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Harriet was looking slightly sheepish over at her desk (or, as sheepish as you can look with your hair in a slicked-back ponytail, wearing a pantsuit). She held her hands up. ‘You hired me because I can spread news like wildfire. Secrets go through me like a laxative.’

Dexter gagged. ‘Can we go one second in this office without someone threatening to release bodily fluids?’

I held up my hands. ‘Harriet, that secret was fair game. And Ella, yes, I did have a meltdown in the middle of a mixer. But we all make mistakes.’

She nodded, getting the message loud and clear.

‘And Dexter, for the love of God, drink that prosecco or get it out of my sight.’

Dexter, who was back at his desk taking out his headphones, grinned. ‘I don’t need telling twice. Consider me drunk.’

All things considered, I’d survived the first five minutes unscathed. And everyone who worked in a close-knit office knew that the first five minutes were always the hardest. I stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into my coffee.

‘You’re going to give yourself even more of a headache doing that.’ Rory was leaning in the doorway of our office, watching me stir. ‘This must be some kind of record.’

‘Nope.’ I tapped the spoon on the side. ‘My record is five sugars the day after Glastonbury.’

We’d gone as a group of six last year; multiple days of torrential rain, mud baths, and tents so flimsy that by the final night all of us were crammed into the last one standing. We’d barely got ten minutes of sleep between us, and had spent the next evening collapsed on our sofas with a Domino’s order so big that I felt I had to justify it to the delivery man.

I followed Rory into our office, trying to forcibly remove any memories from the night before. I’d woken up in the night with my entire body curled around his, draped over his bare skin, having scooted over in my sleep. I’d stayed there for a minute, before jumping back to my side when his breathing had broken its pattern. Thank God he’d been asleep.

I cleared my throat. ‘Anyway, thanks for last night.’

He collapsed on one of the bean bags we’d bought for the space between our desks (studies showed that comfy seating produced more effective brainstorms. And by studies, I meant entirely made-up ones). Rory was much less suited and booted than he’d been last night, wearing jeans and a grey Nike hoodie. The only suggestion that whilst I was absolutely hanging out of my arse, he might have been suffering a little bit too. ‘Anytime. How’s the head?’

I fell into the other bean bag. ‘It’s been better.’ I took a deep breath, desperately wanting to address what had been on my mind since last night. ‘So, do you think Maisy is going to mind that I stayed over?’

Rory ran his hands through his hair. ‘Oh. That.’

I waited impatiently whilst he chose his words, seconds away from jumping across the bean bags and shaking him. ‘I’m not dating her any more. Nothing to worry about on that front. Fizzled out before it had even really got going.’

I tried to pretend that this wasn’t big news, stirring my now lukewarm coffee.

‘Oh, right. Interesting.’

Fizzled out? I was overcome with the need to know why. How could I bribe Maeve into getting the gossip for me? Why didn’t I feel like I could ask him about this?

Before I had the chance to expose my nosiness, Ella knocked on the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but you’ve got a delivery, Penny.’

A delivery guy came in behind her, placing a huge bouquet of flowers on my desk. Pink roses and huge yellow sunflowers, with foliage bulking it out. It was beautiful.

‘I didn’t order those.’

Rory whistled. ‘No shit.’

Ella pulled the door almost shut. ‘Well, it says your name on it.’ She shrugged.

‘Someone really wants to send a message.’ Rory was staring at the bouquet. ‘Are you going to put us both out of our misery? The suspense is killing me over here, Pen.’

‘Right, yeah.’ I manoeuvred myself off the bean bag (not easy, especially when wearing leather). Reading the label, I pulled the little notecard out of its envelope.

Holy shit.’

Rory didn’t budge; the only sign he was even interested was the slight flicker of his eyes in my direction. ‘Isaac already regretting his move?’

I read the notecard again to make sure I’d read it right.

Last night was fun. Do it again sometime?

Daniel x

The same Daniel who didn’t know my last name, or where I worked. I explained last night to Rory; the whole shtick of not telling each other any of the details.

‘Wow. And now this has turned up at the office.’ He hummed the tune to Jaws until I screwed up the envelope and threw it in his direction, making sure to save the notecard with his mobile digits written in the florist’s handwriting.

‘You’re going to ignore it, right? I’m not kidding, Pen, that’s creepy as fuck.’

Was it creepy? Or was it romantic? My cynicism was so strong that sometimes I wasn’t sure what was genuinely a red flag. And it had been a good kiss. Maybe sometimes you could put up with a few red flags. Show them off, like decorations on a sandcastle.

‘I don’t know. It was a genuine meet-cute. How often does that happen?’

‘Can you honestly call him pouncing on you when you came out of the ladies’ bathroom half-cut a meet-cute?’

I scoffed. ‘He didn’t pounce. I walked into him.’

I hadn’t had an in-person meet-cute since my first year in London, when I’d accidentally taken some guy’s latte instead of my own. At least, I’d thought it was a meet-cute, until I’d spotted the ring on his finger. These kinds of opportunities only came up once in a blue moon.

‘There might be a completely innocent reason for this.’ I gestured to the flowers. ‘At least I know he isn’t a complete stalker, or he would have known I’m a tulips girl.’

Are sens

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