The Fling

From USA TODAY bestselling author Stefanie London comes the second book in her scorching-hot miniseries Close Quarters! Drew Richardson discovers she’s been having a racy affair with the best man at her sister’s wedding... Will their irresistible chemistry turn into something deeper?

I swore off romance after my ex broke my heart, so I’m not thrilled to be back home performing maid-of-honor duties for my twin sister. Her bridesmaids want everything to be capital P Perfect, and the best man, Flynn Lewis, is a giant pain in the ass—if his emails are anything to go by. Thank God for the delicious distraction next door: the anonymous “Mr. Suit.”

My nameless neighbor is utterly gorgeous and oh-so-serious. After a racy night of passion at his place, the truth comes out. “Mr. Suit” and Flynn Lewis are one and the same. Flynn wants a woman who’s as serious as he is—someone who wants to stay in Melbourne. But I’m happiest heading off on another adventure. We might be complete opposites, but the chemistry between us is red-hot...as long as no one gets burned.

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

STEFANIE LONDON is the USA TODAY bestselling author of contemporary romances and romantic comedies.

After sneaking several English lit subjects into her “very practical” business degree, Stefanie worked in the corporate world. But it wasn’t long before she became bored of writing emails for executives and turned her attention to romance fiction. Stefanie’s books have been called “genuinely entertaining and memorable” by Booklist, and her writing praised as “elegant, descriptive and delectable” by RT Book Reviews.

Originally from Australia, she now lives in Toronto with her very own hero and is currently in the process of doing her best to travel the world. She frequently indulges in her passions for good coffee, lipstick, romance novels and anything zombie related. For more information on Stefanie and her books, check out her website at stefanie-london.com.

Also by Stefanie London

Melbourne After Dark

Unmasked

Hard Deal

Close Quarters

Faking It

The Fling

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Fling

Stefanie London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09926-4

THE FLING

© 2020 Stefanie Little

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To all the siblings, take care of one another

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-Two

CHAPTER TWENTY-Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-Four

CHAPTER TWENTY-Five

CHAPTER TWENTY-Six

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Drew

“WAIT, YOU’RE SERIOUS about having a rehearsal for the hen’s night?” I stare at my sister’s bridesmaids, each more tanned and manicured than the last. Annaleigh, Sherilee and...crap, what was the third one’s name again? I’ll call her Merrily in my head until I have a chance to ask my sister.

Not that there’s anything merry about her, mind you. She’s staring at me like I’m patient zero. Is it my fishnets? Maybe it’s the fact that I was a little heavy-handed with the eyeliner today and ended up looking less Brigitte Bardot and more stripper-at-the-end-of-a-long-shift.

“Yes. We’re very serious about having a rehearsal for the hen’s night.” Annaleigh exchanges a look with the other two, as though mentally questioning how my twin sister and I share DNA.

Thankfully, Presley isn’t here tonight.

I swear I’d intended to play nice. My twin and I might be chalk and cheese, as my mum always likes to say, but I love Presley. I really do...just not her taste in clothing, men, food, music, home decor or life interests.

Nor her taste in friends, either, it seems.

“This wedding is going to be perfect.” Sherilee tucks a strand of hair behind her ears, revealing a winking stone that’s so big it must be putting strain on her earlobe. It pales in comparison to the one on her finger, however. “Capital P Perfect. That means every event before the wedding will be perfect, too. The bridal shower, the kitchen tea, the dress fittings, the makeup and hair trials, the rehearsal dinner, the Jack and Jill party and the hen’s night.”

“The Jack and what?” My head is spinning.

“The Jack and Jill party.” Merrily sighs as if she thinks I’m a small, dumb animal. “It’s a combined hen’s and buck’s party.”

“In additional to the actual hen’s and buck’s party?”

“Yes,” all three of them say at once with identical, exasperated tones.

“And you’re organising it, along with the best man,” Annaleigh says. “I’ve passed on your email address, so you should hear from him soon. All the events have been divided up. You’ve got the Jack and Jill, and the presentation for the rehearsal dinner. I’ve got...”

Oh, boy. I’ve already tuned out the droning list of tasks that lie ahead of me.

I look longingly at my beer, which sits untouched, condensation gathering on the glass, next to three flutes of prosecco. I feel like being the first to reach for the booze will be seen as a sign of weakness, like flinching in a fight. But man, I could use a drink right now.

I picture my sister’s sweet face, with her silvery-blue eyes so similar to mine—sans stripper makeup, of course—and tell myself to get my shit together. Do it for Presley! I’m an adult and I deal with snotty people all the time at work. I’m a flight attendant, after all. I can totally manage this.

When Annaleigh pauses to take a breath, I put on my brightest smile. It doesn’t crack any of the icy facades in front of me. “How do you all know Presley?”

“We work together,” Merrily replies.

“Oh, right.” I nod. Finally, something I know. “At the Wentworth Department Store.”

“Head office,” Sherilee adds. “I’m in the communications team, Annaleigh works with Presley in training and Pauline is in recruitment.”

Pauline. I make a mental note to remember Merrily’s real name this time.

“Sounds fun,” I say benignly. There’s a beat of silence and I shift in my seat.

“Presley told us that you go by your middle name, right?” Annaleigh asks, as though she’s trying to keep the conversation from stalling completely. “We’re having T-shirts printed for the hen’s night. Would you prefer Melanie or Drew?”

“Drew.”

Melanie might be the name on my birth certificate and passport, but I’ve always been Drew to my family and friends. I got my middle name from my Uncle Andrew. It’s a weird quirk of our family. Presley is the same; her real first name is Anne, but no one calls her that.

“Why don’t you use your real name?” Pauline asks.

I shrug. “It’s kind of...basic.”

She frowns. “My sister’s name is Melanie.”

An awkward silence descends over the group, burrowing under my skin. But the moment Sherilee opens her mouth and begins to discuss the best type of napkin origami for rehearsal dinner table settings, I question my stance on silence.

An hour later, things have not improved. I’m learning that weddings are serious business, with Google spreadsheets and accountabilities and brainstorming sessions and rehearsals and dress rehearsals. I wouldn’t be shocked if one of them asked me to set a SMART goal for how I want the wedding to go.

And it’s not even my damn wedding!

Better live vicariously while you can, Little Miss Not-Marriage-Material.

I shake off my snarky inner voice and concentrate on my second beer. Not only did I cave and reach for my drink before any of them even glanced at their prosecco, but I’m currently entering the stage of the evening where my verbal filter clocks out.

And unfiltered Drew is not for the faint of heart.

“So, games for the hen’s night. We’re thinking something fun, like a quiz on how well we know Presley.” Pauline taps a Montblanc pen against her chin. “Maybe some wedding-related trivia.”

“And pass the parcel.” Annaleigh claps her hands together. “We could include fun wedding things, like a garter and a pen for signing the guest book.”

“Or condoms.” The comment slips out before I can check in with my brain. See? Unfiltered. “You know, for the...wedding night.”

Sherilee laughs awkwardly and moves her pen as if she’s writing it down, but I can see that no ink is being wasted on my suggestion.

“I saw this cute take on pin the tail on the donkey,” Pauline says. “But you had to pin the kiss marks on a picture of Ryan Gosling. Fun, right?”

This suggestion is met with a round of appreciative oohs. I went to a hen party once where we had to pin something on a poster of a hot, half-naked guy...and it wasn’t a kiss. But I get the impression that games involving photorealistic male appendages also wouldn’t make the cut for Presley’s capital P Perfect hen’s night.

Stop snarking. Now.

“What about a goodbye singleton treasure hunt?” I suggest. “A friend of mine did that last year and it was really fun.”

“Sounds interesting.” Annaleigh drums her nails against the tabletop. “How does it work?”

“It’s kind of like The Amazing Race but for all the things you would do when you were single. You get a point for each item—get a guy’s phone number, dance on a table, do a shot with a dirty name.”

“Actually, that sounds super fun.” Annaleigh looks at me, surprised.

Phew. Maybe I won’t disappoint Presley after all.

“We could have a scaling point system. The more difficult the item, the higher the point value. And we could have tie-breaker activities in case two people have the same amount of points.” Sherilee’s eyes widen. “I’ll make a spreadsheet.”

I decide it’s a good idea to end on a high note. I’ve provided one useful suggestion—which did get written down, thank you very much—so that means I can now make a graceful-ish exit. Well, as graceful as is possible after a couple of beers while wearing platforms.

“Ladies, as much as I am thoroughly enjoying myself right now, I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” I announce. “Can we wrap this up?”

“Sure.” Annaleigh looks as relieved as I feel. “Sherilee is our resident note taker, so she’ll send the minutes out. If you could review them and respond within twenty-four hours, that would be great.”

I nod, swallowing my growing desire to murder my sister. “Absolutely. I will definitely read every single word. Even the footnotes.”

At this, Sherilee perks up. “Usually nobody reads my footnotes.”

Sarcasm is a foreign language, I see. Lord help me. I down the remainder of my beer and rest the empty pint glass on the bar with a thunk. “Happy to be the first.”

“And the best man will email you tomorrow,” Annaleigh reminds me. “If you don’t hear from him, let me know.”

I climb down from my bar stool and bid them a good night. The bar’s clientele mirrors my sister’s friends—suits and pencil skirts, perfectly highlighted hair. Pearls, diamonds, Louboutins. Presley would fit right in. I decide to text her as I walk.

DREW: I love you more than anyone else on earth.

PRES: Wow. That bad, huh?

DREW: Where do you find these people?

PRES: They’re my friends, D. Be nice. I know they’re a little intense.

DREW: Ya think?

PRES: They mean well.

Debatable. I got some hella strong Regina George vibes tonight, but I vowed I would not let my personal shit interfere with my sister’s big day. That means no snarking at her friends.

DREW: How long til this is all over? ;)

PRES: Three weeks. And trust me, I want this done as much as you do.

Unlikely, but I’ll let her have it. I might look like the lovechild of Debbie Harry and Wednesday Addams, but inside I’m a big ball of mush when it comes to my sister. Nothing will get between us. Not even email minutes with footnotes.

PRES: And don’t do that thing where you shut everyone out before they have a chance to get to know you. You might make a friend!

Three hearts punctuate my sister’s text. If ever there was physical evidence of the difference between us, this is it. Shaking my head, I continue down Clarendon Street toward my temporary residence in South Melbourne. 21 Love Street is the most ridiculous name for an apartment building, even one as swanky as this. But I’m grateful to have the cushy place to stay until the wedding is over.

And truthfully, the people here do seem nice. It’s been so long since I lived in Melbourne that I don’t have many contacts in this city—and the one friend I do have is away and letting me crash in her apartment. My friends are scattered all over the world, a product of working as a flight attendant all my adult life. Do a stint in Dubai and another in Singapore and one more in London and you’ll end up with a globally fragmented social circle.

But that suits me fine. I make do wherever I go, and my colleagues are always up for some fun when they’re in town.

I enter the building, marvelling as I usually do at the foyer’s softly glowing chandelier that manages to somehow not be tacky. A couple of velvet chairs are dotted around and some pretty art hangs on the main wall.

Capital P Perfect!

I stifle a laugh and head to the elevators. The concierge desk is empty, with a sign stating they’re currently “on patrol.” That’s been happening a lot ever since they found out a crime ring was operating out of this building last week. Yeah, that happened. Doesn’t bother me, though. I enjoy a little excitement in my life.

I tap my foot, waiting while the elevator does its thing. But it’s taking forever. Five minutes pass. Then ten. The concierge still hasn’t returned to his post. Grumbling, I head toward the service stairwell and start making my way up.

CHAPTER TWO

Flynn

“FLYNN ANDREW LEWIS, what are you still doing here?”

I drag my eyes up from my screen to look at my assistant, Francis, standing in the doorway to my office—arms folded, lips pursed. She’s the only person who can get away with using my full name because she’s also the only assistant who’s lasted more than five minutes working for me.

Still, I won’t let her get too big for her boots.

“How do you do that?” I wave my pen in her direction.

“What?”

“Channel my mother so effectively.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you calling me old?”

The ironic thing is that if my mother were still alive, she would actually be younger than Francis by a good decade. And while I might be known as “that jerk in the navy suit” to most people who work in this industry, even I know not to call a woman old.

“I would say more...draconian.” This gets the result I predict—intensified lip pursing.

“It’s nine p.m.”

“I know how to tell the time.” I turn back to my screen, trying to make the numbers spin a different story. It’s futile, but still more productive than looking at my inbox—which resembles the aftermath of a toddler toy-flinging rampage.

“Flynn.” This time my name is softer.

I know she means business when she talks like that—because to everybody else in this company Francis is a stony-faced, rule-spouting gatekeeper. She’s all: you shall not pass. It’s why she’s so good at her job. But I know she’s actually a lovely woman with a heart of gold—a fact she prefers to keep hidden.

Generally, I prefer it when she keeps it hidden, too.

“You haven’t left this place before midnight in over a month. It’s not healthy.” She sighs. “I know you care about these trials. I do, too. Everybody does.”

My niece, Zoe, stares at me from a photo on the side of my desk. She’s like a laser burning into my skin, reminding me over and over. Pushing me. Driving me to stay one more hour. “Then we have to keep working.”

“If you don’t start taking care of yourself, I’m going to walk in here one day and find you dead on your desk from a heart attack.” When I don’t take my eyes off my screen, she claps. The sound is a bullet through the room.

“Did you just clap at me?” I gape. “You know I sign off on your bonus, right?”

She folds her arms. “Trust me, I don’t work solely for the money.”

“Then why am I paying you more than most people here?”

“Because you’re trying to convince me not to retire so you don’t have to churn through twenty more assistants before you find another one who will put up with you.”

Damn, she got me there. “I did not enjoy that.”

“Neither did they, I’m betting.” Her face is full of concern. “It’s one night. You won’t solve the world’s problems today. Go home, eat some crappy takeaway food and watch television like a normal person.”

I want to tell her that I don’t own a television, just to wind her up...but I feel like she might explode from frustration. And she’s right, I don’t want her to retire. Not yet.

“If you don’t leave now, I’m going to shred every document in the office and then set it all on fire.” She stares pointedly at me.

“You know our servers have a triple-redundancy that backs up to a secure off-site location, right?” I can’t keep my face straight and she shakes her head at me. “See, you’re doing it again. Better stop or I’ll start calling you Mum.”

“Get. Out. Of. Here. Right. Now.” She punctuates each word with a clap.

“All right, all right.” I shove my chair back and smooth my hands down the front of my suit pants. “No need for the aural abuse.”

Francis watches as I grab my trench coat and look longing at my laptop—my inbox exploded past two thousand emails earlier this afternoon and I could use a night of digital filing.

If only Mum could see you now.

My mother, who believed wholeheartedly that life was a party, would be appalled by my lack of social life.

Good.

Besides, I go to charity balls and cocktail parties on the regular—it’s part and parcel of being a CEO. Though I have to admit, even when I’m there in body, my mind is always on work. The picture of my niece continues to watch me from the desk and I make her a silent promise, as I do every day, that I will help her.

“Come on, out with you.” Francis herds me into the common area, which is mostly empty. I spy my head of IT bent over someone’s desk and the CFO talking on his phone. I have a great team—built from scratch with my own bare hands. I’ve met a lot of top dogs who surround themselves with sycophants, but I always promised myself I wouldn’t do that. I want people who are renowned in their fields. People who challenge me.

Maybe not as much as Francis challenges me, mind you.

On the way down on the elevator, my mind spins.

Go home, eat some crappy takeaway food and watch television like a normal person.

Is that what normal people do? I can’t remember the last time I did anything in my apartment that wasn’t changing my clothes, sleeping or taking a shower. It’s basically a hotel room at this point. I don’t eat there. I don’t entertain. The closest thing I get to free time is the hour I spend at the gym every morning running on the treadmill and lifting weights while I listen to the notes that Francis voice-recorded the evening before.

I live for my job.