stomach did an unexpected triple-flip as his dark eyes collided with hers, and she looked away quickly.
Reeling a bit at that molasses voice. Getting her breath back. ‘Sorry…?’
‘Mind still stuck on the underwear issue then?’ He let out a short guffaw. ‘Sorry to confuse you. I’m talking coffee here. No milk, no sugar.’ He flashed her another grin. ‘Keep up.’
Rude or what? And definitely pushing it.
‘Try the one with the green lid.’ Determined not to rise. So that was how he stayed in shape. She nudged a plastic cup towards him. ‘Muffin?’
His smirking snort with a triple shot of incredulity suggested she was talking dirty. Very dirty.
‘Do I look like I eat muffins?’
Good thing she hadn’t gone for pure porn cupcakes then.
‘Raspberry and white chocolate chip, freshly baked…’
And still he shook his head.
Whatever.
Muffins were today’s healthy option. She’d done a mega-order to ensure the crew stayed sweet, though no doubt by the end of the day she’d be hitting the cupcakes as usual, wading through an inch of buttercream for an instant sugar rescue.
‘Later perhaps.’
Was that him trying to be conciliatory?
‘Good luck with that given the gannets here; otherwise known as cameramen.’ Damn. She didn’t mean to let that beam get away. People who refused her muffins didn’t deserve smiles that effusive, even if they did have a great ass.
‘Did someone say white chocolate?’
Bryony turned to see Cressy swooping around the wing of the car, and coming to her own swooning halt right by Bryony’s elbow. ‘Lordy! Phwoar! Don’t mind if I do! Loving you for the muffins, Bry.’
Bryony, lips twitching, let her gaze skim firmly over the top of the OMG face Cressy was shooting sideways at her.
Cressy was so generous and warm, Bryony had forgiven her years ago for having the pint-sized figure she’d always wanted herself. But she was also a total man-magnet. Men falling at Cressy’s pretty, dainty feet was something else Bryony was totally inured to, even though it had landed them in a whole load of trouble more times than she cared to count.
And today could be shaping up for another Cressy train-wreck.
According to last night’s background research, fitted in by Bryony at two in the morning in her childhood bed after that shocker of a dinner with her Mum and Stepdad, it seemed that Jackson was exceptionally available. Apparently, cycle race podium-girls weren’t the only females he got up-close and personal with. Completely on the market by all accounts. Grabbing whatever he could wherever he could, and the more the better. Quality and quantity. Oh, and his nickname was The Howler, for three exceptionally good reasons: a) after howling gales, b) because of the way he howled as he crossed the finish line, and c) because…
The last reason went straight in the too-much-information bin. No way did she want to imagine his girlfriends’ ecstatic screams at the crucial moment.
More so, since she’d seen the guy in all his naked glory.
Especially since…
Bryony re-spun her brain cogs and landed, randomly, on last night’s crazy family dinner. Ouch! That would have to wait for later, when she had a whole lot of time and at least a full psychology department on hand for support. She had to remember: however hurtful the suggestions sounded, her mother was only trying to be kind.
Take one second to clear your head of all things family…And another to forget exactly why you’ve volunteered to bury yourself in work when you could’ve been shopping…
The frantic catch-up background reading was just one of the drawbacks of ending up working on a sports programme when you were the least-sporty person on the planet.
World famous cyclist Jackson Gale…
Getting up to speed for this sporting gig was time-consuming, not to mention stressful. Oh, and yawnsville too.
In theory TV production was the same regardless of the subject, but somehow it was a whole lot easier if you were in tune with what you were filming. It came naturally to her to be enthusiastic about filming pretty things and country houses, whereas with sport…even the word made her cringe. All wrapped-up with memories of humiliation in games lessons at school when she was not only a head taller than everyone else, but also terminally uncoordinated. At least the money for this job was top-whack and it was helping Cressy out of a hole, seeing as how the crew had all gone down with some unmentionable virus, which accidentally coincided with some ferocious stag-night celebrations.
Although, talking of Cressy and holes; despite Jackson’s penchant for play and the way Cressy was warming up her full-bodied come-hither wiggles right here on the car park, she didn’t give much for Jackson’s chances today. Bryony looked up, expecting to see Jackson’s tongue lolling out in Cressy’s direction, and started sharply as his eyes sidled up her own body then clashed with her gaze.
All grey brown and smokey.
Shades of irresistible.
Except she always resisted. Other people had relationships, not her.
So, Jackson was still pursuing the undressing thing, then. Anyone else and she’d have rottweilered them by now. Why the hell had she let him go this far?
He inclined his head and narrowed his gaze a fraction, sending her pulse into overdrive.
Why didn’t he realise he was honing in on the wrong person here?
This so wasn’t how it worked when Cressy was around. And it wasn’t only because of Cressy. Bryony didn’t do flirting, for goodness sakes. She rarely did men. She had her rules, and that included no flirting. Especially not at work.
Especially not in Scarborough, of all places.
Scarborough was too cold and too northern to be auspicious for any sort of romance – and it was laden with back-story.
Oh my. He was still looking. Would he never give up?
She took a large gulp of air. Given the way today was shaping up, she was starting to wish she’d bitten the bullet, stayed home in London and faced her demons. At least then she could have had the soothing benefit of retail therapy.
Beside her, Cressy’s wiggle had escalated into overdrive, apparently to zero effect.
Time for action. Not necessarily evasive action. Any action at all would do.
‘Here, have that muffin.’ Bryony stuffed a cake at Cressy, who jerked to a standstill, staring at her open-mouthed. Then Bryony strode purposefully to find refuge on the far side of the car, pulled herself up to her full five foot nine plus heels, put on her best production-assistant-in-control voice and motioned to the rack on the car roof.
‘So is this the bike you and Annie are going to ride today then?’
Annie, being Annie Brooks, one time super-athlete, turn-her-mind-and-body-to-anything-and-win, morphed into mega-successful presenter of Sporting Chances, who always wore state-of-the-art running shoes. Bryony squinted down at her own wedge-heeled trainers which she’d panic-bought in an attempt to fit in with the gym bunnies on the Sporting Chances team. Four-inch heels rather than five was the only concession she’d been able to make towards a sensible appearance. It wasn’t her fault; she’d had an addiction to towering heels since the age of three. At least she’d made an effort with her Sweaty Betty Zero Gravity Leggings – not that she understood the technical spec, but at least the name was cool. Whatever. Annie was a super-brave, super-talented, super-woman. She was going places. And she was beyond crazy if she was ready to get on the back of a push bike for