Free City Girl in Training by Liz Fielding Page B

Touched possessively.
    I felt heat spreading through my body in a manner that was shockingly different from the effect caused by my weekly aerobics class. It was a languorous heat. Slow and pleasurable, filling my breasts, stealing through my abdomen…
    One new experience every day.
    I knew what I’d choose.
    â€˜So,’ I said abruptly, sitting bolt upright, shocked by the direction my mind had taken. As for the feelings… ‘What are you planning to film next?’ I asked briskly. ‘The fascinating world of the earthworm in a suburban garden? The private life of a rattler in the Arizona desert?’ He said nothing, as if he knew exactly what I was doing. ‘The nesting habits of the crested newt,’ I pressed, a little desperately, determined to get my mind focussed on something that didn’t make me want to rip my clothes off.
    He took his time about answering, as if his mind were somewhere else. ‘Nesting, yes. Newts, no. We’re negotiating with one of the networks to film the life cycle of the leatherback turtle,’ he said finally, sitting up, letting go of whatever had been holding his thoughts. He spooned sugar into his coffee, stirring it with a lot more concentration than it warranted. ‘The cheetah film should help. If Jay ever edits it to his satisfaction.’
    â€˜He’s a film editor?’
    â€˜A brilliant film editor. He takes my films and turns them into art.’
    â€˜Well, great.’ I should have sounded more enthusiastic, I realised. ‘I mean that’s good, isn’t it?’
    â€˜The downside of perfectionism is that he’s never satisfied. If I don’t stand behind him and push, the final cut won’t be delivered on time. So that’s my afternoon taken care of. And probably most of the evening.’
    If I believed that Jay had an entirely different reason for wanting Cal close at hand, I kept it to myself. It was, I reminded myself, absolutely none of my business. Besides, I was sure he could work that out for himself. He didn’t need any help from me.
    The little heart-leap of pleasure I felt at his fairly obvious lack of reciprocal enthusiasm was just plain foolishness.
    Cal didn’t need anything from me.
    He was just a friend. He wasn’t wafting pheromones in my direction, at least not intentionally, and my reaction to him had nothing to do with sex.
    I was simply drawn by his air of sophistication and worldliness. His charm. Those eyes that never seemed to leave my face. The pure novelty of having a man actually giving me his undivided attention.
    Heady stuff when I’d spent all my teenage years and my early twenties competing for notice with a long string of broken-down transportation, culminating in Don’s drooling obsession with an eighty-year-old car.
    â€˜We’d better not waste time,’ I said as breakfast—the old-fashioned kind involving eggs, bacon, sausages and huge black field mushrooms—arrived to distract me. ‘You were told not to be late.’ And I stared at my plate, wondering how on earth I was going to eat when my appetite had suddenly deserted me.
    I jumped as he touched the back of my hand to attract my attention and, startled out of my reverie, I looked up. For a moment he said nothing. Just left his hand on mine, his touch sparking through me like an electric current.
    Then he said, ‘Will you pass the salt, please?’
    Had he asked before and, lost in my own thoughts, I hadn’t heard him?
    â€˜Too much salt is bad for you,’ I said, not moving, not wanting to lose the warmth of his hand against mine.
    He looked at the artery-hardening food on his plate and then back to me. ‘How much worse can it get?’ he asked, his sudden laughter taking me by surprise and breaking the spell. But it was infectious and I found myself grinning back.
    â€˜You get the salt,’ I said, ‘but you have to promise to do something healthy