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‘It isn’t a dancing position, but the cottage I get to live in is sublime, and I’ll keep job-hunting for something suitable, and—’
‘Who you working for?’
‘Callum Cartwright.’
‘Hot.’
‘Pardon?’
More duvet-ruffling before a much clearer and more exasperated sigh filtered down the phone line. ‘I said hot. Apparently Callum Cartwright is a babe.’
‘That’s not the problem.’
‘Problem?’
‘He’s the guy from the party.’
‘What party—? Ooooh! That party. Working for a sexy boss. Putting in some serious overtime. Lucky you.’
‘Lucky? I have to act all professional and organised and immune, when all I can think about is—’
‘How hot he was in the sack?’ Kit let rip with a big fake sniffle. ‘Boo-hoo.’
Starr smiled and tapped the phone.
‘Hello? Looking for a little sympathy here. A little Ooh, you poor thing, Starr, having to work for a guy you feel uncomfortable around.
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