Boot Camp Bride
wondering - do I take floors in to scrub. You’ve got me all wrong, mate.’ She sent him a scathing look. Wasn’t it plain that she’d come dressed to party, not to hew coal - or man the cloakroom? Didn’t she have aspiring journalist written all over her? Clearly not! She removed the offending label, screwed it up, tetchily. ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’
    ‘I was going to ask if you would -’
    ‘Would what?’ In that second, everything slotted into place and she had his backstory all figured out.
    Of course.
    He worked for the gallery in some vague capacity because the owner was a chum from boarding school. He was probably called Binky or something else equally ludicrous and had fagged for the gallery owner at Eton/Harrow/Winchester. Delete as appropriate. His definition of a hard day’s work would be directing men in brown overalls to move the display boards a few more centimetres to the left. Sweetie. And - on a really exacting day, he probably ensured that the author/artist didn’t run out of pens during book signings/exhibitions. However, with the natural authority of his class, he was past master at swanning around looking busy, taking long lunches and delegating jobs to people like her.
    Or, at least, the person he thought her to be.
    She’d met his type before and avoided them at all costs. Dull, boring, predictable and up their own arses. She gave him a look that said: prepare to be disappointed, and followed it up with a curt:
    ‘Forget it. I have plans for tonight. And they don’t include stacking chairs, sweeping floors or any other menial tasks you can dream up. I’m not spending another minute in this gallery.’ She encompassed the room with a dramatic sweep of her arm. ‘Places to go; people to see. Champagne to drink, it’s almost Christmas Eve, after all.’
    ‘So you’re not impressed by the exhibition of photographs?’
    ‘I might have been impressed if I’d had a chance to look at them. Properly, that is.’ She struggled to keep the aggrieved note out of her voice. Under normal circumstances, she’d have loved to look round the exhibition and discuss the photographs, sip champagne and go clubbing with the other interns. But thanks to Vanessa that had all gone down the toilet, along with any dreams she nurtured of schmoozing her way to an introduction to someone influential.
    ‘So why don’t you look round now?’ he asked reasonably, summoning a passing waiter and taking two glasses off his tray. But the moment had passed and Charlee wanted to get away from him and out of there. Hang with her friends in a bar and have a bitching session about Vanessa and Sally over several glasses of bone-dry, white wine.
    ‘Look,’ she glanced towards the cloakroom where Poppy was making ‘get a move on’ signs and pointing at her watch. ‘I don’t want to be rude, but …’
    ‘That’s not the impression I get, Chelsea,’ he said smoothly, as he replaced her cocktail with a fresh one. ‘I think you enjoy being rude. You’re a bit of a rebel, aren’t you? A rebel without a clue.’
    ‘Now, hang on a minute. Mate.’ Putting an emphasis on the word, she attempted to reduce him to the level of an ordinary Joe. But even as she sprang to her own defence, a nagging voice reminded her that it wasn’t the first time this particular charge had been laid at her door.
    ‘Hey, don’t get me wrong,’ he held up his hands as if to protect himself from her wrath. ‘I like rebels.’ He grinned, a boyish, charming grin. No doubt the one used to melt implacable female hearts and weaken their resistance. ‘Even rebels who aren’t quite sure what they’re rebelling against.’
    ‘Oh, I know exactly what I’m rebelling against, thank you very much.’ Charlee could feel her veneer of sophistication slipping and knew that soon she’d say something she regretted. Words that couldn’t be called back.
    ‘And what might that be?’
    Over the course of the evening, the list of grievances had
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