Page 2 of Surprise Me Tonight (Claimed on Sight #1)

Stella

I pick up my pace when the Steam & Bloom sign comes into view, already craving the caffeine hit. I didn’t sleep well last night. Again.

I’m almost at the door when it swings inward and reveals a man I haven’t seen in the village before.

He’s somewhere around mid-thirties, I reckon.

All tense shoulders and scruff, tattoos winding down both arms…

and, all right, a bit of a fitty. Cargo shorts and a T-shirt in this weather just underline the vibe.

He does what he wants and expects the world to work around him.

The man holding the door steps back letting Janet Morris breeze past in a waft of expensive perfume.

Of course she’s here. When she’s not working—which mostly involves leaning on a cross-trainer while men twice her age try to impress her—she’s usually floating between coffee shops and the pub.

Her husband runs some big London advertising firm and is hardly around.

“Cheers,” Janet says, and the man gives her a quick grin.

Then it’s my turn. Or so I think .

I step forward just as he strides out, clipping my shoulder on the way.

“Sorry,” he mutters, moving as if he’s late for something important. He disappears down the footpath without so much as a glance at me.

“Charming,” I mutter under my breath, stepping inside before the door swings shut in my face.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Men like that don’t usually notice women who live in cardigans and jeans, hair doing whatever it wants, make-up bag gathering dust in the bathroom drawer.

Early forties, divorced, more soft edges than sharp angles.

I’m not the sort you notice… it’s easy enough to brush past without even realising I’m there.

The café is warm and full, as usual. Mugs clinking, the hiss of steam from the machine, quiet chatter weaving through the space. It smells of strong coffee and something sweet. Familiar. I’ve lived in Little Hadlow fifteen years. This café’s been here for most of them. A small thing, but steady.

I glance out the window just in time to catch the tattooed man crossing the street.

His shoulders are broad, his walk easy. Confident. Not cocky, just... certain.

“Caught your eye too, did he?” Francesca’s voice comes from just behind me, low and amused.

I jump. She slides into the seat across from me with two cappuccinos in hand, pushing one towards me. Having a best friend who runs the village coffee shop, does come with perks.

Francesca has got a knowing smile and a glint in her eye that says she’s clocked more than just my sulking over the lack of a door-hold .

“Caught my shoulder, more like,” I say, taking the coffee. “Didn’t even look at me.”

“Well, he was busy holding the door for Miss Yoga Pants and eyelash extensions. Can’t multitask, poor love.” Francesca winks.

I snort. “Wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t nearly knocked me over on the way out.”

She leans in, voice dipping. “Still. Bit of a dish, don’t you think?”

I glance out again. He’s nearly out of sight now. “I suppose. If you like that whole rugged, tattooed, doesn’t-give-a-damn look.”

“I do like that look,” she says, deadpan. “But I also like men who know how to use a washing machine and don’t sulk when you say no to sex.”

That gets a proper laugh out of me.

We both sip our coffees, letting the conversation stretch for a few seconds.

“Not that he’d go for us,” she adds casually.

“God, no,” I say, a little too fast. “Women like us only get that sort of attention in films. Or if we’re loaded. Or famous. Or both.”

“Or if the lad’s got some sort of older-woman fantasy and hasn’t worked it out in therapy yet.”

“Charming,” I say with a wry smile.

But underneath the banter, there's a truth that sits uncomfortably in my chest.

My ex-husband made it clear for years that I wasn’t desirable.

Not in so many words, but in the way he looked through me.

The way his eyes drifted to other women when we were out together.

The way he always seemed irritated when I suggested we spend time, just the two of us.

God forbid I wanted intimacy. Jeremy had affairs, multiple, and I stayed…

for our daughter. And when Vicky left for uni, and I finally left too, he still tried to make me feel like I was the one losing out.

“Come on,” Francesca says, nudging my arm gently. “Don’t go into that place.”

I blink. “Sorry.”

She doesn’t press. She never does. That’s part of why we get on. She’ll banter and tease and pass me coffee, but she won’t drag me into anything I’m not ready to say out loud.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” I say after a moment. “But sometimes I wonder if Jeremy was right. That there’s no one out there for me now. That I’ve missed the boat and what’s left is a sea of bald men looking for a cleaner who’ll make them shepherd’s pie and let them watch Top Gear reruns.”

Francesca lifts her cup. “To bald men with remote controls.”

I raise mine. “And to imagination. The only place blokes with tattoos and good arms ever hold the door open for women like us.”

We clink cups, quietly amused. I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach all the way.

It’s not that I believe Jeremy anymore. Not really. But his voice still echoes, now and then. Especially in moments like this.

It’s just gone half ten and I’m sat at the kitchen table with my third cup of tea and the assignment I’ve read so many times I’m starting to resent it.

Bullet points, structure, tone, follow-up strategy.

I know it’s not a masterpiece, but it’s decent.

Thorough. Professional. Or at least it would be, if I could stop second-guessing every word.

When I decided to take some courses to get my skills up to scratch, I didn’t think it would be this frustrating.

I was always good in school but that was over twenty years ago.

The phone rings, buzzing across the table like it’s got urgent gossip to share.

I pick up. “Morning.”

“You’re going to love this,” Francesca says, practically fizzing.

“I doubt it,” I mutter, eyeing the stack of course notes like they’ve personally offended me.

“Remember that tattooed bloke from the other day? Opened the door for Little Miss Flawless, shoulder-barged you on the way out?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well,” she says, drawing it out like it’s the village’s hottest scandal, “his name’s Callum Wright. And he’s looking for a PA.”

There’s a pause. I blink. “Right. And this is relevant to me because…? ”

“Because,” she says, with the exact tone of someone talking to a slow child, “you’re doing that Executive Assistant course. The one you’ve practically memorised.”

“I haven’t finished it.”

“You’re close. And you’ve got the experience. You did it for, what, ten years before you married Jeremy?”

“Twelve.”

“There you go.”

“I’m not a PA, Fran. I’m an Executive Assistant. There’s a difference.”

“Tell it to his inbox,” she says breezily. “Anyway, he came in this morning asking if there’s a village noticeboard. Apparently, he’s struggling to find anyone who wants to work locally.”

I frown. “Struggling?”

“Yep. Says no one wants to come to Little Hadlow. Can’t imagine why, what with the thrilling nightlife and regular bin collection. He works from home and wants someone nearby who can work from his house but apparently nobody wants to commute to us. Sounds like he’s getting desperate.”

I stare at the kettle, suddenly feeling warmer than the tea I haven’t touched. “He works from home?”

“That’s what he said.”

“And he’s putting an ad in the café window?”

“Only if he can’t find someone by the end of the week. Told him I’d let him know if I thought of anyone.”

“You did not suggest me.”

“Well... I said I knew someone who might fit, if she stopped being so bloody stubborn. So he gave me his current PAs email to pass on.”

“Fran. ”

“Don’t Fran me.”

“I’m not throwing my name in for some bloke I don’t know who thinks he can find a PA on a coffee shop noticeboard.”

“Course not,” she says, chipper. “You’re an Executive Assistant.”

I can practically hear her smirking.

“Look, I’m just saying, if you want something with flexibility, nearby, and actually paid , you could do worse. And I bet you two would wind each other right up.”

“I don’t know…” The whole point of the course was to get a job.

I’d braced myself for a London commute. It never even crossed my mind there would be an Executive Assistant job going in Little Hadlow.

But if I’m not commuting, I’ll save on transport, and that should more than cover the pay gap between a PA and an EA. Famous last words.

“Stella, this would be perfect for you. And if he turns out to be not just Mr Wright but also Mr Right, ” Francesca laughs, “you owe me dinner.”

"Fran!" I scold her again before promising to think about it… the job not about him being Mr Right. I hang up before she can push the joke any further.

I stare at the phone, then back at my notes. It’s ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous.

Still, the idea plants itself. Quietly. Uninvited.

I’m not finished with the course. I haven’t even submitted my final assessment yet. And I haven’t worked in eighteen years. Not properly. Not in an office. Not under someone who might actually expect things from me that aren’t just school run logistics and dinner on the table by six .

But.

If I was working again, I could finally stop depending on Jeremy’s money.

The thought alone is enough to make my stomach twist. Every month, the spousal maintenance shows up in my account like a silent reminder that I’m still tethered to a man who made me feel invisible.

A man who told me, more than once, that I’d be lost without him.

That I wouldn’t survive a month on my own.

And yes, maybe that was true at first. When Vicky left and the silence in the house felt like it might swallow me whole. Back then I was terrified and rusty, unsure I even remembered how to be anything other than a wife and mother.

But I’m not that woman anymore. Not entirely.

I’ve done the work. I’ve studied. I’ve started rebuilding. Bit by bit.

And if this Callum Wright is hiring, and no one else in the village wants the job, then maybe... maybe it wouldn’t hurt to at least to ask. To find out what he needs. To see if I can fit that shape again.

I tell myself it’s just curiosity. That it’s nothing more than a passing thought. That I’m still in control.

I reach for my phone again. I don’t text Francesca. Not yet. But I hold it in my hand a while, just in case.

Just in case I decide to say yes.