Now wasn’t the time to think of Troy. It was time to get Meagan a date. But before she could even get to that, she had to somehow strike up a conversation with a guy in the first place. Even in platonic encounters, she hardened. Look how she’d treated poor Chance. A small smile broke at the thought of him and though she could only just admit it, she was looking forward to seeing him at the reading. Jemima wondered what the girls would make of that. Obviously it wasn’t a date and therefore she wasn’t breaking their rules. However, if they knew about him, they were bound to get overexcited and turn it into something it wasn’t. For simplicity’s sake, she would keep it to herself – even though it really wasn’t a date.

She pushed thoughts of Chance aside, bringing her attention back to the matter at hand. For this game to work and keep the girls sharing stories, she had to be nice to these guys. No more moodiness, snarky comments or treating them with a disdain usually reserved for the brassy cacophony of a Mariachi band serenading you in the street.

‘And make sure he’s over five foot ten,’ Meagan bellowed, as Jemima walked away. ‘I’m like Thorpe Park. I’ve got height restrictions!’

‘What happened to no picking for yourself?’ said Jemima with a stern look.

Meagan poked her tongue out by way of a reply.

A casually dressed guy precariously carrying four pints crossed in front of Jemima. Meagan shook her head and Jemima continued to scan the bar. What Meagan needed was someone dependable. She needed to learn that not all guys were a let-down. As Jemima hovered by a birthday party doing shots, she caught a flash of broad shoulders and shock of neatly cropped blond hair, and knew this was the guy. Here was someone Meagan could lean on. In fact this guy looked as solid as masonry. Jemima sidled over, her warmest grin firmly in place.

‘Helloooo,’ she said giving him the ten-thousand-watt smile of a market researcher.

He looked down at her suspiciously. His broad six-foot three frame blocking out the light like an eclipse. His sharp haircut, fitted shirt covering pecs that looked like pillows and his tailored suit would definitely get the thumbs-up from Meagan.

‘You must need the fire brigade to cut you out of that shirt,’ Jemima chuckled.

‘Hmmf,’ he sniffed before turning back to his friend.

Bugger. Be nice, be vulnerable, Jemima chanted to herself. She prodded him on the shoulder.

‘It’s just, you’re so toned. Are you a personal trainer?’ she asked sincerely.

‘Financial Analyst,’ he said, his German accent light but unmistakable.

Jemima panicked, wondering where ‘German’ sat on Meagan’s extensive list of deal breakers. Yes, she needed someone to lean on but the Berlin Wall wasn’t what Jemima had in mind. Well, it was too late now she resolved, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

I’m Jemima,’ she continued and after an infinitely uncomfortable moment, she prompted, ‘And you are?’