Crossing the Line

Crossing the Line

By Annabelle Eaton

Copyright 2013 Annabelle Eaton

All rights reserved

The
right of Annabelle Eaton to be identified as the Author of the Work has been
asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All
rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior
written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of
binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All
characters in this publication are fictional and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to my beta readers, editor
and cover designer.

This book is for my best friend.

Chapter One

Starting a new job is always scary but
starting your first job in the hope that you’ll earn enough to escape your
bat-shit crazy, Stepford family is plain terrifying. This has to work out
because if I end up a sad old housewife like my Mum, I’m going to shove my head
in an oven.

I flatten my shirt, for the thousandth
time. Not that it was creased before, nothing is as flat as Cordelia’s ironing,
but that’s probably because she’s too scared of Mum to allow a single crease.
Don’t mess this up, Amelie.
I’ve already
done my make-up three times, any more, and I’ll look like a bloody drag queen.

“Amelie, if you
insist
on going through with this then you’d better hurry,” mother
dearest calls from outside my door. She always does that, calls through the
door. I don’t know if she constantly expects me to be naked or surfing porn on
my laptop, probably. My door is ajar so she can see I’m clearly just in front
of my mirror, obsessing about my appearance.

Of course, my parents weren’t thrilled when
I told them I’m going out to work – most parents would be. I’m supposed
to find a nice man, get married, look after a house and raise children. Which is
ironic really, since the staff and nannies did the domestic stuff while I was
growing up. I’m not quite sure what my mum’s role is. Redecorating constantly
and going out to long lunches with her friends doesn’t really seem like a major
role to me.

My two older sisters, Harriet and Isabel,
have chosen Mum’s ‘path’. I like to think of myself as the one that hasn’t been
brainwashed. I’m sure my parents think of me as the black sheep and/or the huge
disappointment.

Harriet already has a family of her own and
lives a few minutes away with her husband and baby daughter, Harmony.

Isabel is still trying. At twenty-three, she’s
desperate to settle down, which is plain crazy. She genuinely worries about
being left on the shelf in her early twenties. Your early twenties are for
going out and having fun. There is no way I’m going to worry about dying alone
until I’m at least fifty, so I have twenty-nine years left. Half of the worry
is due to the fact that she’s been engaged once before, two years ago, to a
lovely gentleman that my parents adored until he ran off with a French
model. We don’t speak of that incident, though.

To me, a man is someone to spend your life
with, not someone to enable you to live your life. Apparently, I’m wrong.

“I’m ready, Mum.” I don’t even think Mum
sees anything odd in calling her twenty-one year old daughter for work. She
doesn’t see me as grown woman. Until I leave the house with my husband, I’m
still ‘theirs’.

“You’ll be home for dinner on time too?
Oliver and the boys are coming.”

I groan.
Fabulous!
My big brother and his devil children. Oliver is all
right; he’s the one person in the family that is actually supportive of me, but
his children, wow. The boys have something about them, a look in their eye that
screams either sex pest or murderer. I will have to wait until they’re grown up
to see which.

“Is Harriet coming?” I ask.

“No, she can’t make it.”

Good. Since Harmony was born a year ago, my
sister has turned into an over the top overprotective mum. If someone sneezes
in the same room as Harm – not a nickname to be used out loud –
Harriet flips out and makes them leave. After my first day,
 
I know I won’t be in the mood to clean
my hands four million times, and that’s if I don’t even hold her.

I pull my fingers through my now glossy hair
– thank you extra shine serum – and take a deep breath. Here goes.
Opening the door, I almost walk into Mum. What the hell is she doing just
standing there waiting? I look around. Why hasn’t she moved? Has she flipped?
I’m not sure what to do. Pretend she’s not there?

She finally looks me up and down. “You look
presentable.” Does she mean that or should I change? Elizabeth Cohen is the
result of a shark and a bee reproducing. She’ll sting you and rip your head off
at the same time and do it just with her words. Sometimes I don’t even
realise she’s having a dig until days later. I’ll be laying in bed and think
fuck, that’s what she means!

“Thank you…” I reply, almost making it
sound like a question. She nods curtly and steps to the side, allowing me to pass.
I feel like I should always have my eyes on her in case she goes postal. There
is no way she can live the way she does and not have some sort of life crisis
at some point. “See you tonight,” I say and run downstairs so she’ll stop
looking at me. I get to the bottom of the marble staircase and dash towards the
kitchen.

“Walk, Amelie,” my dad scolds, looking at
me through the mirror in the hallway as he adjusts his tie. Dad is a male
version of Mum; they’re perfect for each other. Although I have a feeling he’s
slightly terrified of her too. He brushes his dark, greying hair with his
fingers.

I slow down, walking too slowly. Yes, I’m
acting like a child. But in my defence, it’s the only thing that made me smile
in their huge oppressive house. It’s the little – usually immature
– things that get me through.

I turn into the kitchen to grab something
for a breakfast on the go and see Isabel sitting at the kitchen island
with
Mum. I stop dead. How the fuck did
she get down here so quickly? There is another staircase at the far end of the
house, but it’s a much longer route, and she definitely didn’t pass me. I swear
she can teleport. Either that or there’s two of her. I shudder.

“Morning,” I say, keeping one eye on Mum as
I grab an apple from the fruit bowl and my keys from the side.

“Morning, Amelie,” Isabel replies.

Small talk is awkward, and since I have
nothing in common with any of them – apart from genes – there’s
almost only ever small talk. “Okay, see ya,” I shout and head out of the
kitchen.

Mum sighs sharply, probably because of my
appalling vocabulary. Ya isn’t an acceptable word in this house, like cool,
kid, any nickname – shortening someone’s name is a sin, even if the
person wants it to be shortened. I remember when my primary school friend
called me Millie and Mum almost had a coronary. I don’t tell her my university
friends call me Millie.

“Goodbye, Amelie.”

I turn salute but leave before I see her
reaction.

Outside sits my ridiculously expensive
convertible Mercedes. I love it for being a pretty car, fast and shiny, but
it’s far too expensive for being just a car. While I live with my parents, I
get all the expensive stuff that goes with them. Not that I’m not grateful
– I am – but I don’t believe material things make you happy or that
you should be in competition with your friends. The Holden’s get new
cars; my parents get new cars, the circle is never ending. Surely if
you’re friends with someone you accept each other no matter what label they
wear or drive.

I weave through the busy streets of London
and wish I parked at a station and took the train in. People drive like they’re
on a suicide mission in London. It is quite literally terrifying, but it’s that
or stay at a junction all day waiting for someone to let you go. No one in
London lets you go; therefore you drive like a maniac and hope.

As I approach the large car park beside the
intimidatingly massive glass tower, my stomach flutters with nerves. It was
home to, well, lots of big companies. Aden Ford, my new boss shares a floor
with his father. Their companies are separate, but they work closely together.
I haven’t even met Aden. It was his dad, Richard, who hired me on his behalf of
his son as Aden was out of the country but needed a PA as soon as possible.

I park in the first empty spot that isn’t a
long walk to the building and make my way to the lift. Glass lift might I add,
which means if it falls you can see the horrified faces of people as you whiz
past to your death.

Inside is buzzing with life. People walk
with purpose, and I’m intimidated by how much they seem to know what they’re
doing and what they want. I feel like I should be in a lesser building with
people that aren’t sure where their life is going. It smells of ambition and
success, and I’m now a part of it. I straighten my shoulders and walk like they
do, but I’m sure I just look constipated.

When the lift opens, I look around,
surprised to be the only one getting in. Great. Whizzing to my death alone. Now
everyone on every level, up to floor seven, is going to see me go past like I’m
in some sort of fucking human vending machine.

I press the button to take me to the
seventh floor and take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. This is important,
and I want it to work out so much I’m sick with worry that it won’t.

Closing my eyes, I picture moving into my
own flat and being fully independent. As a twenty-one-year-old woman, that
isn’t an unrealistic goal. Unless you’re my parents, then the only place for a
twenty-one-year-old woman is at home, waiting for her husband to finish work
– probably knocked up already too. Fine, if that’s what you want.

The lift stops and the doors open. The
lobby is large with two red leather sofas on either side of the room. A long
chunky oak reception desk with glass desktop dominates the area. Behind it sits
Samia, the receptionist. I met her at my interview, and she’s lovely. She’s the
receptionist for Ford Records – who I am now employed by – and Ford
Entertainment and Leisure.

I walk over to the desk. “Hi, Samia.”

She stands, and I hate her. She’s tall with
longer, darker, shinier hair and striking bright red lips.
 
I feel ugly beside her. “Hi, Amelie. Are
you looking forward to your first day?”

“Yes. Nervous, though.”

“That’s to be expected but don’t worry,
you’ll get along well with Aden.” She winks and steps out from behind the desk.
Apparently I’ve met Aden at one of my mother’s parties, but I can’t remember
him. Probably because I always make sure I have the required amount of alcohol
– a lot – to make it through one of those first.

“I’ll take you to your office,” she says. I
follow her behind the frosted glass screen with the words ‘Ford Records’
engraved into it. To the right is the same frosted glass but Richard’s,
‘Ford Entertainment and Leisure’. I make a mental note not to sing at work with
all this glass around.

“Your office is here so make yourself
comfortable. The kitchen is the door at the end of the corridor; it’s shared
with Samuel’s offices. Aden will be in soon.”

“Thanks,” I say, putting my handbag down on
my desk. I look around and decide that I like my office. It’s not that big but
has what looks like a brand new oak table and high back black leather chair.
One side of the room is lined with shelves, some filled with blank folders
already. A frosted glass wall separates my office with what must be Aden’s.
There are no plants, though. Shouldn’t every office have a plant? I make
another mental note to get a plant – an artificial one because I kill
living things, not intentionally, though, of course.

I walk around the desk and sit on the
chair. It’s far too big and far too comfortable. I’m going to have to
concentrate hard on not falling asleep in it. Pushing my foot on the floor, I
spin around, doing the chair test that everyone does, even if they don’t admit
to it.

“Hello, Amelie.” I stop immediately at the
sound of my boss’ voice.
Oh nice one,
Millie.
I cringe inwardly and turn the chair to face him. My eyes widen.
Oh sweet Jesus!
I now completely
understand Samia’s wink.

Aden’s dark blonde hair and deep, sky blue
eyes – eyes that you can get lost in, hypnotising eyes – is exactly
what I like in a man. It’s as if he was made straight from one of my fantasies.
His body, although covered in an expensive looking charcoal suit, is
in-freaking-credible. My pulse quickens, and I squirm. Working for him is going
to be both amazing and painful in equal measures. How the hell could I have
forgotten him? I must have been trashed that night.

I stand in a daze, still swooning. “Aden,
hi.” Should I apologise for swinging on the chair like a child or ignore it? In
my defence, you put wheels on a chair, and someone is going to spin it.

He smirks; the right side of his mouth
stretching up and steps forwards, and holds his hand out.
Don’t kiss it!
I reach out and shake his hand, ignoring the urge to
suck on his fingers. He’s standing too close – I think on purpose –
and staring down at me. The top of my head reaches his shoulder, and I’m the
perfect height to tuck myself under his chin.

My knees weaken. His hands are soft and
smooth and big and manly and oh my God what do I have to do to feel them all
over me?

“It’s nice to meet you properly, Amelie.
Settling in okay?” His eyes twinkle with amusement and he pulls back his hand.
Well at least he’s not firing me.

“Um, yes. Thank you.” I want to die. Do I
really have such little self-control? Yes, I do. ‘Act now think later Millie’
is what my friends from Uni call me.

“Good. Okay.
 
How about I make us some coffee, then we
can get started on my diary. I have a lot of meetings coming up and I’m
terrible at organising my time.”