The Morning After the Night Before. Nikki Logan

Brother dearest ordered the booze.’

      There was—thank God—and Izzy polished off her first glass while rinsing the used party glasses already accumulating in the kitchen. She took care of a second while chopping up a platter of out-of-season veg.

      Their extended circle of friends fell like Brighton seagulls onto her choppings.

      ‘God, I love this stuff,’ a tall brunette cooed, scooping a big dollop of dip onto some capsicum and then shoving the lot into her mouth and speaking past the crunching mess. ‘Yours?’

      ‘Speciality of the man of the house,’ Izzy said. And, no, dip wasn’t an odd thing for a military man to be good at. No more odd than Alex’s weirdly nocturnal habits, anyway.

      ‘Tash, Sally.’ She nodded, extending the platter for their grazing pleasure. ‘Thanks for coming. Hi, Richard.’

      ‘Love the pauper’s catering, Izzy,’ he gushed, drowning a sprig of broccolini in dip. ‘Very on-theme.’

      Huh. If being poor was so entertaining why hadn’t she smiled more as a kid?

      She shuffled forwards through the crammed-in guests, keeping herself and the veg creeping steadily towards the far side of the bright, eclectically decorated industrial conversion. Guests greeted and commiserated and dipped the whole way.

      ‘So what’s next?’ one of her downstairs neighbours shouted over the music and chatter.

      ‘Not sure,’ Izzy hedged. ‘Consolidation period?’

      The pretty face folded. ‘Oh, I assumed you had something already lined up.’

      Nope. Not a thing lined up. Though reasonable that her friends would expect that, because that was absolutely what normal Izzy would do. The Izzy they all knew.

      Corporate, clever Izzy.

      Top of the class and best in her department Izzy.

      But new Izzy, it seemed, was channelling her mother, all of a sudden. Choosing principle over plenty. New Izzy was all about the moment and dramatic, flourishing statements. And nothing about reality.

      She paused against one of the apartment’s large windows and caught her breath ready for another pass with the half-decimated tray. The sea of people momentarily parted and she caught a glimpse of Tori’s distinctive tri-coloured hair. She was perched happily in a man’s lap, her ‘take me’ heels kicked back, his strong hands the only thing stopping her from toppling backwards onto the floor in front of all their friends. Not her boyfriend’s slim, pale, slightly creepy hands. These were strong, tanned, non-Mark hands.

      Uh-oh … trouble in paradise? Already?

      The throng closed in once more, ending her worrying Tori sighting, and Izzy pressed on with her vegetables back towards the kitchen. Appeasing the masses.

      Ooh … perhaps waitressing could be her new job. Apparently she had a knack for it and maybe the café down on street level would hire her, then she’d have no commute costs. Of course there was the whole issue of zero appreciable waiting skills.

      The only after-school job she’d managed never to have in her long, exhausting childhood.

      The final stick of courgette disappeared just before Izzy hit the kitchen doors. Of course it did. Because she’d cut just enough for the size of the crowd she’d unconsciously counted, and she’d shuffled forward in subliminal accordance with the diminishing supply.

      Quantities. Numbers. They were her thing. Estimates and value assessment and principles of return. Whether it was Broadmore Natále’s investments or a pile of crunchy veg, the theory was much the same. Leverage all available resources and minimise waste.

       Yawn.

      No wonder she’d left. Her job gave her a fantastic income and that gave her a fantastic, inner-city lifestyle, but there wasn’t much else to recommend it. Not the fiddly commute, not the irritating, God’s gift boss, not the groundhog-day workload.

      Job security just wasn’t enough anymore. Who had she been kidding convincing herself that achieving budget was the kind of professional achievement she’d been craving her whole life?

      Sigh.

      She dumped the empty tray into the sink and reached for the chopping knife.

      When he’d set out tonight to get his way with a woman it wasn’t this woman he’d had in mind. And not this kind of way, either.

      Still, Harry considered as he flattened his palm against the firm ass presently resident in his lap, things could definitely be worse. Maybe he could indulge Matahari, here, just ten more minutes. Spend a bit of time with a flesh-and-blood woman.

      One who was happy to see him.

      Plus, he didn’t know anyone here and he was grateful for the smokescreen while he carried out essential reconnaissance on Izzy Dean.

       Isadora.

      He’d almost pity her that if he weren’t so angry at being here.

      A diva didn’t get any less diva-ish just because she was good at her job. Or good to look at. And she was, in a lanky, Keira Knightley kind of way. The glass walls of his office had given him plenty of opportunity to conduct an assessment when she was otherwise engaged. Or when she wasn’t. And he’d used them to the fullest.

      He’d been grooming Dean to replace him when he moved on at the end of his stint, but after Wednesday’s spectacular meltdown …

       Let her walk.

      The firm could well do without high-maintenance attention seekers.

      Yet here he was, cap in bloody hand, sent to persuade her to reconsider, because she’d walked on his watch. Which apparently made getting her back his responsibility.

      The tense anger of Broadmore’s human resources director, Rifkin, yesterday afternoon echoed back at him. Implying, but never saying outright, that Dean’s hasty departure was somehow his fault. As if her inability to accept constructive criticism and cede to authority weren’t the bulk of the problem. He’d argued that, but Rifkin had challenged him with a list of staff they’d lost since he’d come aboard and asked how they could all develop such terminal flaws after years of working together well.

      Implication: his fault.

      Harry’s interpretation: dead wood, well rid of.

      Just because someone had been around for a while didn’t mean they were still adding value.

      Even if she was the most talented person on his team.

      Then again Rifkin hadn’t seen the words on the glass of his office wall …

      ‘Eyes forward, handsome,’ the vixen in his lap purred as if he’d been checking out her rack, not her friend serving celery sticks to the ravenous hordes. He dragged his focus reluctantly back to her eyes, which were more than a little liquor-glazed.

      He was definitely off his game.

      ‘Are you sure you’re not uncomfortable?’ he tried, again.

      ‘No, I’m great.’ She wiggled her butt down further, which only served to make him significantly less comfortable.

      A tiny brunette flopped down into the empty half-space next to them. Not quite big enough for her, leaving her pressed closely to him and, for half a moment, he feared his troubles had just doubled.

      But then her eyes filled with casual sparkle and she leaned around him and said, ‘All right, Tori?’

      Tori. That was what she’d mumbled while he was busy staring at Izzy Dean. And the little brunette was not a flanking assault; she was the extremely welcome cavalry.

      ‘Fantastic, Poppy.’ Tori waved her friend’s concern away with dramatic sweeps. ‘Having a great time.