screaming kids barreling down a narrow aisle. She learned then that she would never cut her hair again.
The flow of lunch traffic nearly carries her beyond her stop. She leaps onto the door front of a building and tries to peer over the mass of heads. Friends and coworkers chat about their day’s activities as they funnel past. The congestion at this stop is made worse by the nearly constant flow of people rising from the underground at the Oxford Circus station.
She leans back against the wall and checks her watch: 11:50 a.m. Giving the area a quick onceover to make sure Slade hasn’t miraculously arrived early, she settles in to wait.
From time to time she stomps her feet, wishing she’d been smart enough to wear socks with her slip-ons. The damp cold has begun to creep through her jeans and settle into her bones.
Peering down the street, she can see countless stores that would offer anything from casual sports socks to neon pink-and-black zebra-print thigh highs, but she can’t risk leaving her spot and risk missing Slade. So she waits until the tips of her fingers and toes have gone completely numb.
The lunch crowd has begun to die down a bit. Most of them now cram into sandwich shops, sushi bars, pubs, and bakeries to get out of the cold. Oh, how she envies them.
Ashlyn checks her watch for the fifth time in less than two minutes. Her foot taps with impatience on the concrete path just a stone’s throw from Oxford Circus tube station. People file out of the underground station like a herd of cattle jostling for position, but not a single one of them captures her attention.
Slade is late.
She was told that he would be taking the Victoria line to meet her at noon, and it is already ten past the hour and he is nowhere to be seen.
“Typical,” she mutters as she tucks her scarf back into the neckline of her coat. She shoves her hands deep into her pockets, clenching them into fists as she bounces on her toes.
And then she sees him. He stands a few inches taller than the other men exiting the underground. His hair is whipped about his forehead, his black scarf flapping behind his back as he pauses on the side of the street to look around.
“Over here!”
He turns at her call. As he approaches, his eyes widen with surprise as he takes in her gray wool coat and pink scarf. “You’re that girl. The one who ran into me at the coffee shop.”
“Actually, I believe it was you that barreled into me,” she corrects without thinking. The instant the words pass her lips, she bites down on her tongue and blushes. Thankfully, he appears to be too busy searching for the coffee stain on her side to notice the added flush to her cheeks.
When his gaze lifts to meet hers, she sees confusion. “You’re my assistant?”
She bristles and thrusts her shoulders back a bit. “I am not your assistant. I work with Tamsin, not that you ever realized that little detail the other day.”
“Pardon?”
“At the registration table…” Her hint doesn’t seem to turn on any light bulbs. “I checked you in, took your shirt, told you where to go…”
“Really? That was you, huh?” Slade shakes his head and laughs. “You looked… different.”
“Yes, it’s amazing what a stain-free shirt can do for a girl,” she snaps. She rubs her hands down the front of her jacket, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles. She can already feel a slight tremble building in her hands and knows she’s starting to get antsy. Next will come the quaking in her voice, followed by the inevitable squeak that she will never live down.
“Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”
She plunges headfirst into the tube crowd and doesn’t pause to see if he is following. She marches ahead, too distracted by his presence to even be fearful of the people around her. He is even more handsome than she remembered.
His three-quarter length black coat makes his eyes appear dark and inviting. The light stubble along his chin keeps drawing her
The flow of lunch traffic nearly carries her beyond her stop. She leaps onto the door front of a building and tries to peer over the mass of heads. Friends and coworkers chat about their day’s activities as they funnel past. The congestion at this stop is made worse by the nearly constant flow of people rising from the underground at the Oxford Circus station.
She leans back against the wall and checks her watch: 11:50 a.m. Giving the area a quick onceover to make sure Slade hasn’t miraculously arrived early, she settles in to wait.
From time to time she stomps her feet, wishing she’d been smart enough to wear socks with her slip-ons. The damp cold has begun to creep through her jeans and settle into her bones.
Peering down the street, she can see countless stores that would offer anything from casual sports socks to neon pink-and-black zebra-print thigh highs, but she can’t risk leaving her spot and risk missing Slade. So she waits until the tips of her fingers and toes have gone completely numb.
The lunch crowd has begun to die down a bit. Most of them now cram into sandwich shops, sushi bars, pubs, and bakeries to get out of the cold. Oh, how she envies them.
Ashlyn checks her watch for the fifth time in less than two minutes. Her foot taps with impatience on the concrete path just a stone’s throw from Oxford Circus tube station. People file out of the underground station like a herd of cattle jostling for position, but not a single one of them captures her attention.
Slade is late.
She was told that he would be taking the Victoria line to meet her at noon, and it is already ten past the hour and he is nowhere to be seen.
“Typical,” she mutters as she tucks her scarf back into the neckline of her coat. She shoves her hands deep into her pockets, clenching them into fists as she bounces on her toes.
And then she sees him. He stands a few inches taller than the other men exiting the underground. His hair is whipped about his forehead, his black scarf flapping behind his back as he pauses on the side of the street to look around.
“Over here!”
He turns at her call. As he approaches, his eyes widen with surprise as he takes in her gray wool coat and pink scarf. “You’re that girl. The one who ran into me at the coffee shop.”
“Actually, I believe it was you that barreled into me,” she corrects without thinking. The instant the words pass her lips, she bites down on her tongue and blushes. Thankfully, he appears to be too busy searching for the coffee stain on her side to notice the added flush to her cheeks.
When his gaze lifts to meet hers, she sees confusion. “You’re my assistant?”
She bristles and thrusts her shoulders back a bit. “I am not your assistant. I work with Tamsin, not that you ever realized that little detail the other day.”
“Pardon?”
“At the registration table…” Her hint doesn’t seem to turn on any light bulbs. “I checked you in, took your shirt, told you where to go…”
“Really? That was you, huh?” Slade shakes his head and laughs. “You looked… different.”
“Yes, it’s amazing what a stain-free shirt can do for a girl,” she snaps. She rubs her hands down the front of her jacket, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles. She can already feel a slight tremble building in her hands and knows she’s starting to get antsy. Next will come the quaking in her voice, followed by the inevitable squeak that she will never live down.
“Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”
She plunges headfirst into the tube crowd and doesn’t pause to see if he is following. She marches ahead, too distracted by his presence to even be fearful of the people around her. He is even more handsome than she remembered.
His three-quarter length black coat makes his eyes appear dark and inviting. The light stubble along his chin keeps drawing her
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