and missed calls from her brother, James.
Work.
Freya knew that it would be.
James Rothsberg was the cosmetic surgeon in LA and for the past six years he had poured everything into The Hollywood Hills Medical Center. It was an amazing facility frequented by the rich and famous. Affectionately known as The Hills, it had everything from obstetrics to intensive care and was the top tier of health care. Two years ago James had asked Freya to come on board and she had put her PR skills to excellent commercial use.
Till now.
It was time to give back, she had told James.
And he’d listened.
Which was why, instead of rolling her eyes at being called late afternoon on New Year’s Eve, Freya called her brother.
‘Hi, James,’ Freya said. ‘You’ve been trying to get hold of me.’
‘I have,’ James said. ‘Freya, I need you at The Hills tomorrow at nine.’
‘On New Year’s Day?’ Freya checked.
‘I’ve just taken a call from Geoff, and Paulo’s condition has deteriorated. I’ve just spoken with Zackary and he’s agreed to come in and be interviewed tomorrow instead of waiting till Monday.’
Freya’s eyes screwed closed as James carried on talking.
‘I need you to be at the interview.’
‘Me?’ Freya tried to keep the quake from her voice. ‘Since when did I sit in on the hiring of medical personnel?’
‘Since you talked me into taking on charitable cases,’ James answered tartly. ‘And, given we’re going to be asking him to donate his skills for nothing...’
‘He already knows that he’ll be doing some pro bono work.’
‘Freya?’
She could hear the question in her brother’s voice at her reluctance to sit in on the interview. After all, Freya had been the one pushing for The Hills to embrace this. Freya had been the one looking into a suitable charity to properly support and now things were finally moving along. But what James didn’t understand was that the very seemingly together, always-very-much-in-control Freya had got herself into a little pickle that her older brother didn’t know about.
There was a big pickle her brother didn’t know about either, namely that the charity she’d found was headed by his ex, Mila Brightman, but it was the other pickle in the jar that Freya was wrestling with now.
She had already been dreading meeting the hotshot cardiac surgeon Zackary Carlton.
Or Zack, as she’d found out he’d prefer to be known.
They had flirted via emails.
Not much.
It felt massive to Freya, though.
‘I need you there tomorrow at nine,’ James said. ‘I’m sure he’s going to have questions about the promotional side of things and I want a press release out saying that we have Zackary on board.’
‘Zack!’ Freya said. ‘He prefers to be called Zack.’
‘Noted,’ James responded. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at nine. I’ll flick over some details tonight.’
‘Thanks.’
Oh, God.
After the tame girls’ night with her smug married friends, Freya had poured another cocktail and opened up her laptop and located a certain series of emails.
She never got involved with people she worked with. Actually, Freya really didn’t get too involved full stop. But this teeny tiny flirt had been fun and Zack had outright asked if she was single.
Several daiquiris later, when Freya, who took her health seriously and didn’t often drink, had decided to embrace the merits of not being married, she had typed her response back.
Very single. (Don’t tell James.)
And now, tomorrow, she had to face him.
His response had made her blush and it was making her blush now.
I never kiss and tell.
Hopefully he wouldn’t get the role, Freya thought, but who was she kidding? James wanted Zack Carlton on board, so much so that he had him currently housed in a luxury apartment that The Hills owned and was interviewing him on New Year’s Day.
It had been a stupid flirt, a tiny one, but it had been completely out of character for her, and not just professionally. Freya wasn’t a flirty person at all, she was far too controlled for that.
Blame it on the daiquiris.
Actually, she couldn’t because the flirt had started a couple of emails prior to that.
She sighed. He was probably fifty and married with sixteen children. She’d blush about it tomorrow, but right now she had to deal with the wedding.
First, though, she texted her neighbour Red. Freya had a late checkout but hadn’t been intending to use it as she wanted to get home to her little dog, Cleo. Instead, she asked Red if he would let her out and feed her in the morning.
With that sorted she went to go but then Freya caught sight of her bare shoulders; she turned and looked again at her spine.
It had been that sight that had terrified James. Freya could still remember his shocked reaction as he had sat her up so that the doctor could listen to her chest.
‘Freya!’
She had always kept this part of her body covered, hiding her secret, denying to everyone she had a problem, partying her way through her parents’ appalling divorce and pretending she didn’t care.
It was hard enough having high-profile actors as parents and wearing the Rothsberg name, but when that marriage had ended, to have it played out over the media had been agony.
And when a journalist had pointed out that Freya was just a little bit younger than her father’s latest girlfriend, a magazine had taken it one nasty step further and pointed out that Freya was also considerably larger.
Her comfort during the very public break-up had, till then, been food and she’d had to endure the spotlight that had shone on her parents suddenly widening to accommodate both herself and James.
She had rigorously denied herself the comfort of food.
Very rigorously!
And she had also partied hard.
James had hauled her out of a nightclub and, too weak to row with her brother, Freya had collapsed and been rushed to hospital.
There she had been stripped and put into a gown and then James had been allowed back in, and that was when he had seen her spine and the true extent of her problem had been exposed.
Now, fourteen years later, she would stand today with the most loathed part of her body on show and, joy of joys, eat at the top table.
Freya was better now—so, so much better.
Recovered, healed, whatever the best word was, but there were still hurts and repercussions that she had to deal with, and one of the big ones was that she rarely had a period.
Seriously rarely.
Once, maybe twice a year.
‘It’s your own fault,’ Freya told her reflection, and then came away from the mirror and headed out to the elevator.
She got in and closed her eyes, resting against the wall as she angled her neck to release tension. When she opened them, instead of being on the mezzanine level, she was on the ground floor, and looking into the eyes of Him!
‘Well, you prove my theory,’ he said in a deep, sexy voice.
It was