Filed to story: Watch Out, I’m The Lady Boss (Eleanor & Sebastian) Book PDF Free
“My pleasure,” he said smoothly.
“You’re a highly valued patron here at La Vache Dor?e.” 2
“Highly valued”. Right. I’d been here maybe twice this past month, and both times I’d ordered the cheapest set menu and split a dessert with Yvaine.
I eyed the manager, whom I’d vaguely recognised from those visits-always polite, always professional, but never this… chummy. He gave me big energy of someone who wouldn’t notice me in a line-up unless I’d set the restaurant on fire.
Before I could probe into his sudden generosity, he handed me a black card embossed with the restaurant’s logo.
“The owner asked me to pass this along. You’re welcome to dine here, anytime. No charge.” 2
He gave me a little bow and disappeared into the kitchen before I could so much as sputter a refusal.
Yvaine gawked at the card.
“Wait, what? Elean, do you know the owner of this place?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
But I had a hunch who it might be.
***
When I got back to my flat, still riding the high from watching Daniel and Catherine get chucked out of the restaurant like a couple of misbehaving toddlers, the universe decided I’d had enough fun for the night.
My landlord was waiting by my door, fiddling with his keys like they were rosary beads. Mr Donnelly, mid-fifties, who always smelled faintly of microwaveable shepherd’s pie and wore socks with sandals, gave me a look like I’d just run over his cat.
“Miss Vance, I’m really sorry,” he said, scratching his head in that way men do when they’re about to say something completely shitty but want to look sympathetic while doing it.
“There’s going to be some, ah, urgent renovations. Safety stuff. You’ll need to, ah, vacate the apartment by the end of the week.”
Right. And I was the Queen of England.
I could practically hear my mother’s voice behind his. Guess she’d made good on that charming threat.
I nodded.
“I’ll be gone in two days.”
No arguments. No begging.
No point.
He gave an awkward nod and shuffled off, probably to microwave another shepherd’s pie.
I’d expected this. Just didn’t expect my mother to move this fast.
Moving wasn’t an issue. I could afford somewhere better. Bigger. With windows that didn’t jam and a kitchen that didn’t double as a sauna every time I boiled water.
Hell, I could’ve offered Mr Donnelly double the rent and he’d probably have wept with joy and accepted.
But that would’ve been like duct-taping a crack in the Hoover Dam.
Even if I stayed, my mum knew where I lived. The calls, the visits, the threats dressed up as motherly concern-none of it would stop unless I gave in and married Leonard Shaw or whatever crusty aristocrat she dug up, or found a man powerful enough to scare her into silence.
Speaking of which…
I was halfway through mentally packing my jewellery tools and wondering if my next landlord would let me solder in the living room when it hit me-I’d agreed to fake an engagement with my very attractive neighbour, and I didn’t even know his bloody name.
Brilliant.
In my defence, I’d been a little preoccupied during that meeting, mostly with the way his shirt hugged his shoulders.
And also with the very inconvenient, very vivid flashbacks to that night in the hotel room. The one with all the foggy bits and the completely uncalled-for heat.
So when he started going on about the details of our arrangement, I was too busy staring at his mouth and wondering if it still tasted the same to take in much of anything else.
Still. Minor detail.
I scribbled a note;
Hey, just a heads-up-I’m moving out in two days. Long story. Here’s my number in case you still want to go ahead with the whole fake fianc? thing. Name’s Elean, by the way. Cheers.
I tucked it under his door across the hall. The lights were off, no sound from inside.
He was probably out doing hot mysterious things. Like brooding on a rooftop or teaching orphans how to box or whatever handsome men do when they’re not accidentally getting roped into fake relationships.
Then I went back to my flat, plonked myself on the sofa, opened my laptop, and typed “apartments that won’t ruin your life” into the search bar.
Daniel rang just as I was elbow-deep in a bag of cheesy crisps, trying to ignore my tragic life by watching an aggressively cheerful baking show.
I answered because I was in a good mood and didn’t bother to check caller ID.
Stupid of me, really.
He didn’t bother with small talk.
“Dinner. Tomorrow night. With my family.”
I leaned back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling like it owed me an explanation.
“Daniel, we’re not together anymore. In case your memory’s as selective as your morals.”
He huffed.
“My mother wants to see you.”
That stopped me. Just for a second.
Louisa Granger. The only member of that genetically cursed family I’d actually liked.
She used to call me her “darling girl” and meant it. She remembered my birthday. She bought me books I actually read. She once told me I had a fire in me and that it was beautiful.
Meanwhile, my own mother thought my jewellery designs were a hobby I’d grow out of and that fire belonged in fireplaces or hell.
“Come to dinner,” Daniel carried on, his tone clipped.
“Just don’t say anything to her about… y’know. Us.”
Of course he wanted me to lie for him. Again.
“Wow. Brave of you,” I said, voice sharp enough to julienne a courgette.
“What happened to that big manly energy you were showing off with Catherine? If you’re so smitten, why not bring her to dinner and introduce her to the fam? Or are you worried Mummy might not approve of your shiny new mistress?”
He didn’t reply. I didn’t wait for him to.
I hung up, tossed my phone on the sofa, and muttered, “Bloody coward.”
***
Half past ten, I’d just put down the TV remote and dug out an unfinished sketch from my tablet, thinking I could snack my way into some inspiration.
I barely got two bites of leftover lo mein in before the lights cut out like a budget horror film. One second I was basking in LED brilliance, the next I was plunged into darkness, lit only by the ghostly glow of my tablet screen.
I practically launched myself off the sofa. My heart did a triple backflip before I realised it was just a blackout. Again. Because of course this bloody floor had the electrical stability of a soggy biscuit.
I fumbled for my phone and rang Mr Donnelly. No answer. I called again. Still nothing. Classic Donnelly-less “property manager”, more “professional ghoster”.
I wouldn’t have put it past him to fake a blackout just to speed up my moving out.
I’d already said I was leaving. Did he really need to go full supervillain with the power supply?
No wonder this place was cheap. Faulty wiring and a landlord who disappeared faster than my willpower around cake. Still, for rent that low, I couldn’t stay mad for long.
Besides, I was out of here soon enough.
Grumbling under my breath, I groped my way into the stairwell to check the fuse box. Of course it was mounted at a height best suited for NBA players.
I’m nearly 5’7??and had to stand on tiptoe like I was doing pirouettes in the dark-only with more swearing and less grace.
Not that it helped. I stared at the jumble of switches like it was written in hieroglyphics.
“Bloody hell,” I muttered, returning to fetch a chair before I electrocuted myself out of sheer guesswork.
Just as I reached my door, the neighbour’s door eased open.
And there he was.
Like me, he was using his phone as a torch, which gave me a clear view of his face. His fringe, usually styled like a GQ cover shoot, was loose and damp, making him look about five years younger and way too good-looking for the average tenant.
Droplets slid from his hair down his neck, past his collarbone, down over muscles that really needed a warning label.
The man had on nothing but a towel.
Just. A. Towel.
And judging by the little rivers of water tracing down his torso, he’d rushed out of the shower to investigate the blackout without bothering with trivial things like clothes.
I tried very hard not to ogle.
I failed spectacularly.
To be fair, it was like being hit in the face with a very well-sculpted Greek statue.
A very wet, half-naked, annoyingly sexy Greek statue.
Last time I saw him, he’d been dressed to the nines in a tailored suit. I hadn’t expected him to be this… stacked.
It was like finding out your accountant moonlighted as a Calvin Klein model.
My brain short-circuited for a moment. I just stood there, blatantly gawking like some creep on a stag do.