Page 6 of Hooked On The One That Got Away (Miss Lovelock’s Agency for Broken Hearts #3)

Chapter Six

Willow was secretly pleased to see that the water company offices were in the sterile business park on the edge of town. Charlie had hated the business park.

‘I’d rather be lobotomised,’ he’d told Willow. ‘Mind you, working in that place would pretty quickly have the same effect.’

Charlie’s last job before he left was at a small local firm of lawyers.

He’d found it all a bit stifling and had been talking about going out on his own.

He especially wanted to work with start-ups and non-profits who wanted to make the world a better place.

‘Us idealists need to stick together,’ he’d said.

Another lie, obviously. Charlie had done a good job of pretending to be a good guy. But now the mask was off.

Outside the doors of the water company was a security guard. Given what she’d just learned, Willow wasn’t surprised.

‘I’m here to see Charlie McKay,’ she told the guard.

‘I’ll need to see confirmation of your appointment,’ the woman said.

Wow. That seemed over the top. But Willow could lie, too, if she had to.

‘We made it over the phone just now.’ And she could bluff, too. ‘Call him and check.’

Her bluff was called. The guard pulled out her phone. The conversation was brief, and though Willow tried very hard, she couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end.

‘Sign in at reception and get your security pass,’ said the guard. ‘Mr McKay will meet you there.’

Willow’s heart gave a traitorous leap. Stop it, she scolded. This is the real Charlie, not the one you thought you knew. This is Bad Charlie.

She’d just hung her security lanyard around her neck when Bad Charlie walked out of the lift.

This time, her whole body responded. Charlie was in a suit, the perfectly tailored kind that enhances a man’s physique instead of hanging like a sack.

His shoulders were broad and his legs muscular.

His hair was tamed and groomed, and his jawline set firm.

He looked like a goddamn male model. Whereas Willow had on her usual sweatshirt and jeans combo.

She looked like a baggy, shabby frump. Oh well, too late now.

‘Willow. What brings you here?’

Charlie’s tone was coolly professional, but Willow detected a hint of wariness. And he should be afraid. He should be very, very afraid.

‘I want to talk to you,’ she said.

‘Okay …’ Charlie did something on his phone. ‘Meeting rooms are full. Want to go to the cafeteria? I’ll buy you a sandwich?’

What was that phrase about supping with the devil?

‘Sure,’ she said.

The cafeteria wasn’t the old-school kind Willow had envisaged, with grumpy servers dumping unidentifiable fried items on your plate.

This looked like an upmarket Pret a Manger.

Being after midday, the place was filled with various executive-looking types engaged in earnest conversation.

Probably convincing each other that human waste was organic therefore fine to dump in the river, Willow decided, glaring at them.

‘Um, chicken or ham?’ Charlie asked. ‘Or there’s egg salad or rather soggy tomato?’

You should know what I’d choose , was Willow’s first thought. Or have you forgotten everything about me already?

She must have scowled because Charlie looked startled.

‘I just wanted to check whether you’ve – you know – become vegetarian or vegan or something,’ he said. ‘Although I think the tomato sandwiches are still made with butter …’

‘Chicken,’ said Willow, pointedly. ‘And a peach kombucha.’

It was the most expensive drink on the menu, Willow had noted. If Charlie was paying, then she’d make him do it through the nose.

‘Can’t handle kombucha,’ said Charlie. ‘The floaty bits look like someone gobbed in it.’

Willow only just managed to turn her snort of laughter into a cough. Seemed like the old Charlie wasn’t entirely gone. But that could not sway her. She had to stand firm. She might not actually drink the peach kombucha, though. Those floaty bits did look a lot like a spit ball.

Charlie carried their tray to a seat by the windows.

The view was of the green belt land that bordered the industrial park.

It was made up mainly of untamed meadow and woodland, and Willow recalled that there’d been passionate protests about how far the business park should encroach upon it.

She also recalled that Charlie had encouraged her to sign the petition that was successful in limiting the business park development to its current size. How ironic.

‘Um …’ Charlie began. ‘I don’t have much time, I’m afraid. Meeting in twenty minutes. What – er – what did you want to talk about?’

There was a note of hope in his voice that caught Willow off guard.

She realised Charlie thought there might be a chance she’d changed her mind about talking to him about – them.

And for a moment, Willow’s heart pleaded with her to do just that.

To get it all out in the open so they could find a way through all the hurt and pain and – what? Make new start?

Impossible, Willow reminded herself. Her life with the old Charlie had been a lie. There was no going back to it.

‘Sewage,’ Willow told him, bluntly. ‘In the river.’

Charlie glanced anxiously around. ‘Ah …’ he said. ‘That.’

‘You know ?’ Willow’s rage came flooding back.

‘Shhh!’ Charlie gestured urgently at her to keep her voice down.

It was true, people were staring. And Willow was in enemy territory now, so she’d better play it cool.

‘You know your company is dumping shit in the waterways?’ she repeated, more quietly.

‘We’ve had issues with process,’ said Charlie.

‘Process?’ said Willow, sceptically. ‘Last time I checked, “process” couldn’t operate machinery. You mean your people , don’t you?’

‘Sometimes poor decisions are made,’ Charlie said.

Willow noted the typical PR-speak use of the passive. He really had gone to the dark side.

‘It’s been going on for years , Charlie,’ Willow insisted. ‘That’s a leadership problem, not a problem with a few rogue staff.’

Charlie stared at her. Willow observed that his face had got leaner over the past year.

When they’d met six years ago, Charlie still had a slight boyish plumpness to him.

In fact, it was the dimple in his cheek when he smiled that had first made Willow’s heart do flip-flops and her stomach flutter.

That dimple belonged to the old Charlie.

The Charlie in front of her now had well-defined cheekbones and a strong jawline.

Willow reluctantly had to admit that new bad Charlie was ridiculously handsome.

‘We’re dealing with it,’ he said, shortly. ‘ I’m dealing with it.’

‘How?’ Willow demanded.

‘Willow.’ Charlie bent forwards across the table, his voice low and urgent. ‘I shouldn’t even have told you this much. I did because I trust you. Now can you please trust me . Don’t take this any further. I’m dealing with it, I promise.’

Amazing how powerful words are, thought Willow. That little zap of pleasure when Charlie said he trusted her. And then the stab of pain when he said the words, ‘I promise’. Because Charlie had made promises to her before, hadn’t he–?

Willow stood up. The chicken sandwich remained uneaten on the plate.

‘I’m not sure you realise how important this is to me, Charlie,’ she said. ‘Swimming in the river saved me from a very dark place, and the thought of having to stop because your firm wants to put its reputation before our safety makes me furious .’

She took a breath. ‘I can’t let this go, and you don’t have the right to ask me to. Goodbye, Charlie. I won’t bother you again.’

He gazed at her, face taut with either anger or alarm. But he didn’t try to stop her. Willow walked away, and once she was down in the lobby, ripped off her security lanyard and dumped it on the desk beside the puzzled receptionist.

Next time she came back here, Willow would be armed with irrefutable proof. And there was nothing Charlie could do about it.