental image; she was definitely all woman. And off every limit he had. So the fact his brain kept wandering back to those scenes last night—the kiss, her body, her smell, even her pyjamas—was very inconvenient.

He added fast-track the renovations to his to-do list. He could control his libido, but he couldn’t guarantee for how long, so the sooner he was out of that flat, the better. Stupid enough to get in any way involved with a woman, doubly so to get carried away with a woman he had too much history with. That could get all kinds of messy.

Isaac subscribed to the ‘no promises, no commitment, no heartbreak’ school of relationships. Easy. In his bitter experience commitment usually lasted just until someone better, richer, younger came along, leaving chaos and hurt in the slipstream. He didn’t need any of that.

The doorbell pinged behind him as someone entered along with the cold December wind-chill factor. Women’s voices. His gut pinged, too, as his hand froze, coffee cup halfway between the table and his mouth. Izzy’s northern-infused accent. Poppy’s hesitant laughter.

So much for avoiding her.

Gulping the too-hot coffee and almost suffering third-degree burns in the process, he put his cup on the table, tugged up his coat collar around his ears, focused on his phone and concentrated on trying to be incognito. Plan A: when they started to order at the counter he’d slip out unnoticed.

‘Isaac! Hello.’ Izzy dropped a kiss on his cheek, then shoved a stray lock of short blond hair behind her ear, beaming. He’d met a lot of Poppy’s friends over the years, as part of a peripheral group that tagged along whenever Poppy’s brother, Alex, was home on leave, but never had he envisaged living with any of them. Strange how life worked out. ‘Long time no see. Where’ve you been?’

‘Hi, Izzy. Hello, Poppy. I was in Europe for a while sussing out some bar venues. We’ve just opened one in Bastille and we’ve another planned for Amsterdam.’ He tried to focus on Izzy, but his eyes kept drifting towards the woman he’d spent the night with. She refused to meet his gaze, keeping her focus on the counter ahead, then on Izzy, a small polite wave to Marco. Scraping his chair back, Isaac lifted his plastic carrier. ‘I got some traps. I’ll head upstairs now and set them up. Do you have any peanut butter?’

Finally Poppy looked up at him, her make-up-free cheeks pinking. Instead of her regulation work ponytail her hair hung in loose curls around her shoulders, which normally would have made her look younger, if it hadn’t been for the purple shadows under her eyes.

She pulled a thick cream cardigan around her uptight shoulders and stamped black suede boots on the tiles. Her mouth had formed a grim line. Clearly the hangover still hung.

Even so, she still looked breathtaking. He’d never really thought of her like that until yesterday. But breathtaking was the only way to describe her. Yeah … well, she’d certainly taken his breath away with that surprise kiss last night. As she spoke he wondered what could happen next time, if he left his principles at the bedroom door. Which was never going to happen. Because he would never let them get into that situation again.

She frowned. ‘I thought mice ate cheese.’

‘The guy in the market said to use peanut butter—apparently they love it. If we don’t have any I’ll head to the shop and get some.’

‘No. There’s some in the cupboard by the fridge.’ She peered up at him. ‘Smooth.’

‘Thanks. I like to think so.’ He grinned.

‘Yeah, Mr Big Shot, whatever. I was talking about the peanut butter, not you.’ She tutted, her shoulders dropping a little as her eyebrows rose. ‘You definitely fall in the crunchy camp.’

‘Oh, and now I’m mortally wounded.’ Still, it was good to have her at least being able to look at him. Things could get weird in the flat if they couldn’t speak to each other. ‘Well, I’ve got to set these traps then get back to work … Oh, talking of … the private room’s free at Blue on Friday for your work get-together if you still want it. Do you need to come and view it?’

‘No, I don’t think—’ She looked off-balance and not particularly thrilled at having this conversation.

‘Or are you fine taking my word for it?’ He could give them both a get-out if he sorted it all here. Then he could head off to his sanctuary and work out what the hell was going on in his head. Or at the very least try and get her out of it. ‘How many will be coming? Do you need food? I can get the chef to make up a specials menu for you all.’

‘I think there’s probably about twenty of us, including some spouses and partners.’ She matched his smile. Not too friendly. ‘I’m sure the regular menu will be fine.’

Good, no need to spend any more time with her than necessary. ‘Great. I’ll see you later. Some time. I’m kind of busy at the bar so I might not be around much.’

Way to go—Poppy’s whole demeanour seemed to brighten. ‘Oh—okay.’

‘Wait. Isaac?’ Izzy interrupted and his optimism floundered. ‘Maybe Poppy and I should come over this afternoon. I’d love to see your new bar. I’m scouting out places for the wedding reception. And Poppy? How can you organise a party without checking out the venue first?’

‘Oh, I trust Isaac,’ she said in a voice that conveyed the opposite. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

Izzy looked at her friend with growing incredulity. ‘It’s a cocktail bar, right? And you’re on a day off?’

Poppy gave a weak shrug. ‘Yes. Actually, just for a change I have some time off. And I was hanging out for a coffee. You know Marco makes a mean espresso.’

‘Forget the coffee. What are we waiting for? Blue awaits. Come on, bride-to-be’s prerogative.’ Blissfully ignorant of the awkwardness in the room as she rode her fluffy happy wedding cloud, Izzy smiled. ‘A cocktail will be fun. Happy hour for mates, okay, Isaac?’

Looked as if he had no choice.

Looked as if none of them had a choice. The bride-to-be certainly did hold all the cards.

Poppy shook her head as she wiggled out of Izzy’s hold and held up her hands. ‘No, I’m sorry, not today, we can go to Blue some other time. Come along with us on Friday if you want—there’ll be quite a crowd. But as from today I’m officially on the wagon. I’m never drinking again.’

‘Why ever not?’ Izzy asked. ‘It’s Christmas time. We have to drink and be merry. It’s the rule.’

‘I had too much last night. You know me, I’m a very cheap date and rubbish at holding my booze.’

As Isaac well knew, to the detriment of a sane mind and a decent night’s sleep. And that kiss that made his mouth water for more. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Poppy, I’m sure we can rustle you up a virgin margarita. Or even—’ he made sure he had her full attention ‘—an almost-virgin one.’

‘Why do you keep …?’ Her cheeks blazed and she looked down at her boots. When she lifted her chin again realisation flamed in her eyes. ‘Oh, my God. I didn’t …?’

‘Didn’t what?’ Izzy’s eyebrows formed a V. She looked first at Poppy and then at Isaac. ‘What are you two talking about? What didn’t you do?’

Isaac saw the pain on Poppy’s face and knew he’d stepped too far. She did sarcasm like a pro, but had also relied on him to hold her secrets close to his chest, and he’d never been tempted to share them so he wasn’t going to start now. Although sometimes she was a little too damned serious for her own good. Honestly, she didn’t need to repent for ever. Everyone had at least one thing in their past they regretted. And being sexually inexperienced wasn’t exactly a crime. Some man would be very lucky indeed to reintroduce Poppy to the dating scene. Isaac only hoped it wouldn’t be a jerk like the last one.

And why did the thought of Poppy with another man make his blood pressure hike? Things weren’t making sense today. ‘Didn’t … get to sort out the rest of the tree decorations. Right, Poppy? Maybe you and Izzy could finish them this afternoon.’ And stay out of my way.

Izzy picked up her bags and shook her head. ‘Rubbish. We’ll come with you to set the traps. I’m so glad you’ve chosen the humane ones—I’d hate to see anything get hurt. We can be The Three Mouseketeers, releasing the mice into their true habitat outdoors. You must call me if you catch any. I’d love to see them. Then we’ll tag along and see what an amazing bar you’ve created, Isaac. I’ve heard so much about it.’ She turned to Poppy. ‘Come on, please? I don’t get the chance to do this very often. I feel like living dangerously. Okay?’

‘Oh, okay. Just a quick drink, but I’m on water.’ Poppy sighed.

And for just a second he was back in that bed watching as she fell asleep. How many times had he shared his bed? Too many to count. And no woman sleeping had made his heart squeeze as she had last night, as if he’d wanted to protect her, to stop her feeling as rotten as she clearly felt. To stop her needing to outright ask for a sexual experience. The accidental glimpse of a woman’s nipples hadn’t ever before made him feel so aroused.

No woman had looked so damned hot with a hangover either.

His groin tightened as he watched her. Goddamn—he needed a bit of distance, not to give her a guided tour of his bar.

Catching Isaac’s eye, she frowned and shook her head minutely, but just enough for him to understand. He got the message loud and clear. Don’t mention it, don’t think about it and definitely don’t ever consider spending another night in my bed.

Which was one hundred per cent fine by him.

Blue lived up to the hype. Even through foggy hangover vision Poppy could see why Isaac had won the Best New Bar Award this year. Decorated in vivid midnight blue with a wall of cascading turquoise water in the centre of what used to be a bank it was startling, edgy and yet a very comfortable place to be with soft, plump easy chairs she sank into.

Or would have been comfortable if she hadn’t been in direct eye line of Isaac all afternoon, on tenterhooks wondering what the heck he was going to say and how she was going to answer. He’d always had slick one-liners, been far too cocky for his own good and she was so out of her league here—tongue-tied with embarrassment.

As it was mid-afternoon the place was quiet with just a couple of other customers sitting up at the long mahogany bar reading the extensive cocktail menu. Izzy tapped her martini glass against Poppy’s sparkling water. ‘Cheers. I’m very impressed—no wonder he’s doing so well if all his bars are like this. He’s a bit of a mystery, though, isn’t he? Flitting in and out of the country … He’s sort of been vaguely around the edge of our group on and off for years, then he’s suddenly rich and successful and renting a room at yours.’

Poppy nodded. ‘Believe me, the renting’s only temporary. He wouldn’t have been my first choice of flatmate. But when Alex offered him your old room I couldn’t exactly say no. I guess Alex thought he was doing us both a favour.’

Izzy winced. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you in a mess.’

‘Ah, look, I’m a landlady, I have to expect these things to happen. Funny, though, we were so settled for all those years, just you, me and Tori in our lovely flat.’

‘Your lovely flat.’

‘Yes, well, I always thought of it as ours really—you helped me find it and decorate it. I just bankrolled it. But then in the space of two months everything’s changed so much I can barely keep up. Tori moved out to be with Mark, and you moved out to live with Harry. Alex moved in, Tori moved back into the box room, Isaac took your old room. And just to spice things up a bit, we had Matt for a month. I’m getting a bit dizzy. It’s like the place has a revolving door at the moment.’ If only Isaac could see fit to revolve out permanently instead of staying over for a few nights here and there … usually unannounced. Still, paying full rent in advance meant his contribution to the mortgage was a big relief to her money worries. In the short term. ‘Besides, with his job he’s hardly around.’ Until recently. Now it felt as if he was around rather too much for her liking.

‘And he hasn’t got a girlfriend? Or at least no woman to stay with until his flat’s ready.’

‘Oh, trust me, he’s had plenty of women.’ Poppy sipped her water and thought briefly about exchanging it for something stronger so she could find some of the bravado she must have had last night. Kissing someone—not even asking, just kissing—took guts. She hadn’t known she had any. Not those kind of guts, anyway. Asking for what she wanted, taking what she wanted. Typical it had ended in disaster.

Izzy clarified, ‘No long-term woman.’

‘According to Alex, Isaac’s dating record is a month. Thirty days. That’s not enough to give anything a chance. I’ve heard of the kind of things he used to get up to with Alex and it’s not pretty. The man’s just a flirt. No self-respecting woman would want long term with him, anyway, not that he’d ever offer. I think watching his mother have failed marriage after failed marriage has put him off any kind of commitment.’ So said the ex–junior psychiatrist in her.

She watched him so comfortable there behind the bar with his colleagues, laughing and joking. The smart shirt accentuated the pecs of steel she’d seen this morning. Her mind drifted back to the tight boxers and her heart rate escalated. She swallowed another gulp of water to douse an unexpected heat rushing through her. God. Hot and bothered just by looking at a man. This never happened. Never. Was she eighteen again?

Ugh. She shuddered. She damned well hoped not.

‘There’s a funny vibe between you two. There’s always been a funny vibe, but it’s getting more vibrant.’

Bless Izzy and her wishful happyed-up thinking. ‘There’s no vibe.’

Her friend touched her arm. ‘Just be careful.’

This was the girl Poppy had known for ever. Only once had she ever kept a secret from her; every other single thing about their lives they had shared. Openly. Everything. And yet she didn’t want to tell Izzy about last night, about kissing Isaac and the weird sensations he was instilling in her. Didn’t want to confess about the hole she felt she had in her personal life and the inadequacies in her professional one. All of which could be fixed by one kind, considerate and caring man and a little sexperience. Isaac did not fit that bill.

But inside her head the only image was of naked shoulders peeking out of her sheets. Too-blue eyes teasing, hot breath on her neck, and tight black boxers. Always the black boxers.

Everything tingled. Every damned thing. ‘Me and Isaac? I don’t think so. Seriously.’

Izzy nodded. ‘You’re probably right—too close to home. Too weird after all these years. He’s definitely good to look at though.’

‘Says the married-woman-to-be.’

‘Hey, I’m getting married, not joining a convent.’ Izzy drained her glass. ‘I said be careful, I didn’t say don’t act on the vibe. You could always just have a little …’ her eyes widened ‘… fun.’

Sexual fun? She’d have to look that up in the dictionary.

A crash and the sound of breaking glass had them turning to look back to the bar. Isaac was holding a towel over one of the barmen’s hands. He turned to look at her directly, raised his eyebrows summoning her over. The day was rapidly spiralling into disaster. This was not how she’d planned to spend her holiday.

She stood, wishing that she’d chosen flower arranging instead of medicine as her vocation, then she wouldn’t need to be near him. Smelling him. Thinking about the black boxers. Ahem. Medical emergency?

She dragged on her game face. ‘Looks like I’m needed. Duty calls.’

Izzy stood, too, and grabbed her bags. ‘Do you want me to stay and help?’

‘No. I’ll be fine. You go. Aren’t you supposed to be meeting Harry?’

‘Yes, but … I don’t want to leave you.’

‘Seriously, I’m a doctor, I can manage. You go, this could take a little time. See you later.’

‘Hey, thanks for coming over.’ Isaac looked at the grimacing man and then back to Poppy. ‘My friend Poppy, here, is a doctor, very handy to have around. Jamie’s my business partner and he’s just had a contretemps with a glass. Got a nasty cut—do you think it’ll need stitches? I’ve got a first-aid kit.’

Ignoring the thud-thud of her heart as she got closer to the one person she should have been far away from, she pulled back the towel and peered at the gash. ‘It’s pretty deep. Yes. Yes, it needs sutures and I don’t have anything with me. Your first-aid kit probably won’t do. You’ll have to go to A and E or a GP surgery, I’m afraid.’

Isaac walked the barman to the seating area out front. ‘Okay, Jamie, sit down, mate. I’ll call a cab and come with you.’

‘And close up the bar? Don’t be daft.’

Poppy shook her head, grasping the ‘get out of jail free’ card. ‘I can go with you if you like? This is my kind of territory. I might be able to fast-track you through.’

Jamie looked at them both in turn. ‘Er … seriously? I stopped needing a nanny in primary school. It’s a cut hand, is all. Just get me a taxi and I’ll sort the rest. It’ll leave you short for tonight though, Isaac. Sorry, mate.’

‘Not your problem. Just get it fixed. I’ll be fine.’

‘With the Christmas cocktail lesson starting in thirty minutes? You reckon? How about you call Maisie in?’

Isaac frowned. ‘She’s gone to Oxford with her boyfriend.’

‘Carl?’

The frown deepened. ‘At some uni event. No worries, I’ll be fine. I can manage.’

Jamie turned to Poppy, holding his hand close to his chest. Blood seeped through the towel, vivid red contrasting with his blanching complexion. He needed to be gone and quick. ‘I know this is a long shot, but I don’t suppose you have any bar experience, do you?’

Spend more time with the man she’d shared a bed with? And who her body appeared to want a repeat performance with. This time, with full body contact?

No way. ‘Me? No. Not really.’

Jamie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Just for a couple of hours until I get back, or Isaac can get reinforcements?’

She looked at them both staring at her. Jamie hopeful. Isaac not so much. But heck, she had nothing to do for the next few hours … days … and no one to do it with. She might as well stay and be of use to someone as sit at home with four-legged furry friends and a bent Christmas tree. ‘I … well, I could collect glasses and take orders, I suppose.’

Isaac looked less than thrilled but relieved. ‘Are you sure? Thanks. Most excellent. That would be a great help. I can teach the class, no problem, it’s just the serving I need a hand with.’ He pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek that sent shock waves of lust shivering through her. This was such a bad idea. ‘You’re a star.’

‘I know.’

As they watched Jamie leave in the taxi, Isaac stepped closer, eyes twinkling. ‘You never know, Popsicle, you might learn a few things. Cocktails are my speciality. Especially virgi—’

‘No. Don’t say it. Don’t even go there.’ She stabbed a finger into that hard wall of muscle he had for a chest, resisting the sudden urge to fist his shirt and pull him closer and press her lips to his again—just to remind her what he tasted like. ‘I’m doing this because you looked after me last night. Because you’re letting me have the private room for my party. And because you bought a mousetrap. After this we’ll be even. But be warned …’ She fought the urge to either slap or kiss his now teasing, grinning face. ‘One mention of virgins, almost or otherwise, and I’m gone.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘ONE RED-HOT RUDOLPH, two Christmas Kisses and a Candy Cane Caipirinha, please.’ Poppy shook her head as she gave the order to Isaac. Two hours of cocktail chaos and she was still getting used to the names of these things, and to carrying and fetching.

‘Righto, you’re getting the hang of this.’ He nodded and reached for a bottle of rum. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be any use at all.’

‘Well, gee, thanks. This may surprise you, but I’m a woman of many talents. Mind you, it is very different from what I’m used to. I’m usually the one giving the orders, so being on the other side of them is a big smack to the ego. Keeping me real.’ She did quote marks with her fingers for the real. Because nothing kept you more real than assisting at a birth and seeing new life come into being. ‘But it’s a great crowd. I’m stacking up my good karma points and having fun. Surprisingly.’

Apart from having Isaac’s eyes following her around the whole time.

He might well have been just watching to make sure she was doing her job okay, but it felt strange. Intense. She felt scrutinised under his gaze and, every which way she thought about it, she came up wanting. Every sorry experience with him had shown her as an inadequate ingénue, even now after all these years. Had she really blurted out her stupid worries under the influence of way too many wines?

Still, at least the early rush was starting to die down and she could catch her breath. Shame, then, that it only ever seemed to stall when she was around Isaac. ‘Clever names. Who came up with them?’

He gave the cocktail-shaker thing a good shake, then poured a bright pink drink into a highball glass, leaned over the bar and popped it on Poppy’s tray along with a smaller, salt-rimmed lime-coloured drink. His shirt shifted over his body as he moved, straining across muscles that could not possibly have been honed just by making drinks in a bar. She knew he boxed with Matt and Alex when he was in town, other than that, she realised, she knew very little about his life. Apart from the colour of his boxer shorts. The width of his thighs. And the length … She nearly dropped the tray.

Lost for words, she dragged her eyes away and steadied herself. This was not like her and it was getting out of control.

He didn’t seem to notice. ‘The whole team had a brainstorming session and came up with the cocktail names. In a couple of weeks we’ll be running daily specials on the twelve cocktails of Christmas, so we needed twelve half-decent-sounding ones.’

‘That must have been fun. How refreshing to have a job where you can do fun stuff.’

‘You don’t have a laugh at work?’

‘Oh, yes, sometimes, of course. The clients are usually all gorgeous. But this is so … carefree. Making up names for drinks, choosing which music to play, picking out wall colours and decor.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Running an internationally successful business is carefree? Wow, I’d love to see what you mean by intense? Hectic? Challenging?’

‘You know what I mean. It’s not life and death—and that’s just great.’ She pigged her eyes at him and enjoyed watching him laugh. ‘I love how you’ve given the clients a couple of recipes to take away and try at home, too. They seem really pleased with that.’

‘It always pays to give them an extra something. It’s good business.’ He pointed at the glasses. ‘This is a Christmas Kiss for table two and a Merry Margarita for table six. When you’ve delivered them you can take a break. The night shift staff are arriving soon so we’ll be a little less busy.’

Thank goodness. Being a busy registrar at the hospital was hard enough on her feet, but, despite the fun, waitressing made her back and shoulders hurt, too. She’d have a lot more respect for waitresses in the future. She walked towards what she thought was table six. Had an uncharacteristic mind melt. Was it over in the right corner? Left?

Suddenly a hand clamped round her backside making her jump and nearly lose the glasses onto the floor. ‘Hey, little lady. Right in the perfect spot. You looking for someone, because I’m right here. Christmas kiss?’

}

What? She turned to find a short man with a nasty skin disease, which she’d definitely be looking up in a textbook later, and hair that needed a serious wash, violating her personal space. He reached out for the Merry Margarita and as she watched him she realised she’d been standing under a sprig of mistletoe. The groper grinned. ‘These for me? Keep ’em coming.’

‘Not unless you’re from table six and the last time I looked there were two women sitting there.’ She eased her bottom away from his hand. ‘Unless you’ve had a sudden sex change? Or would you like me to give you one? I’m a dab hand with a scalpel.’

He didn’t move, but his hand hovered perilously close. ‘I was just being friendly. It is the season to be merry.’

‘Jolly. It’s the season to be jolly. Now, walk away from my bottom.’ She found him her best sarcastic smile and looked down at his now empty hands. ‘Well done. Now, the bar’s to your left, the exit to your right. You choose. But any more groping and I’m choosing for you.’

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