Free The Mini Break by Jane Costello Page A

crimson-faced, at the food I’ve firebombed over the pristine carpet. I then become
hyper-aware that the tapping of keyboards has ceased and dozens of eyes are now peering over their laptops at the source of the commotion.
    ‘Let me help,’ a male voice says, its owner grabbing my plate and piling debris back onto it.
    When he’s finished, he reaches for a new plate and hands it to me. ‘You may have to start again.’
    I open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out.
    His features are more sexy than classically handsome, with midnight blue eyes and shamelessly full lips: when he smiles, they produce a kind of half-smirk, an unsettling look that gives the
clear impression that he’s probably slept with far more women than is good for anyone.
    I know, simply know, that by the time I’ve returned to my seat, Meredith will have spotted him, given him the once-over, and be working out how she can chat him up: although I doubt even
she’d cheat on Nathan in current circumstances, she’s not let the small matter of pregnancy stop a bit of harmless flirting. And he’s exactly her type: big, broad, slightly
unshaven and, in her demented head, the sort of bloke you
just know
will be a fantastic shag – a quote I’ve heard more times than I can tell you over the years.
    ‘That’ll teach us both to look where we’re going,’ he adds, reaching to grab some napkins. It’s only then that I realise my Buck’s Fizz is all over his shirt
too. He begins mopping it up, before handing a napkin to me.
    ‘Us
both
?’ I ask, wiping my T-shirt. ‘I thought I was, to be honest.’ I say this politely, sweetly almost. But I’ve taken enough management-course
assertiveness modules to know that it must be said.
    He pauses and looks at me, smirking again, which really gets up my nose. ‘Well, let’s not worry about it. Just one of those things.’
    I go to reply, but his expression stops me in my tracks. It strikes me that he probably thinks I did this on purpose, because I fancy him, like Meg Ryan in a 1990s romcom. I suddenly want to get
out of there. ‘I’d better go. Thanks for the napkin,’ I add, to show there are no hard feelings, except as I wave said napkin in front of his nose, I manage to drop it.
    So I bend over to pick it up, at which point the two pots of jam in my pockets plop onto the floor, next to a smattering of chocolate muffin. He picks them up and adds them to my plate with
another hint of a smile.
    There is an awkward silence and, as ever (despite the obviously useless assertiveness modules), I am engulfed by the hideous need to fill it. ‘I collect jam jars,’ I announce, as if
such a hobby would be any less embarrassing than having the appetite of a ravenous water buffalo.
    He blinks, clearly unable to think of a reply to that one. ‘Right. Well. Have a nice flight.’
    I nod and force a smile, then head back to the girls, thanking the Lord that I never have to see him again.

Chapter 4
    He’s on the flight. Of course he is. I’m rifling through my complimentary bag of up-market toiletries when I register someone walking past and realise it’s
him. He’s removed his shirt and is down to a grey marl T-shirt. I take a deep breath and pray that he doesn’t sit next to me.
    He pauses, surveying the seats as he glances at his ticket, before sailing past to sit two seats in front. I exhale with genuine relief.
    Nic and Meredith are together in two seats by the window, while I’m in the middle, adjacent. It matters not that we’re separated by an aisle – in this utopia of aviation
nothing
matters.
    Meredith leans over to me, wide-eyed. ‘There’s that guy!’ she hisses.
    ‘Hmm?’ I say vaguely, as if I hadn’t noticed.
    ‘The GUY! The one you threw your drink over.’ Meredith jabs her finger at him as if providing driving directions to a half-blind simpleton, and Nicola, torn between amusement and
feeling my pain, nudges her and tells her to shush.
    Meredith lowers her voice –