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wrong-footed, and he grinned.
    ‘How long has it been—three years? You’re obviously stuck in a rut of dinner-and-cinema.’
    ‘But I thought we were going out for a drink.’
    ‘We are,’ he said, enjoying keeping her on her toes. ‘Coffee. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

THREE
    ALICE FORD’S DATING SURVIVAL CRITERIA—HOW TO IDENTIFY & AVOID A PLAYER.
    Rule #1 First Date. How does he play it? A keeper will be interested in getting to know you. A player will be all about getting his hands on you.

    Alice had forgotten what a minefield it was just getting ready for a first date, let alone actually going on one. Even an experimental one for research purposes. Unfortunately telling herself that dating him was a project, to be treated in the same dispassionate way as a work assignment, didn’t seem to be having any effect on her nerves, which were zipping around in her belly and making her knees wobbly.
    Not that she actually gave a damn what Harry thought of her or her appearance.
    But still, it was ages since she’d been out and knowing him they were bound to be going somewhere cutting-edge trendy, probably for lunch. What the hell did the hip twenty-something London crowd wear these days?
    The imbalance in her wardrobe reflected the imbalance in her life.
    Still hanging in the cupboard: getting on for a dozen work suits—some with trousers, some with skirts; a huge selection of shirts and blouses in sensible office styles; opaque tights; court shoes; shoe boots, predominant colour scheme black, grey and blue.
    Still in the drawer, although she felt like dragging them out and telling Harry to get stuffed, she was far too busy with a tub of ice cream and a box set to even think of going out this side of Christmas: a wide selection of greying loungewear track pants and vests, numerous pyjamas and bedsocks.
    And finally, scattered over the bed, the contenders for today: a meagre selection of tops and well-worn T-shirts, a shirt in a soft pale grey material that she’d bought on impulse and never worn, a couple of pairs of jeans and a little black dress that was way too smart for daytime.
    She’d started getting ready what felt like hours ago and suddenly there were five minutes left before he was due to show up and she still hadn’t made a final decision on what to wear. She’d seriously underestimated the sheer size of the project of turning herself from hairy-legged couch potato into someone who might look at home hanging around a trendy London eatery. The hair removal alone had taken ages. Not that she intended to remove a single item of clothing in the presence of Harry Stephens, but it made her feel marginally more attractive knowing that if she did she wouldn’t look like Bigfoot from the waist down.
    All of which meant she’d now have to stick with the silver-grey shirt and jeans combo she was wearing and hope for the best.
    She pushed her feet into black ballet flats and grabbed her black jacket just as the doorbell rang. Her stupid heart, which obviously was out of practice and working rustily at best, began hammering in her chest. For God’s sake, Harry Stephens was not a boyfriend—he was a task. With any luck her body would quickly get to grips with that and revert to...well, to efficient-work-mode might actually be good.
    He was right on time. She wondered if that was typical behaviour. Come across as perfect from the outset and your excuses might hold more weight when you start playing around in a few dates’ time.
    She took a deep breath and went for the door.
    He was leaning against the jamb, wearing jeans and a dark blue shirt that picked out the colour of his eyes, a relaxed grin playing about his lips.
    ‘Morning,’ he said.
    ‘Come in a sec, I just need to grab my bag.’ She kept her voice as level as she could although her pulse rate was going crazy.
    She was acutely aware of him as he followed her into the tiny sitting room. She could smell the light citrus of his aftershave on warm