Damn. Because if he didn’t come up with a plan his mum would be hounding him then too. If only he could find someone who was open to a mutually beneficial arrangement of pretend girlfriend then he could get Mummy Dearest off his back.

‘It’s last orders.’ That voice again. Vicki was close enough he could smell her perfume. A playful, flowery mix that made him want to lean closer and breathe her in. As she spoke her hands moved, fluttering over the glasses. ‘Is there anything you want before I close the till?’

So many things but none of them would be found here in this bar.

Unless… Kind. Beautiful. Perfect. The germ of an idea started to form in his head. He looked across the bar into dark caramel eyes that swirled with fun and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a little heat. ‘Actually, yes. There is something.’

She smiled, holding his gaze in a way that made his gut curl in desire. ‘Sure?’

‘Will you marry me?’

Not again.

‘Absolutely not.’ Victoria tried to hide her smile as Mr Tall, Dark and Dangerous’ hopeful grin withered under her death stare. Too often – because she was petite and kind of pretty – she’d been underestimated as being a push-over, but she had a backbone made of steel. She’d had to, just to survive. It served her well dealing politely yet firmly with alcohol-soaked guys. But this one was different, definitely a level higher than the usual punters.

‘If I had a pound for every marriage proposal I got at the end of a boozy night I’d be a rich girl indeed. But a word of advice, mate – as proposals go it needs work. Next time, maybe do some sort of grand romantic gesture like… oh, I don’t know, find out the woman’s name before you ask her to spend the rest of her life with you?’

‘I take it that’s a no, then?’

He grinned and she had to admit that, in another life where she wasn’t jaded and burnt by relationship failure, she might have found him a teeny-weeny bit attractive. There was something about his grey-blue eyes that made her want to keep looking at him, despite his ridiculous question. Something about the scruff of his messy hair that made her want to slide her fingers in and smooth it. She wasn’t even going to think about his strong jaw and stubble. He was dressed in the usual uniform for people working in offices in the Chelsea area – dark suit, white shirt, brown leather boots. He’d hung his suit jacket on the hook under the bar, and sat with his shirt neck open, no tie, and sleeves rolled up. Dressed down for Friday-night drinks.