by Ally Blake
Armand breathed deep, only to find himself enveloped in a lingering cloud of feminine perfume. Or perhaps it was shampoo. It smelled like cherries, of all things.
The women of his experience wore designer scents. They did not smell like fruit. Or wear pom-poms on their headwear. Or have cartoon characters printed on their backpacks. They did not have backpacks at all.
He pictured Evie Croft leaning towards him, hands on hips, lips pressed together, dark eyes flashing, making fun of his suits, his haircut. All while in the midst of a job interview.
She might be dangerously naïve, she might even be a bit of a head case, but she had fortitude. He had to give her that.
Then, before he saw it coming, her image was replaced with another—little black dresses, diamonds and pearls, pale blue eyes filled with judgement, the swing of a neat blonde ponytail heading out the door.
Armand wiped a hand down his face.
At least he could be sure Jonathon had it wrong on one score—Evie Croft was as far from his type as it was possible to be.
“Give her a shot,” Armand said. Hearing the rawness of his voice, he took a moment to swallow. “But she is on trial.”
“Why do you think I put her on contract? Now go forth. Find out why my perfect program is glitching so that I can launch the damn thing. Knowing nothing that happens between you and Ms Croft will concern HR.”
Armand opened his mouth to vehemently deny the accusation.
“Read my lips,” said Jonathon. “I Do Not Care. Now that’s settled, why did you come storming in? You wanted me to look at something.”
Armand searched back through the quagmire of the past ten minutes for the answer then remembered the piece of paper. He found it scrunched up on the floor near his feet. He pressed it open, saw the lines of code he’d hoped Jonathon could explain to him, before folding it neatly and putting it back in his pocket.
Jonathon laughed. “Something for your new workmate to sort out tomorrow, then?”
“So it would seem.” Armand pulled himself out of the chair and ambled to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. “You know what made that whole debacle worth it?”
“I can’t wait to hear.”
“‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’”
Jonathon’s face fell to his desk, landing with a thud. “I felt like a dinosaur.”
“Serves you right. Sir.”
Armand shut the door behind him with a soft click and moved to the railing to look out over that which the staff called the Bullpen.
He took a step back when he saw a rainbow-coloured pom-pom bobbing through the space.
Used as he was to working with serious men—men who in another era would be warriors and guerrillas and pirates and Vikings, men with scars covering every inch of their bodies, inside and out—working around the kids down below in their running shoes and cheap deodorant had been a stretch.
And now he’d been lumbered with the Girl Who Sang to Herself.
He told himself he did not find her whimsy charming. That it was to her detriment. But the truth was he hadn’t only kept an eye on her to make sure no one robbed her blind while she listened to music with her eyes closed.
The moment he first set eyes on her he’d not been able to look away. The way she smiled, the way she laughed—she had surely been lit from within. Making the train trips home in the chill Melbourne evenings feel not so dark at a time when he’d thought he’d never feel warm again.
When a man had lived with ice in his veins as long as Armand had, warmth was not a relief. As his sluggish blood heated, straining to pulse faster through his stiff, cold arteries, every part of him ached.
Now she’d be here, every day, till he got the job done.
He wasn’t sure how to bear it.
Worse, he wasn’t sure he had it in him any more to try.
CHAPTER THREE
EVIE USUALLY LOVED the train ride into the city.
The rocking of the carriage, the soft chooga-chooga of the train rumbling over the tracks, the pockets of suburbia swishing by.
Unable to bring such sensitive work home, she’d had no choice but to chat, listen to music and let her mind wander, riding those blissful streams of creative consciousness that only come with doing nothing. To daydream.
On her own today—as Zoe had been picked up early to take a plane to Sydney for a meeting with the head designers at her work—Evie was a bundle of nerves, counting the stops till one Armand Debussey was due to hop on.
Instead of staring at the train doors all the way into town she worked on her latest beanie.
Her mother had died when she was six, so Evie’s granddad had raised her. An old-school gent with a quick mind and flashes of accidental feminism, he’d taught her how to tie her shoelaces, how to fix a tractor, and how to knit.
Right now all she had was a square of yellow, but in the end it would have ear flaps with plaits on the end that could be tied under the chin. Granddad’s request for a woman named Corinne who’d just moved into his retirement village on the outskirts of her home town.
But her mind was so scattered, she had to unravel a row and start over three times.
Giving up, she took out her phone and scrolled despondently through the real-estate app until she found three share houses that didn’t seem too awful to contemplate.
She called the first to find it already taken.
She called the second. The phone rang out.
She called the third. The ring tone buzzed in her ear as the train doors opened. It was Armand’s stop.
For a moment Evie thought he might not appear. He could have taken a different train. Hopped on a different carriage—
“Hello? Hello?” a chipper female voice called in her ear.
“Oh, hello,” Evie said into her phone. “Hi. My name’s Evie and I’m calling about the share room.”
“Super. Well, the fee listed is weekly. The place is freshly painted. Bed supplied, but BYO linen. The room is a double. Has a view of the park.”
Evie sat taller as the voice continued extolling the virtues of what sounded like the perfect set-up.
But then her brain hit pause as a familiar dark form punched a hole in the sunny doorway. All sexy mussed hair and beastly countenance, the form lingered a beat before moving into the carriage, the fluorescent lights playing over the hard angles of his unfairly beautiful face.
In the back of her mind Evie heard, “Halves-ies on Wi-Fi, electrics and water. Walk to train, shops and bars.”
Armand’s unerring gaze had found hers, with that potent mix of stormy blue and a French sense of not giving a hoot. And the voice faded to a distant whir.
Evie braced herself for a nod hello before he would no doubt take his usual seat. She could then spend the next ten minutes ignoring him before they got off at the same stop. Then she’d pause to tie her non-existent laces before walking in the same direction but not with him—
Wait. Oh, no. He was coming her way.
Evie’s knitting slipped on her lap and the last three casts slid from the needle. Muttering under her breath, she quickly swaddled the mass of yellow wool, one-handed, and shoved it into her backpack.
“Is your friend not here?”
Good morning to you too, Evie thought as she looked up. Only when her eyes met his—to find him staring blankly at the greenery on top of her pumpkin-shaped beanie—did it hit her that he knew she usually sat with a friend.
Meaning he had noticed her too. And paid attention.
“New to your orbit, I find myself struck/By your raven locks, your starlit eyes. What luck...” The accent reciting the poem in her head was very definitely French and she shook her head hard to make it go away.
Armand took it as an answer. Pointing at the spare seat across from her, he asked, “May I?”
Evie swallowed. “All you
rs.”
“Sorry?” said the voice in her ear.
“Sorry,” Evie parroted back. “Sorry, you dropped out for a second. I’m on the train.”
Evie crossed her legs as Armand took a seat, tugging on her ruffled skirt, which hadn’t seemed short when she’d put it on that morning. Her high brown boots with the even longer socks were no protection, as his legs were so long her bare knees rested in between his.
Not that he seemed to notice. As usual he had a book in his hand and simply got on with reading. Beauty and brains. It was seriously hard not to sigh.
And then the train took off, rocking Evie’s legs into Armand’s, the shift of his suit pants rubbing roughly against the bare skin of her knees. This was going to be the longest ride of her life.
“Though the rats are gluten-free,” said the chipper voice in her ear. “Dairy intolerant and the smell of fruit makes them gag. Any housemate must respect that.”
“I’m sorry, did you say rats?”
Armand looked up, frowning. It was his default face. Evie pointed at her phone. He nodded and went back to his book.
After a pause, the voice in her ear said, “Yes.”
“You have pet rats?”
The voice scoffed. “I am no more their master than they are mine.”
Evie bit her lip and thought about the supplied bed, the walk to the train, the view of a park. “How many rats?”
“I couldn’t say. Their numbers ebb and flow. Though Rowena is pregnant right now so a swell is imminent.”
Scrunching her eyes tight, Evie said, “Okay, well, thanks. I’ll get back to you.” And then she hung up.
When she opened her eyes it was to find Armand watching her. The frown was still in place, but it seemed to have softened. Just a little.
Evie waved her phone at him. “Looking for a new place to live.”
“With rats?”
“I’m hoping they’ll be optional.”
“A new job and a new home,” he noted.
“You could say I’m in a transitional period.”
“Yes, you mentioned that. Yesterday on the train.”
“Did I? Well. Any chance we could forget that entire conversation?”
“Already done.”
“Super.” She smiled, then bit down on her lip.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and a crease formed above his nose. His eyes darkened, as if a cloud had passed over the sun, then he looked away and out the window. Conversation over.
Evie rolled her eyes at herself. Get a grip! Then the train tilted as it rocketed around a corner and Evie’s knee slammed into Armand’s, before sliding a good inch or two up his leg.
Evie grabbed her seat and shuffled back as deep as she could. While Armand’s only reaction was the slide of his gaze to the point of impact.
Did it not bother him the way it bothered her? Or did he not move because he liked it? Could it be, despite evidence to the contrary, he had a little crush on her too? Had he in fact written a poem about her? To her? For her?
There was one way to find out—she could just ask. Hey, Armand, did you write me a love poem and publish it on Urban Rambler’s lonely-hearts page?
But if it was a no she’d not only have to see him on the train, but at work as well. And mixing personal life and work life was a recipe for disaster. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.
And what about the slim chance he’d say yes?
She came over a little wobbly in the belly, tingly behind the knees. Which was more than enough of a reason for a case of don’t ask, don’t tell.
Needing to say something lest she say the one thing she could not, she said, “No Australian patent-law book today?”
A few moments went by before Armand looked up. He lifted the cover of his book—this one by a certain Nathaniel Hawthorne.
“Any good?”
Armand surprised her by asking, “You haven’t read it?”
“Might have seen the movie.”
Armand’s sigh was long-suffering.
“Don’t panic. I do read. I’m in my granddad’s retirement-village book club. This month we’re reading a JD Robb. Futuristic cop romance. They’re awesome.”
Armand’s face remained impassive. But Evie swore she saw a flash of sufferance behind his eyes. The guy had no idea what he was missing. “And when you’re not reading?”
“I game.”
Armand winced. This time it was obvious even to her, the queen of misreading people.
“Don’t knock it till you try it. The good games, the really great ones—it’s not about the effects, or the amazing CGI, it’s about the story. Those ones get under your skin, make you think. Make you laugh, cry, even sigh.”
She realised all too late she’d mirrored his words from the day before when he’d spoken of great poetry.
Maybe it was best to get it out there, to be sure. Otherwise the energy used to keep a lid on it might cause her to implode.
She sat forward, her hands draping over her knees. “Armand. Can I call you Armand? Of course I can; it’s your name.”
His gaze remained on hers, his eyes so dark she could not make out the colour at all.
“About yesterday, on the train, when I asked if you like poetry...”
He sat forward too. He smelled amazing. Clean, laundered. Edible. “Didn’t we already agree it was forgotten?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
A sunbeam chose that moment to hit the window of the train, sending shards of diffused light over his face. The man looked like a prince. One who had left the palace long ago, heading off on a thankless crusade to slay a dragon or rescue a princess or free a kingdom. Only he’d got lost along the way—head injury? Magic spell?—and couldn’t reconcile how he found himself on a train heading towards inner-city Melbourne.
“Ms Croft,” he said, “Jonathon does not hire lightly. He does so with recklessness, at times, but always in the hope of creating magic. You have been given a chance to be a part of something important. Make it count.”
The train lurched and her fingers grazed his knee. She jerked them back.
Then he was standing, moving through the crowd, and she realised the train had reached their stop.
Evie grabbed her bag, apologised as she squeezed past legs, stepped over bags. Once outside the train she caught up to Armand.
He turned quickly, and she nearly banged into him.
“I have a stop to make first,” he said.
She took another step back. “Right. Okay. Well, I might see you around work.”
He looked at her in that long, slow, considering way he had, then with a nod he slipped through the crowd and was gone.
Reading normal people was hard enough. Reading a man who acted like Yoda had had a makeover and ended up on the cover of GQ was impossible.
Leaving Evie to lift her arms in a shrug of utter confusion.
But nobody paid her any heed.
She shifted her backpack into a more comfortable position and headed off to the first day of the rest of her life.
* * *
Having used her shiny new security key to enter the Game Plan building, Evie walked into the Bullpen. The colour, the noise, the light like an elixir to her soul.
Armand had hit on something. She’d been given a second chance here. A chance to do things differently this time. It might even be time to forgo the baby steps for bigger strides. For third chances were rare.
So, rather than hiding herself away, she introduced herself to anyone who looked up from their work, determined not to take cover from office politics. Anything to make sure she wasn’t blindsided like last time.
“You’re Evie Croft, right?” asked a guy about her age.
“Um, yes.”
“Your arrival was pinged in the daily company email alongside a Roger a
nd a Phil. Pretty easy guess. You might not have noticed but this place is testosterone-heavy.”
By the looks of the room, the testosterone levels were pretty mild, but she just smiled and shrugged. “Used to it.”
“I’m Jamie.”
Evie shook his hand. Felt the familiar rough thumb pads of a guy who gamed. Caught the gleam of interest in his eyes and let go.
Fortune cookie or no fortune cookie, she was going to make good decisions, the first of which was to keep work and monkey business a million miles apart.
“I’d better get started,” she said, backing away. “Nice to meet you.”
“See you around, Evie.”
Evie followed the instructions Imogen had given her the day before, heading back up the stairs that led to Jonathon’s office, before heading down a dark hall with a single door at the very end. No glass here. Very mysterious.
She went to open the door to find it locked. Now what?
Then she noticed a small discreet pad lodged into the wall, with buttons the same colour as the paint. A keycode? Fingerprint? She tried hers but nothing happened.
She turned, thinking to head...somewhere, when the door opened inward with a flourish.
Evie jumped back as a dark figure appeared in the doorway, backlit by a dim glow. “Jeez, you scared me!”
“Apologies.”
That voice... “Armand?”
Without another word, he pressed the door open wider and motioned for her to come inside. A golden glow created a halo around his profile—strong nose, sombre forehead, unkempt hair shading his stormy blue eyes.
“I’m really not following you, I promise.”
He opened the door a fraction wider, giving her a glimpse of dark wood and low lamplight, a pair of small lounge chairs—elegant dark brown to match the rest of the room. Coffee table, ditto. Bookshelves. It was like something out of a gothic novel. It suited him to a T.