How. Zoe May

      Finally, one of the lifts arrives. The doors ping open and we step inside. I’m closest to the floor buttons so after pressing the button for my floor, I turn to him.

      ‘Where are you heading?’

      ‘Floor eight,’ he says, which is the floor of The Chronicle, meaning he’s here to visit the newspaper, not the law firm like I’d suspected.

      ‘Right.’ I press the button, trying to conceal my surprise. This guy looks nothing like the journalists at The Chronicle, who are even scruffier than our lot at the Daily Post. They treat pretty much every day like dress-down Friday, sporting faded jeans, baggy T-shirts and ratty old jumpers day in, day out.

      ‘And you’re heading to floor nine. Is that the Daily Post?’ he asks, glancing at the glowing button as the doors close and the lift shoots up the shaft. His accent is thick and strong, his voice deep. It almost sounds Norwegian.

      ‘Yes, I’m a journalist there. Where are you from?’

      ‘I’m from Norway,’ he replies. ‘My name’s Anders.’

      ‘So, do you work for The Chronicle?’ I ask and it’s only then that I notice that he’s carrying some wedding brochures under his arm.

      He looks momentarily confused. ‘Oh, yes! Yes, I do.’

      ‘You’re new though, right?’

      ‘Yeah, I am.’

      ‘So, if you’re from Norway, are you covering the royal wedding? Holly and Prince Isaac?’

      ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he says. ‘And you are…?’

      ‘Oh, sorry! I’m Sam. Samantha Fischer.’ I reach out to shake his hand and, as our palms clasp, it feels like a current is passing through us. The air fizzes and everything else is drowned out. I gaze into his eyes, deep and blue as a fjord. His face really is remarkably handsome, strong boned with high cheekbones, smooth skin and a healthy glow. He’s magnetic, but it’s not just his conventional good looks that are appealing, it’s the twinkle in his eyes that feels infectious. As we hold the handshake for a fraction of a second too long, our gaze lingering on one another, I can’t help wondering if he feels it too. Does he feel that pull? The tension? The spark?

      My phone buzzes, piercing the moment.

      ‘Sorry.’ I let go of his hand and reach into my handbag to get my phone, but as I take it out of my bag, something falls off the back of it. A piece of card. One of Collette’s designs. It lands on the floor.

      It’s one of her cheeky Valentine’s Day cards, featuring a picture of a sheep surrounded by love hearts with the caption, ‘I think ewe are sexy.’ My eyes widen in alarm as the card stares back at me and this ridiculously attractive man, taunting me like a gremlin. We both stand in silence, staring at it, for a horribly painful moment.

      ‘Oh my God!’ I plunge to the floor to pick it up. ‘Sorry. Flatmate. Card designer. Must have left it in my bag. She puts these stupid notes on them,’ I babble, unable to meet his gaze.

      I turn the card over and scrawled in black ink inside is a message telling me: ‘Enjoy every second! Ewe are going to smash this!! Xxx.’ I shove it in my bag and steal a glance at Anders, whose lips are twitching with the effort of trying not to laugh. I can feel my cheeks blazing crimson. He can’t hold it in any longer and he lets out a chuckle, his eyes flickering with humour. I try to laugh too, but I’m dying inside and my cheeks are burning up. If the card wasn’t embarrassing enough, the fact that I can’t stop blushing shows that the ewe clearly hit a nerve.

      The lift arrives at the eighth floor and the doors ping open.

      ‘Well, it was nice meeting ewe,’ Anders jokes, still smiling cheekily.

      ‘Yes. Uh-huh. Great!’ I groan.

      He steps out of the lift and I avoid his gaze, my cheeks still hot.

      ‘See ewe around.’ He winks.

      ‘Yep, see you around!’ I sigh as the lift doors close.

       Chapter Four

      I check the text that buzzed on my phone, causing me to drop that mortifying card. It’s from Phil.

       Where are you? Lots of wedding press samples have arrived. On your desk!

      As the lift arrives at my floor and I head into the newsroom, I can’t help wondering what I’m going to find at my desk, even if I am still reeling with the embarrassment of my encounter in the lift. I never normally receive press samples. I’m usually happier to have a Freedom of Information request granted than get a freebie. I get the odd sample from time to time, normally when an inexperienced PR intern takes a scatter-gun approach and sends free stuff to everyone and anyone at the national press. I was randomly sent some luxury bubble bath a few weeks ago, but on the whole as a politics reporter, my desk is pretty much sample free. Although my colleague Becky, who I sit next to, makes up for both of us on that front. Becky’s the Daily Post’s fashion editor and her desk is often overflowing with freebies from the latest designer collections. There’s generally an assortment of handbags, scarves and the latest luxury footwear scattered about, but today, as I approach our desk, it’s a whole different story.

      I stop in my tracks. My desk no longer resembles a desk. It’s a mountain of wedding kitsch, like a six-year-old girl’s fairy-tale fantasy has exploded all over the place where my computer used to sit. I can barely see it for all the reams of lace, veils, glittering tiaras, roses, bottles of Moët, sparkly cupcakes and pastel-coloured macarons in tiny wedding favour pouches swamping it. I take a step closer and see a pile of lace is a pair of rhinestone-embellished glass slippers resting on top of where my keyboard used to be. They’re quintessential princess shoes, the kind of thing Cinderella would have worn.

      ‘What is going on?’ I utter in absolute shock to a guy I’ve never seen before who’s sitting at Becky’s desk. Even coming up to fashion week, when Becky was constantly getting new stuff, our desks never looked like this. It’s like a fairy godmother has come along and waved her magic wand, not once, but over and over again in some kind of demented frenzy. I can’t even sit down because there’s a huge box of keyrings on my desk chair featuring tiny sculptures of Holly and Prince Isaac in a passionate embrace, gazing into each other’s eyes.

      The stranger in Becky’s seat watches me, his mouth full of a glittering pink cupcake he’s holding, half eaten, in his hand. He swallows.

      ‘Fabulous, isn’t it?’ he says. I check him out again, but I’ve definitely not seen him around the office before even though he looks completely at ease amid the debris of the royal wedding explosion that seems to have occurred at my desk.

      ‘Umm…yeah! Where did it all come from?’ I ask as I move the box of royal wedding keyrings from my chair and sit down, except one falls out and I fail to notice before I sit on it.

      ‘Ouch!’ I pull a mini Prince Isaac and Holly from under my bum.

      ‘Phil said a ton of press stuff’s been in storage while Ella’s been away but now that we’re covering the royal wedding, they've brought it all out! Plus a few couriers arrived this morning with more stuff.’ He picks up a basket of frosted pink cupcakes and thrusts it towards me. ‘They’re great, try one!’

      ‘Er…okay!’ I reach into the basket and take one of the baby pink cupcakes dusted in tiny hearts and edible glitter.

      ‘So, umm, what was that you said about us covering the royal wedding?’ I ask, meeting his gaze. He looks about my age, with sleepy-looking brown eyes that match his tie and artfully messy dark gelled hair. ‘And where’s Becky?’

      ‘Oh, she’s over there,’ he says, taking another cupcake from the basket, before pointing across the office towards the technology desk where Becky’s