One Wicked Week. Nicola Marsh

didn’t need his sympathy, she’d moved on from her grief a long time ago, but it felt nice to have his solid hands rubbing hers, infusing her with his warmth. However, when his hands stilled, she became all too aware of the warmth spreading higher; up her arm, through her chest, into her belly, a languid heat that morphed from comforting into something else entirely.

      Quickly sliding her hand out of his, she scooted back in her chair. ‘Anyway, this charity I’m setting up is my way of honouring Sasha’s memory and continuing the work she would’ve done if she’d had the chance. I want to raise money to fund education for poorer areas in South America so that children everywhere have a chance to make something of themselves.’

      Admiration lit his eyes and she hated how good it made her feel. She hadn’t told him to gain respect. She’d told him to distract, to ensure he wouldn’t keep badgering her as to the real reason behind her discomfort around him.

      ‘So now you know.’

      ‘It’s a good thing you’re doing,’ he said, his tone low and soothing. ‘I’m proud of you.’

      ‘I don’t need your praise,’ she snapped, the urge to lean in for a hug too strong, too tempting.

      ‘Then what do you need?’

      He wasn’t talking about his IT skills and she knew it.

      Since when did the glowering geek morph into this intuitive charmer? It made her like him all the more. Not good.

      ‘I need you to focus on us working together.’

      She eyeballed him, daring him to disagree. He’d always backed down in the past, not willing to spar, unlike other guys. He’d been closed-off and dour in uni, which had made her want to tease him all the more. But he’d avoided her unless it had involved assignments and she’d accepted that he didn’t like her. Something he’d proved otherwise on that fateful night she’d revealed herself to him in more ways than one.

      ‘What else do you need?’ He reached across the table and touched her knee, a glance of his fingertips that sent a pleasant shock through her.

      ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

      Damn, could she sound any feebler?

      ‘The Jayda I used to know had a permanent smile on her face and a cheeky twinkle in her eyes.’ He gestured at her. ‘You look sad and I think it’s more than your sister’s death and your parents’ shoddy treatment.’

      Damn, how did he do that? Home in on her hidden insecurities? Not that she’d tell him the real reason behind her moroseness. She’d shared way too much of herself already today. Besides, part of her reinvention in turning her back on her parents and striking out on her own meant she had to be bold, brash and not beholden to anyone, ever.

      She didn’t need to be psychoanalysed by him or anyone else. She needed to take control of this situation, starting now.

      Her gaze landed on the pianist, who made a smooth transition from elevator music to an upbeat jazz number. And in that moment she knew how to assert her confidence and show him how much she’d changed from that clingy, needy woman he’d known for one night six years ago.

      ‘Do you still like jazz?’

      He blinked in surprise before nodding. ‘Yeah, I’m a tragic. How did you know?’

      Great, now she’d have to reveal the most inconsequential thing she remembered about him and he’d know exactly how tragic she was.

      ‘You had a few playlists on your phone during uni days.’ She kept her answer deliberately vague, hoping he wouldn’t call her on it. ‘Anyway, there’s a new jazz club recently opened in this hotel. Want to check it out?’

      Her invitation floored him, if his wide eyes and slightly parted lips were any indication, but he recovered quickly to stare at her with blatant speculation.

      ‘You’re full of surprises, Jayda York.’

      Good, because as long as she held the upper hand she could keep her doubts at bay and prove how much she’d changed from their last encounter together.

      ‘Is that a yes, Brock Olsen?’

      He nodded, his delectable mouth easing into a smile. ‘That’s a hell yes. Let’s go.’

      He stood and held out his hand to her, and, swallowing every reservation she had that she’d done the dumbest thing ever, she placed her hand in his.

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘THE HIPSTER CAT? Seriously?’ Brock placed a hand in the small of Jayda’s back and guided her into the dimly lit club, knowing this was a dumbass idea but powerless to do anything about it now.

      He should’ve said no the moment she’d invited him to accompany her here but he couldn’t leave, not when she looked so morose. He couldn’t believe she’d never told him about her sister. Then again, he’d meant nothing to her and the only reason she’d reached out to him on grad night was because that dickhead Deon had done a number on her. She’d been vulnerable and he’d been convenient. That was why she’d bolted in the middle of the night, embarrassment at revealing too much of herself to a stranger.

      He’d been glad. Her flit had relieved him of giving her the polite brush-off the morning after. It had suited them both. But what had happened tonight...he wasn’t wrong about the sadness. It emanated off her like a goddamn aura and he didn’t like it. Her asshole parents had hurt her, she still grieved for her sister, and he hated seeing the vibrant, bubbly woman appear so fragile.

      So he’d manned up and done the right thing, agreeing to her invitation to this jazz club. Not that it was a hardship. She had him at jazz. He played the greats on repeat while he worked: he couldn’t get enough. What surprised him was her remembering his passion.

      Which begged the question: what else did she remember from back then? Did she remember him going down on her, twice? Did she remember the multiple orgasms? Did she remember taking him so deep into her mouth that he almost passed out?

      He was an idiot for dredging up those memories when she currently clung to his hand as they entered a darkness made for sin.

      ‘Can’t see a thing in here,’ he muttered, sounding like a grouch.

      Her soft laughter washed over him. ‘I think the candles are a nice touch.’

      He bit back his first response, ‘too bloody romantic.’ Doing this was about getting her to lighten up after he’d dragged her down with his prompts to reveal what was bugging her. He’d spend thirty minutes with her max, then he was out of here.

      ‘There are two seats over there.’ She pointed to a secluded alcove in the darkest corner of the club. Frigging great.

      He quickly scanned the place for other seats and came up lacking. ‘Okay.’

      Sensing his reluctance, she squeezed his hand and he slouched along beside her, his foreboding increasing when they reached the alcove and he realised exactly how sheltered they were. If this were a date, he’d love it. But sitting in the semi-darkness in a cosy booth with the woman who he’d never been able to forget wasn’t good.

      She released his hand and slid into the booth, then patted the space beside her. When he hesitated she grinned, her teeth startlingly white in the dimness. ‘I promise not to bite.’

      Once again he ignored his first response, something along the lines of ‘I wish you would,’ and slid in next to her. ‘Drink?’

      ‘I’m good for now. Maybe later.’

      Great. So much for his grand plan to make an escape for the bar they’d passed on the way in. A four-piece combo strode onto the stage at that moment: double bass, trumpet, keyboard, drums. He hoped they played