The Last Guy She Should Call. Joss Wood

shallow dimple in his right cheek. The grown-up version of the studious, serious boy who had either tolerated, tormented or loathed her at different stages of her life. Always irritating.

      ‘I have a name, Seb.’

      He had the audacity to grin at her. ‘Yeah, but you know I prefer mine.’ He looked over at Mr Good-looking and his smile was shark-sharp. ‘Lucky escape for you, bro’. She’s trouble written in six-foot neon.’

      * * *

      As rugby-boy turned away with a disappointed sigh, inside his head Seb placed his hands on his thighs and pulled in deep, cleansing, calming breaths of pure oxygen. He felt as if his heart wanted to bungee-jump from his chest without a cord. His stomach and spleen were going along for the ride.

      Well, wasn’t this a kick in the head?

      This was Rowan? What had happened to the skinny kid with a silver ring through her brow and a stud in her nose? The clothes that she had called ‘boho chic’ but which had looked as if she’d been shopping in Tramp’s Alley? Skirts that had been little more than strips of cloth around her hips, knee-high combat boots, Goth make-up...

      Now leather boots peeked out from under the hem of nicely fitting blue jeans. She wore a plain white button-down shirt with the bottom buttons open to show a broad leather belt, and a funky leather and blue bead necklace lay between the wilted collar of the shirt. Her hair was still the blue-black of a starling’s wing, tumbling in natural curls down her back, and her eyes, black as the deepest African night, were faintly shadowed in blue. Her face was free of make-up and those incredible eyes—framed by dark lashes and brows—brimmed with an emotion he couldn’t immediately identify.

      Resignation? Trepidation and fear? Then she tossed her head and he saw pride flash in her eyes.

      And there was the Rowan he remembered. He dismissed the feeling that his life was about to be impacted by this tiny dark-haired sprite with amazing eyes and a wide, mobile mouth that begged to be kissed.

      He’d said goodbye to a kid, but this Rowan was all woman. A woman, if she were anyone but Rowan, he would be thinking about getting into bed. Immediately. As in grabbing her hand, finding the closest room and throwing her onto the bed, chair, floor...whatever was closer.

      His inner cave man was thumping his chest. Look here, honey! I’m a sex god! He felt embarrassed on his own behalf. Get a grip, dude!

      He hoped his face was devoid of all expression, but in his mind Seb tipped his head back and directed a stream of silent curses at the universe. When I asked what else could go wrong, I meant it as a figure of speech—not as a challenge to hit me with your best shot.

      Rowan broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘So...it’s been a long time. You look...good.’

      ‘You too.’

      Good? Try sensational!

      ‘Where did you fly in from?’ he asked. Politeness? Good grief, they’d never been civil and he wondered how long it would last.

      ‘Sydney. Nightmare flight, I had a screaming baby behind me and an ADD toddler in front of me. And the man in the seat next to me sniffed the entire time.’

      ‘Two words. Business class.’

      Rowan grimaced. ‘One word. Broke.’

      She shoved a hand into her hair, lifted and pushed a couple of loose curls off her face.

      ‘Would you consider changing your mind about loaning me the money to get back to London?’

      Rowan threw her demand into the silence between them.

      Thirty seconds from polite to miffed. It had to be a record.

      ‘Well? Will you?’

      Sure—after I’ve sorted out climate change and negotiated world peace. ‘Not a chance.’

      Rowan tapped an irritated finger on the table and tried to stare him down. Seb folded his arms and kept his face blank.

      Eventually her shoulders dropped in defeat. ‘My mobile battery is dead, I have less than two hundred pounds to my name, my best friend is out of the country, my parents are away and their house is occupied. I’m in your hands.’

      In his hands? He wished... Their eyes met and sexual attraction arced between them. Hot, hard... Man! Where was this coming from?

      Pink stained Rowan’s cheekbones. ‘I mean, I’m at your mercy...’

      That sounded even better.

      ‘What is the matter with me?’

      Or at least that was what he thought he heard her say, but since she was muttering to the floor he couldn’t be sure.

      What was cranking their sexual buzzers to a howl? Dial it down, dude; time to start acting as an adult. He dashed the rest of what was left in the tiny bottle of wine into her glass and tossed it back.

      Think with your big head. It didn’t matter that she looked hot, or that he wanted to taste that very sexy mouth, this was Rowan. AKA trouble.

      Seb put his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. ‘You ready to go?’

      ‘Where to? Where am I sleeping tonight?’

      ‘Awelfor.’

      Awelfor... It meant sea breeze in Welsh, and was one of the few small holdings situated between the seaside villages of Scarborough and Misty Cliffs, practically on the doorstep of Table Mountain National Park. Her second home, Rowan thought.

      The house had originally been an old school building, added to over the generations. The oldest part was made from timber and redbrick, and she could still feel the cool warmth of the Oregon pine floors beneath her bare feet. Nearly every room had a fireplace and a view of the Atlantic, with its huge rolling waves and its white beaches peppered by black-backed gulls.

      She’d been raised next door, in the house that had been built by a Hollis forefather for—rumour had it—a favourite mistress. It had been sold off in the forties to her grandfather and separated from the Hollis house by a huge oak and a high, thick Eugenia hedge.

      She knew Awelfor as well as she knew her own home: which floorboard creaked if you stood on it the middle of the night, that the drainpipe that ran past Callie’s window was strong enough to hold their combined weight, that Yasmeen the housekeeper hid her cigarettes in the flour canister at the back of the pantry. For most of her life she’d had two homes and then she’d had none; now she bounced from bed to bed in different accommodation establishments, depending on her cash flow. Once or twice she’d slept on beaches and on benches in railway stations, she remembered, even standing up.

      Dots appeared behind her eyes.

      Tired...so tired.

      Rowan blinked furiously as the dots grew bigger and brighter and her vision started to blur. She reached out in Seb’s direction and cool and firm fingers clasped her clammy hand.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ Seb demanded as she abruptly sat down again.

      ‘Dizzy,’ Rowan muttered as she shoved her head between her knees. ‘Stood up too fast.’

      Rowan opened her eyes and the floor rose and fell, so she closed them again.

      ‘Easy, Ro.’

      Seb bent down in front of her and held up three fingers. ‘How many?’

      ‘Six thousand and fifty-two.’

      Seb narrowed his eyes and Rowan gnawed the inside of her lip, ignored the squirming sensation down below and tried to act like a mature adult.

      ‘Sorry, I’m fine. Tired. I haven’t really eaten properly. Shouldn’t have had that wine.’ Rowan rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s just been a horrible couple of days.’

      Seb let go of the hand he’d been holding and stood up, looking away from those slim thighs in old jeans, that mad hair