Your Room or Mine? by Charlotte Phillips Page A

to.
    â€˜I can’t.’ She looked up at him with a smile and then threw the covers back and crossed the room, stepped into old jeans, pulled a work t-shirt over her head. No bra. She’d left a spare set of clothes here, a spare pair of shoes. But no toothbrush, no cosmetics. Nothing that could be construed as anything more than work convenience.
    â€˜Can’t or won’t?’
    She looked across at him, a smile playing about her lips.
    â€˜Both,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my own place. And it doesn’t fit the ground rules.’
    He sat up in bed.
    â€˜Sod the ground rules,’ he said.
    She was into her shoes now, an old scuffed pair of Converse. She leaned against the bedroom door jamb.
    â€˜I can’t sod the ground rules, Oliver,’ she said. ‘I can be friends but I can’t do that.’ She blew a kiss across the room. ‘See you tomorrow.’
    She left the room before he could say anything else to persuade her, he listened to her clattering down the stairs and slamming the back door. That sensation he’d felt back at the hotel, waking up to find she’d gone, flooded back. The feeling of being short-changed, of losing control.
    Izzy sat in the van for a few moments, fighting the desire to go back inside. The end was coming into sight. She mentally calculated, wondering what start date she should give to the clients for her next job. A couple more days? A week?
    There would be no reason soon for contact with Oliver. She shoved away the strange feeling of emptiness that thought provoked. The whole delicious situation had given her a feeling of power that was like nectar after Joe’s betrayal, of course it was that she didn’t want to give up. It had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with any misplaced feelings for him. OK maybe they’d become friends, just by talking over the last few weeks they’d got to know each other, but that didn’t change a thing. No strings stood.
    She would put the finishing touches to the garden in the next few days and walk away without looking back.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    â€˜All done,’ she said, leading the way back up the garden. Where the piles of rubble and rubbish had been there was now a softly shaped lawn, bordered with flowers and shrubs designed to give greenery all year round. The trees had been cut back, but not enough to remove the privacy that was so important to him. Next to the house was a circular flagstone terrace with a wrought-iron table.
    â€˜I hope you’re pleased with the end result,’ she said, to fill the silence.
    â€˜I love it,’ he said. ‘I can hardly believe it’s the same space as it was a few weeks ago. You’re good. Definitely worthy of recommendation.’
    Even in her sadness that this was coming to an end, she felt a flush of pride the way she always did when someone praised her work. Reputation was everything.
    â€˜Thanks.’
    â€˜I’ll have the payment wired to you first thing tomorrow.’
    â€˜I just need to round up my tools and stack them in the van and then I’ll be out of your hair.’
For good
, she nearly added, but didn’t.
    He shook his head, dismissive.
    â€˜Do that after dinner.’
    â€˜Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
    She’d tried hard to mentally distance herself since he’d come home early two days ago. Friends with benefits was harder to walk away from than benefits, but she meant to do it.
    â€˜One last night,’ he said, looking at her steadily, his hazel eyes holding her gaze.
    She nodded.
    â€˜Let’s go out,’ he said.
    She stared at him, hardly believing her ears.
    â€˜Out?’
    â€˜For a drink.’
    He stepped briefly into the kitchen to grab his keys, then locked the door and led the way to his car. She followed him in her jeans and converse. He’d never taken her anywhere. Since the hotel they’d only ever been together at this house. What