Free Our Little Secret by Jenna Ellis

. .
    I didn’t mention Scott once. I didn’t
think
about Scott once.
    He cocks his head to one side, staring at me through narrowed eyes.
    I really dreamt about him giving me head. Oh my God.
I can barely bring myself to look at him. I’m awash with pheromones and shame. This is altogether different from when I had an Edward-named fantasy in the shower. This was real – involving the real Edward. The real him standing here now.
    ‘So, you remember that you agreed to come into town later?’ he says.
    I nod again, remembering now with a sickening jolt that he told me about his friend’s art gallery opening this evening. In Manhattan. Proper central New York. Like I’ve only ever seen in the movies. How he invited me to join him, and I said I would, like it was no big deal. But, in the cold light of day, there’s a million reasons why I don’t want to – can’t possibly actually go.
    His wife, for a start.
    He looks me up and down now. I don’t want to speak. I know my breath must stink, but he’s waiting for an answer.
    ‘I said, didn’t I . . . but I’m not sure . . . I mean—’ I begin, flustered. ‘I don’t think I can. I’m not . . .’
    ‘Do you have anything to wear?’
    I pull a face, thinking of the black dress I wore to the interview, which I only flung in my case at the last minute just in case. And how Tiff told me that I was being ridiculous, and that I was staff and wouldn’t be going anywhere posh.
    He stares at me. He’s obviously thinking what I’m thinking: that any cheap black dress that I’ve brought from England isn’t going to cut it in Manhattan.
    ‘I’m not sure if it’ll be OK, though,’ I say, lamely. Why are we having this conversation about my wardrobe? ‘And I didn’t bring the right shoes. I think maybe it’s better if I don’t—’
    ‘That’s no problem. How big are your feet?’ He smiles and stares down at my bare feet. If feels like a funny question for him to have asked. I screw up my nose and follow his gaze, wiggling my toes.
    ‘A thirty-eight,’ I tell him.
    He looks back up into my eyes, a smile in his. ‘I really have no idea how your English sizes work. What dress size are you?’ he asks. He’s businesslike as he taps his lips, thinking. His soft lips. The lips I’ve already kissed like I wanted to devour him whole.
    ‘A . . .’ I croak. I clear my voice and shake my head, ineffectually preening my hair. ‘A ten, I guess,’ I try again.
    ‘Turn around,’ he says, pushing my shoulder gently. ‘I know what to get, if I can actually get a sense of your proportions. But you wear such hideous baggy clothes, I have no idea of your actual shape.’
    He’s teasing me, I know, but it’s still a shock that he’s so rude. Are my clothes hideous? I thought they were cool.
    ‘Can I see your back?’ he asks.
    ‘My back?’ My mouth has gone dry.
    ‘Uh-huh.’ He says it so matter-of-factly, and then lifts the hem of my pyjama top, and I pull it up a little more, crossing my hands over my chest. I try and look over my shoulder. ‘I know about proportions from life drawing. Always start with the back.’
    He’s staring at my waist, like he really is sizing me up to do a drawing or painting. But I guess that’s what he does. Did. Before he made squillions out of other artists.
    ‘I see,’ he says, as if he’s just had some sort of big revelation. ‘Don’t you have lovely skin.’
    He says it as a statement, then runs his finger along the curve of my back, as if he’s painting it. Immediately my skin erupts into goosebumps. Fully awake now, my blood pounding, I look ahead in alarm and catch him staring at me in the mirror on the opposite wardrobe door. As my eyes meet his in the mirror, I feel a spark. Like there’s palpable electricity fizzing between us. As if, in that one look, he’s been able to tell every second of my dream and can see through me completely.
    My pyjama top has ridden up and he must be able to see the bottom of my