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  No more bland, safe, unsatisfying relationships. The next man she met, she was going to be open and honest with him. She was going to take a risk and share her thoughts and feelings, instead of keeping them locked away. Maybe if she did that her relationships would change and she’d feel passion.

  She felt the same flutter of nerves in her stomach that she’d felt before she’d done a parachute jump for charity.

  ‘Okay…well, for the record, I think you’re very brave, holding it together like this.’ Charlotte checked her tablet. ‘Just to clarify—because my brain is a little fuzzy after Amy’s eventful night—I’ll call your mother’s assistant back and say you’ll go to the hospital later, I’ll tell the Mortons that you feel Iceland is the perfect choice for them, that it’s your personal recommendation and that you’ll call to discuss it once they’ve taken a look at the itinerary we suggest, I’ll get the Laird on the phone so you can try and persuade him that you don’t need to visit, and I’ll also call your sister.’

  ‘Not my sister. I’ll call my sister. You get Kyle for me. And stop calling the Scottish guy “the Laird” or I’ll do it by accident.’

  ‘Right. Got it.’

  Flustered, Charlotte left the room with the others and Samantha returned to her desk.

  She closed her laptop and slipped it into her bag. She’d be able to do some work on the flight, or maybe in the hospital. It was unlikely that her mother was going to want her hanging out in her room.

  She reached under her desk, rescued her shoes and slid them on, not wanting to analyse why she needed to wear heels to break up with a guy over the phone.

  The thought of seeing her mother made her feel mildly nauseated. So did the thought of speaking to Kyle.

  She reached across to the phone on her desk and stabbed a button. ‘Charlotte? If you’re not feeding Amy, could you bring me a drink, please?’

  ‘Sure! Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Vodka. Rocks.’

  There was a brief silence. ‘Right. Coming up.’

  Charlotte appeared a moment later, ice clinking in the glass she held. ‘Here. And I’m not judging you, so don’t worry about that. Your mom is in hospital, your relationship is ending…basically your personal life is a total mess, so you shouldn’t feel bad about needing a drink.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Was that blunt? Darn. I’m trying to be less blunt.’

  ‘Blunt works for me. And you’re right—my personal life is a mess.’

  Charlotte patted her hand. ‘Just to say it’s okay for you to talk about it if you want to. You’re always listening to everyone else, but you keep all your own personal stuff inside. I’m here for you if you need a listening ear. Instead of vodka I could give you a great big hug. I always find a hug is the best thing when I’m scared about something.’

  ‘Charlotte—’

  ‘And I never gossip, so you don’t need to worry about that. You’re probably afraid someone will go straight to the press with a story about your mom, but I would never do that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You never talk about your mother, and I understand why.’

  ‘You do?’

  Should she be pleased or alarmed? Could it be that someone had actually seen beneath the surface?

  ‘Of course. It’s obvious. Gayle Mitchell is a legend, and if you mention her everyone is going to want to talk about her, or get you to pull a favour and have a book signed or something. You’re afraid people will only be interested in you because of your mother—but you shouldn’t think that. You’re an inspiration in your own right. Look at what you’ve built here! Although…Choice not Chance.’ She beamed. ‘I read it three times. And I have Brave New You on pre-order.’

  Choice not Chance. Samantha wished her mother had never written that damn book.

  She made a mental note to store a bottle of vodka in her office. She could invent a new drinking game. One shot when someone said something flattering about her mother. Two shots when someone said those three dreaded words.

  ‘Let’s get those calls done, Charlotte.’

  ‘Right. And I think you’re amazing, being able to focus on work at a time like this.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She waited until Charlotte had left the room and then picked up the glass.

  What was she doing? Was she really so bad at dealing with emotional issues that she needed a drink to get her through?

  Maybe she should have said yes to the hug…

  She put the vodka down on her desk. It wasn’t the solution. She did not need it. She’d call Kyle, and then she’d treat herself to a double-shot espresso from the Italian coffee shop down the road before she headed to the airport.

  She was nervous, and she had her mother to blame for that.

  Gayle Mitchell had drummed into both her children that any relationship was the death of ambition and goals—an anchor dragging you to the bottom of the rough seas of life. Every time Samantha ended a relationship it made her doubly uncomfortable, because part of her felt as if she was pleasing her mother. Was that why she’d stayed with Kyle for so long? Because breaking up with him felt like something her mother would approve of?

  Her phone lit up and she took a deep breath. The best way to handle this was to dive right in.

  ‘Hi, there. Firstly, I am so sorry about last night. I was buried in work and to be honest I didn’t even look up from my desk until midnight—’ She wasn’t going to say she hadn’t even realised she’d missed their date until Charlotte had told her, ‘Anyway, I apologise. But it did start me thinking.’

  She heard an indrawn breath and ploughed on.

  ‘Before you speak, let me finish. Please. The truth is, this isn’t working for me. I mean, you’re great company, and we always have interesting conversation and a good time, but we’re not exactly setting the world on fire, are we? We have these sedate dinners, or evenings at the theatre, where we behave like a middle-aged couple and you occasionally hold my hand on the way home. It’s all very civilised and restrained, and that’s probably my fault because we both know I’m not great at showing emotion. But I want to. You have no idea how much I want to be great at that. I want to feel stuff. But when you and I are together I just don’t feel it—and that’s my fault not yours.’

  She was probably saying far too much, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  ‘Maybe we don’t have the right chemistry, or maybe I’m never going to feel anything because there’s something wrong with me.’ Thank you for that, Mother. ‘But I owe it to myself to at least hold out for more. I’m not expecting a storm of passion, but a light breeze would be nice. And you deserve that, too. We both deserve better than this bland, neutral, polite relationship. I think we should acknowledge that something is missing.’

  She stared through the window at the swirling snowflakes, wondering how it was possible to feel lonely in a city that was home to hundreds of thousands of people. But among all those people how did you find that one person who was going to change your world? Honesty. That had to be a good start.

  ‘I want to have a love affair so all-consuming that I forget to go to work—instead of forgetting the man and the date because I’m at work. I want to sneak off in my lunch break and buy sexy lingerie, instead of eating at my desk and taking calls. I want to drink champagne naked in bed, not seated in a theatre bar surrounded by strangers. I want to have wild, desperate sex without caring when or where.’

  Had she just said that aloud? Had she really just said that?

  It was all very well resolving to be more open and honest, but it had left her feeling exposed and uncomfortable. She might as well have paraded down Newbury Street naked. Thank goodness she was ending it and wouldn’t have to face him again.

  Dying of embarrassment, she forced out a few more words. ‘So what I’m saying is, it’s over. And I don’t think this will be too much of a shock to you. I know there are many things about me that annoy you—not least the fact that my sister is s
o important to me and we speak every day. But that is never going to change, and neither is the whole passion thing, so I think we should both just accept the way things are and agree, amicably, that it’s been fun but it’s time to end it.’

  There. She’d done it. She’d said it. In fact she’d said far too much.

  Samantha closed her eyes and breathed slowly to try and slow her racing heart. She hadn’t realised her feelings were quite so close to the surface.

  Kyle still hadn’t responded, which she took to be a sign that he was shocked by her frankness. She was shocked, too. Drinking champagne in bed, naked? Where had that come from?

  She gave him a few moments to respond and then gave up waiting. ‘This is… I’m starting to feel a little awkward…’ Understatement of the century. ‘Say something. Anything.’

  There was only silence on the end of the phone.

  Samantha felt a rush of exasperation, but also a growing sense of conviction that she’d done the right thing by breaking up with him. She’d spilled every one of her emotions all over him. She’d been honest and open, the way all those relationship books said you should be, and what had she got in return? Not warmth and understanding, but silence.

  ‘Kyle? What do you think?’

  ‘What do I think?’

  The voice on the end of the phone was deep, rough and entirely unfamiliar.

  ‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. We’ve never had dinner, boring or otherwise, and we’ve also never had sex, so I wouldn’t know about the chemistry, but drinking champagne naked in bed sounds like a pretty good date to me. And I have no idea who Kyle is, but clearly he’s a guy who needs to get his act together. Because you’re right—no one wants or needs a bland, neutral, polite relationship.’

  Samantha sat without moving. Without breathing.

  Who…?

  Charlotte was supposed to be calling two people for her: Kyle, and Brodie McKintyre, the guy who owned the lodge in the Scottish Highlands.

  If she hadn’t been speaking to Kyle, then that could only mean…

  Without saying another word, she reached for the vodka and downed it in one.

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