A Girl Less Ordinary Read online

  For weeks—months—she’d expected something. An email maybe, so she’d checked the computers at school religiously each day. Or a phone call—and for far too long she’d leapt to her feet whenever its ring had reverberated throughout her wooden-framed house.

  Really, she would’ve been happy with a postcard of the harbour bridge, even.

  She’d been totally pathetic.

  And now she was horrified to register an echo of that ache she’d forcibly buried so long ago. It had faded, for sure, but it was still there. Somewhere inside her.

  A little piece of who she once was. Of the girl that Jake had rejected.

  That everyone had rejected.

  The realisation shocked her.

  ‘Ella,’ he said, and his voice was far too kind. ‘You can’t possibly—’

  No. She didn’t want to hear this. It should be impossible to remember his pity-edged tone from thirteen years ago but she did, and she didn’t want to hear it again. ‘When will the phone be available for purchase?’ she said, snatching up a question at random.

  There was a long silence, and Jake’s brow furrowed as he studied her.

  Surely he wouldn’t push? What was the point? If there’d been anything worth saying, or saving, between them, it would’ve been said and done long ago.

  Eventually, finally, he answered. ‘The Armada phone will be launched worldwide on the first of August...’

  And just like that, they were back on track. She was Ella, and he was Jake—her client. Only. Because that was the way it had to stay.

  The way it was going to stay.

  * * *

  Jake tried—he really did—to pay attention.

  It shouldn’t have been too difficult a task, as Ella was sitting a perfectly respectable distance away from him. Given the huge size of his LED computer screen—about the only thing he actually liked in his office—their chairs weren’t exactly shoved close together behind his desk. And yet, without the barrier of the desk between them, her nearness was distracting.

  Currently she was possibly talking about the mock interview. But he couldn’t be absolutely sure.

  He’d been right, yesterday. This was not a good idea.

  He was still uneasy in a room alone with Ella Cartwright.

  What he wasn’t—was any closer to understanding why.

  She’d been right, logically. There must be a reason their friendship had ended with such finality. That he’d never been tempted to seek her out.

  Nothing.

  And yet, here they were, with definite undercurrents beneath every word they said, despite Ella’s absolute insistence that this was nothing more than a business relationship.

  Why had he even agreed to this?

  It was a total waste of time, only prolonging the inevitable. He didn’t need an image consultant.

  He didn’t need Ella back in his life.

  Although even yesterday, even as he’d been telling her he didn’t require her services, he’d been considering the possibility of asking her out for a—platonic—drink. A catch up between old friends. That was all. An hour or two of his life to get this weird imbalance out of his system.

  Maybe he should still do that, once this was over. A means to an end, so to speak.

  Because despite his best efforts, in the less than twenty-four hours since she’d walked back into his life, he’d spent way too much time thinking about her. Wondering. How could she possibly have changed so much?

  Although—now and again, little actions had triggered half-forgotten memories. The way she tucked her hair behind her ears. The way, when the questions had turned to her, her gaze had skittered all over the room.

  But for every glimpse that was familiar, there was so much that was not. Like her emerald green eyes, the freckle-free skin and her sexy-as-hell fire-engine-red lips.

  Momentarily, there was absolutely no confusion for the cause of tension in the room. For now, he was back to basics.

  ‘Jake,’ she said, ‘have you heard anything I’ve said?’

  His gaze darted up from her mouth to her eyes and he watched as her cheeks went pink.

  Ah. He remembered that blush, too.

  She must have seen something of his very much work-inappropriate thoughts in his eyes, and her blush only deepened. Those thoughts, he remembered too—although thirteen-odd years ago, she’d been wearing a school uniform when she’d triggered them, not a tailored suit and three-inch heels.

  Oh, yeah. He had liked Eleanor. A lot.

  And all grown up, she was having a similar effect.

  Which wasn’t ideal.

  Ha! No, that was a pretty pedestrian description.

  Ella was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

  He needed to focus on the campaign, and on Armada. Besides, they both knew far too much about each other—each at their most vulnerable and most awkward. Anything between them would be the very definition of complicated and he didn’t do complicated.

  He did fun and temporary and unashamedly shallow.

  His one long-term relationship had ended right around the time Georgina had felt the need to stumble about in his past, desperate to know—to understand, she’d said—all of him. His deadbeat dad and pastiche of a mother inexplicably her topics of choice.

  But seriously, who wanted to discuss a dad who, when he was aged five, walked out without a backward glance? Not exactly a conversation to set a romantic mood, right?

  As for his mother. Oh, the allure of the antics of Mrs Diana Donner. His favourite being that time he’d walked across the stage to accept a Maths prize, age thirteen. And in she’d staggered through the doors of the school gymnasium in nightie and bathrobe, barefoot, and with some indescribable substance down her front, quite possibly vomit, screaming out her love for him for all to hear and see.

  So no. Not stories he had any interest in sharing with the women he...saw...he guessed was the appropriate term. Certainly didn’t have relationships with.

  But the thing was, Ella already knew them all. All the stories.

  That didn’t sit well with him.

  ‘You’re right, I wasn’t paying attention,’ he said, wrestling himself back on track. ‘I’m still unconvinced I need to know any of this.’

  It was difficult not to smile, despite the crackling tension, when right on cue her eyes flashed with irritation. Eleanor—no, Ella, he had to remember that—had always been so, so easy to get a rise out of.

  ‘If you were paying attention, you would be convinced by now.’

  He shrugged, and her whole body went rigid. One of her legs bounced a few times as she tapped her heel impatiently against the marble floor—before she realised what she was doing and went still. Then she turned to him, and smiled the widest, most perfect and most plastic of smiles.

  It was far from the first time she’d bestowed this smile upon him in the past two days, and yet it still had the power to make him tense. It was so false—and just so different from the easy, crooked, Eleanor smile he was shocked to realise he remembered so vividly.

  ‘What we’re going to do now is watch your mock interview from beginning to end, and I’ll pause and make comments as we go through. Any questions, feel free to ask.’

  She didn’t bother to wait for his agreement, and instead reached forward to click the mouse, and start the camera she’d connected to his computer earlier.

  Jake settled back into his seat, determined to concentrate. He’d promised Ella these two hours, and so he had to at least try, even if he already knew the outcome.

  Jake Donner definitely didn’t need an image consultant.

  Ella fast-forwarded through the warm-up questions. He almost said something, tempted to tease her about her discomfort when the questions had turned to her—but then his head and shoulders filled almost the entire screen and the words stalled in his throat.

  ‘You actually weren’t too bad,’ Ella was saying, watching the screen. ‘But I’m still confident that I’ll be able to help you—and Armad
a—really shine on camera.’

  When he remained silent, Ella turned slightly in her chair to look at him. ‘Jake?’

  ‘I look awful,’ he said, surprising himself. After all, he wasn’t supposed to care about all this image rubbish.

  Ella smiled. ‘You look like a slightly grumpy guy with overlong hair who doesn’t like being interviewed. Plus, you kind of sound like a mega geek.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you now think that’s a problem?’

  He rubbed his temples. He’d actually been trying, really trying—wanting to prove Ella wrong. So he’d stuck to the sound bites that Marketing had briefed him with—mostly. And he’d been really careful to keep his eyes on the camera. He’d been going for relaxed, but informative.

  Instead, he’d ended up with—well, Ella got it right. Grumpy nerd. Even he was bored hearing himself go on about his precious phone.

  He reached across Ella to grab the mouse. He didn’t need to see any more.

  Even though he didn’t touch her, Ella leapt away as if she was afraid he would, forcing her chair to roll back a metre or so. She immediately recovered, calmly sliding her chair forward and pretending she hadn’t moved at all. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ she said brightly. ‘I think we can work on the laconic look.’ She meant the way he’d slouched in his chair. ‘And you’ve actually got a really great natural presence on camera. That’s not something everyone has.’

  This made him feel a little better. ‘Really?’ he asked, still close to her as he clicked the mouse to close the video. ‘Presence, huh?’ He met her gaze, ridiculously pleased.

  She reached out, pushing his shoulder lightly. ‘Don’t be too smug. You’re still a grumpy geek—just with presence.’

  He could see the moment she registered that she was touching him. Her eyes, with those super thick painted lashes, widened—and she went perfectly still.

  Her hand fell away. ‘Anyway. What I’m trying to say is there’s lots there we can work with.’

  Every word she said was spoken just a little faster than the one before it. Normally she was almost defiantly professional—now she was having trouble even looking at him.

  It wasn’t very smart of him and it was definitely pointless but he was liking this effect he had on her. That the zing he’d felt when they’d touched was not even close to one way.

  ‘Give me an example,’ he said. ‘One of your image slash personal rebranding consultant pieces of wisdom.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Does this mean I’ve convinced you?’

  She’d regrouped, and now she looked him dead in the eye, the mask back in place. Her expression revealed nothing.

  ‘Not yet. I need a...’ He very nearly said taste, but his brain put the skids on just in time. Not that the idea didn’t refuse to dislodge. ‘...sample.’

  Although of course he wasn’t thinking about samples as he looked at her. Not at all.

  This was crazy.

  He was hardly some sex-starved pariah. Sure, it had been a few months since he’d had a date, but that was entirely his own decision. And thoughts of tasting the lips of Eleanor Cartwright—of all people—were just wrong.

  His PA had been hassling him to go on a blind date with a friend of hers. Maybe he should take her up on the offer.

  ‘Well,’ Ella said, and her tongue peeked out to lick her lips. Instantly she had his full attention. ‘It’s good that you kept your eyes on the camera. But you were a little intense. You need to give the viewer a break.’

  ‘Intense, hey?’ he asked, holding her gaze...intensely, he supposed.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she said, and she gazed intensely right back.

  It started as a quasi-staring competition, an almost flirtatious game, as they waited for who would blink first. But soon, it wasn’t faux emerald eyes he was seeing but a memory of eyes that were big, cute, with pale blonde lashes—and brown. Deepest brown.

  Eyes that had watched him, gazed at him—needed him.

  Eyes that had scared him then, scared him with an emotion he’d recognised but knew he couldn’t handle.

  Eyes that had added weight to shoulders already heavy. That had tightened the invisible shackles at his wrists.

  Eyes he’d had to walk away from.

  A memory of eyes that now filled him with guilt.

  Now it was easy to look away—to look anywhere but at Ella.

  He stood up, the urge to move undeniable.

  He hated this office; it was suffocating. He should go for a walk. Clear his head.

  ‘Jake?’

  He walked towards the door. ‘Thanks for the demonstration, Ella. I’m suitably convinced. Talk to Kerry at the front desk on your way out to book some time in my diary.’

  It would be smarter to do what he’d originally intended. To tell Ella her services were unnecessary and walk away. Again.

  But he couldn’t do it.

  What was he doing? What did he want to achieve?

  ‘That’s great,’ she said, her voice rich with confusion. ‘But don’t you want me to go through my programme with you, so you know what to expect?’

  No, not a walk. He’d go work from home. There he’d have enough space to think, to process what the hell he was doing here, with this campaign and with Ella.

  Ella had spoken again, but he wasn’t paying attention. So he just nodded. ‘Send anything to Kerry. She can answer your questions.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, sliding the camera back into its bag and tucking her notepad into her handbag. She crossed the room in easy, confident strides—she was fully in Ella-the-professional mode. Which was good. This version he could deal with. This version didn’t remind him of a girl in a school uniform stained with tears.

  ‘And I don’t wear suits,’ he said, suddenly.

  ‘But—’

  ‘No suits, or no programme.’

  Stiffly, she nodded.

  ‘Thanks for your time,’ she said at the doorway. ‘I’m really looking forward to working with you.’

  Her words were mechanical.

  His mind already a million miles away, he might have mumbled some form of goodbye.

  And then he shut the door behind her as she left.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FIRST thing Monday morning Jake stood beside the glass doors of a very exclusive Sydney salon, his shoulders propped against the stone walls of the building, both his arms and feet crossed. Jake knew the salon was exclusive as it was quite literally printed beneath the salon name above the door—personally, he felt this might bring its exclusivity somewhat into question—and his arms were crossed as it was cold.

  And also, because he wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here. For the zillionth time he had to ask himself exactly why he was doing this. Sure, Ella had convinced him he might need a little help with his image. But that help certainly hadn’t needed to come from Eleanor Cartwright.

  He was far from au fait with the image consultancy business, but he was pretty sure Ella didn’t have a monopoly of the Sydney market.

  Yet here he was. He’d made his bed, and now he’d have to lie in it.

  So, right now he was considering the upcoming ‘Jake Donner Rebranding Programme’—the name alone was enough to make him shudder—a little like his yearly dental check-up.

  Necessary, but certainly an experience to be endured rather than enjoyed.

  As he waited for Ella he observed the steady wave of commuters sweeping up Martin Place before him. Like lemmings, they moved in unison: their heads down and stride brisk. Each was barely indistinguishable from the other in their uniforms of starched shirts, dry-clean-only jackets and shiny shoes. Only the occasional loitering tourist bobbed up amongst the ocean of suits and ties to snap photos of the towering skyscrapers—oblivious to the surrounding ebb and flow of corporate Sydney.

  Jake’s gaze was caught by a flash of bright red amongst the crowd, and moments later Ella emerged, the colour of her scarf—neatly tucked into a long cream-coloured coat—a lonely spl
ash of vibrancy in the grey and wintry landscape.

  She walked towards him with an efficiently sexy stride. Like everyone in Sydney, she walked fast, but she managed to incorporate a gentle sway to her hips that caught his attention—and held it.

  Did she have any idea how good she looked when she walked?

  A second later he realised the obvious—yes, of course she did. Everything about Ella was carefully manufactured to convey and achieve exactly the image she wanted. She’d based her whole career on it.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, ultra politely, as she came to a stop in front of him.

  He nodded, and his arms remained crossed. ‘Morning,’ he managed, sounding about as apathetic as he felt.

  She didn’t even blink. ‘You’ll just adore Andres,’ she said, ignoring his lack of enthusiasm, and the relative likelihood that he was the type of guy to ‘adore’ anyone—particularly hair stylists. ‘What he can’t do with a pair of scissors isn’t worth knowing.’

  He remained silent.

  ‘You know,’ she said, stepping a little closer and looking him dead in the eye, ‘this isn’t Chinese water torture. It’s a haircut. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m not worried about the haircut,’ he said.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I don’t like being told what to do, that’s all.’

  ‘I know that,’ she said, then added quickly, ‘Cynthia was very detailed in her background information.’

  Ah. So she wasn’t about to admit it was because she knew him so well having spent nearly every day with him for four years, then.

  ‘I trust Andres with all my male clients,’ Ella continued. ‘He’ll have a chat with you, find out what you like, and away you go.’

  ‘You don’t have my new haircut all picked out?’ he asked, surprised.

  She shook her head. ‘He’s the hair stylist, not me. He knows the overall look I’m after, and I trust him not to stick a bowl on your head and just trim around the edges.’

  Despite himself, he hid a grin.

  They headed into the salon, where Ella was greeted with a flurry of welcomes from a small army of people—many with different variations of slightly odd hair. Multicoloured, spiked bits and so on. Fortunately, Andres’ haircut was more sedate, and so Jake let himself be led to a mirror, and then spent five minutes discussing his hair. Which added five minutes to the entire period of time he’d spent considering his hair, in his life.