Berlin Calling

Chapter 1

‘There will be sequins and pyrotechnics and my hair will be enormous!’ I sang out, grabbing Benji’s arms before the door of the record company had even closed behind us. ‘I’m getting up on stage at the European Song Contest!’ I stretched onto my tip-toes, right in his face. ‘Champagne! We need champagne!’

It would take a few days – weeks, lifetimes! – for this to sink in. My little song was representing the United Kingdom at this year’s song contest in Berlin. I would be singing backing vocals, making daring costume changes with increasingly blinding sequins, smoke machines raging all around me.

Maybe not the sequins and smoke machines, not for my twee little love song, but, boy, I hoped for a few sparkles at least!

‘You’ll have the biggest hair in Berlin,’ Benji said with an indulgent smile, gently disengaging my hands. He brushed at the sleeves of his pristine wool coat and adjusted the lapels. Tall, Black and gorgeous, Benji was my secret weapon in a sharp suit.

‘You are the best funking agent ever! I love you so much right now!’

Benji grinned. ‘It was all you, my girl. I just read the contract.’

Contract! How sweet that word sounded. It was almost as beautiful as ‘European Song Contest’, but nothing was quite as beautiful as the contest. I’d dreamed of conquering that stage since I was eight, watching it on TV in Canada with my British grandpa. Now, I was a songwriter – a real one, not just a girl who chopped up audio in her bedroom.

I could have grabbed the next stranger and performed a dance number from a West End musical, I was so happy. As if on cue, a man emerged from the classy Georgian terrace we’d just exited and turned up the collar of his jacket.

He looked the part, tall and lean, with shoulders for days and cheekbones to die for, along with a dramatic swirl of brown hair that looked like churning chocolate. I would absolutely have taken him for a twirl in a heartbeat – if life had been a musical, something I had to constantly remind myself it was not.

The temptation faded when he completely ignored us, squeezing past to hurry along the footpath, hands shoved into his pockets.

‘Since I’m the best ‘funking’ agent in the world, I’ll buy the bubbly,’ Benji announced.

Benji was the greatest blessing London had brought me. His friendship had meant everything, when I’d arrived five years ago from Down-and-Out, British Columbia, with a guitar strapped to my back. Okay, that was romanticised. I’m from Vancouver. And my guitar didn’t make it, because I was too young and naïve to realise that airlines have no respect for creative people.

Not to mention my music career hadn’t exactly been the reason I’d made the move across the ocean.

‘Nope! My treat. I’ll buy the whole world bubbly!’ I shouted, spreading my arms and doing a twirl all by myself. What a change from that morning, when I’d woken up as usual after two snoozes without a clue that a phone call from Benji and a mad dash to Marylebone to sign a contract was about to change my life.

‘Uh, you did see the number on the contract, didn’t you, Rose?’

I couldn’t quit my day job – well, my temp job – just yet, but it didn’t matter, because it was a start.

‘It’s not about the cash.’

I love Benji, and I had to admit my career up to that point had been a complete joke, but he didn’t have to laugh quite so loudly. ‘It’s about the contest, I know. You live for the contest. It’s only fitting your song’s been selected. I wonder who they’ll get to sing it? I hoped you might sing it yourself after what’s-his-name did so well singing his own song.’

‘Aw, you know all the right things to say, comparing me to Sam Ryder! But I’m not getting ahead of myself. I only hope they choose someone who won’t take it too seriously.’

It wasn’t that I wouldn’t take it seriously. But what I loved about the contest – apart from everything – was the freedom to be a fun idiot, otherwise known as myself, and still be a contender. I couldn’t seem to write anything except cheesy love songs with twee melodies. It teetered between endearing and just awkward.

‘Awkward or Endearing’ could be the title of my biography: the biography of the Canadian girl who won the European Song Contest. Because I, British-only-by-ancestry Rosamond Lyle Fisher, had written the song that would finally get the UK to that top spot – or more realistically the bottom spot, but either way I’d be there in Berlin, a real contestant.

‘It’s my song. I’m a real songwriter.’

‘You were born a songwriter, Rose.’

‘It’s for those snappy one-liners that I pay you so much,’ I joked. I hadn’t paid him a cent. He was a corporate lawyer, really, and I just exploited the goodness of his heart.

‘You’ll be writing for Beyoncé next.’

‘Can you get me a contract with Beyoncé?’

‘Don’t give me ideas, babe.’ He raised a hand. ‘I can see it now! That could be the song title. I can see it now, by Beyoncé, written by Rose Fisher, number one in the charts for twenty weeks! I’ll let you buy the champagne then. For now, shall we stick with a pint?’

I giggled and threaded my arm through his. Trust Benji to keep me in check. I hadn’t been paid, yet. ‘I saw a pub on the way here.’

I wasn’t familiar with this part of the city, stuck, as I had been, in a sharehouse in South London with no living room and occupants from six different countries. The pub was brown brick with white detailing and leaded glass, and an amusing sign showing a bunch of drunk foxes. I snapped a picture for my Instagram feed, which was an eclectic mix of music, dresses with pockets and London colour, and had a ridiculous number of followers for how boring it really was.

Things were looking up when I noticed the usual branded beers instead of anything crafty and overpriced. It hit me again – a hot rush of relief. I was going to get an advance. An advance. I said it silently to myself several times, with a superior expression and waggling eyebrows until Benji gave me a tolerant smile.

‘Yes, you are winning at today.’

‘Makes up for my years of losing!’ Oops. I hadn’t meant to imply I was a loser.

We ordered two pints of Hells lager and perched at the bar. I sat on my wool coat and tugged at my skirt. I loved these mustard tights, but they were slipping down my backside for the thousandth time and I was wishing we’d chosen a table instead.

We’d just clinked our glasses, when the door opened with a jangle, admitting two more early patrons. The woman was hunched inside the thickest, softest, most colourful scarf I’d ever seen and I coveted it immediately. I coveted everything about her outfit. When she tugged off her beanie to reveal short, dark hair and an undercut, I had a full-blown girl crush.

I eyed off her green Doc Martens as she and her companion made their way to the bar. They were speaking another language, but I wasn’t sure which – the couple, not the Docs.

‘Reckon I can afford those shoes, now?’ I asked Benji out of one side of my mouth.

‘Why can’t you be desperate for a pair of Jimmy Choos?’

‘You can try on the Doc Martens.’

‘It’s not the same,’ he insisted with mock seriousness.

After I’d finished picking over her look as though she was a catalogue, rather than a human being, I realised there was something familiar about her companion. My eyes travelled slowly up from his ancient sneakers to a faded jacket I recognised from ten minutes ago at the rights management company – and a face I was a little too happy to see again.

Could I call it fate, that a hot guy had turned up twice in ten minutes, right when all of my other dreams were coming true? I wasn’t sure fate cared that much about my sex life, but I certainly liked the possibility of getting lucky. Perhaps I could take him for a twirl after all.

But surely he was the scarf woman’s boyfriend. I suddenly coveted way more than her outfit.

The newcomers also sat at the bar – at the far end, as though they understood British personal space although they weren’t locals. Or maybe they were locals. I couldn’t even pronounce ‘Marylebone’ correctly, let alone distinguish the locals from other visitors. I should have looked away, but I… didn’t.

He had dark brown eyes – not black and not chocolate, but rich, coffee bean brown – and I could make out his eyelashes even at this distance. His mouth was tight, but lush with possibilities. And, omigod, his bone structure. There was a little hollow in his cheek that I stared at, willing him to smile and break out that promise of a dimple, but his grim expression was kind of hot.

Darn, I shouldn’t be fantasising about someone else’s boyfriend. Maybe he wasn’t her boyfriend. Wishful thinking had always been one of my special skills.

His attention was firmly on the woman who was now everything I ever wanted to be. Actually no, not everything. I’d wanted to be a songwriter and now I was one. For once, I didn’t want to change anything about myself.

He looked up and caught me staring.

I was going to die. Either the lack of oxygen or the embarrassment of being caught gawking would see me off. My racing heartbeat didn’t bode well, either. But at least I’d die happy. His gaze pinned me to my stool and I got all hot and melty. He still wasn’t smiling.

His gaze drifted down my body, the furrow in his brow deepening. A normal person would get the message that he didn’t like what he saw, but stupid little me felt a sizzle of enjoyment to be the focus of so much disapproval. I bit my lip and his gaze snapped back up.

I couldn’t have said how long my eyes were locked on his, but it was long enough for his companion to throw a curious glance over her shoulder at me. I hastily dropped my gaze, catching Benji watching me. My bad eye was probably turning in. Wouldn’t that be my luck? I’m long-sighted, so I could appreciate him from across the bar in all his hotness, but he was probably just uncertain whether I was even looking at him or not.

‘Not enough success for one day? You want to pick up a guy, too?’

‘Nah,’ I said half-heartedly. ‘I’m good.’

Benji saw through me of course. He gripped my shoulders and turned me to face him. ‘Repeat after me,’ he began.

‘Play it cool. I will not get my heart broken today,’ I said with a huff. ‘It’s been nearly five years since James dumped me. I can pick up a guy without being a dork about it!’

I swung my gaze back towards the gorgeous couple, suddenly afraid I’d spoken too loudly, but the woman’s attention was on the barman. I eavesdropped unrepentantly.

‘Two beers, please,’ she called. ‘What the locals drink.’

‘You want a Hells?’ the barman clarified.

The couple shared a look. ‘Ein Helles?’ The hot guy said something else I didn’t understand, but I was pretty sure it was German.

The barman pointed at us and Benji nudged me. I cleared my throat to dispel my weird crush on both of them and held up my pint.

‘Hells,’ I explained with a smile that was probably goofy and embarrassing. ‘Pale lager. But we’re not locals.’

‘Like German Helles,’ the barman supplied.

‘Two,’ the woman said, not even bothering with a ‘please’. I nearly swooned. While the barman pulled the pints, she turned to me with a frank look. I was in awe of it. My gaze darted to her boyfriend and the flutters raced up my throat to find him looking at me, too. Still no smile. It didn’t seem to matter. I stared at his mouth anyway.

‘That’s what hell is,’ she said.

I could believe it was hell, coveting so biblically, but it couldn’t have been what she meant. ‘Huh?’

‘Pale. Hell means pale in German.’ The guy’s voice was unusually deep, which set off all kinds of receptors in my skin. The English words flowed well, but his accent was noticeable.

‘Oh,’ I said, licking my suddenly dry lips. Maybe I could practice pronunciation with him, like I sometimes did with my housemates. I wanted to watch while he pressed his tongue between his teeth for the ‘th’ sound. I’d draw close and… immediately stop fantasising about some guy who was probably someone else’s boyfriend.

The barman placed the pints on the mat. I risked a glance at the girl, expecting to find her scowling at me, but she had an amused smile on her face. Wow, she didn’t even get jealous. I was jealous just of her shoes.

‘Are you visiting from Germany? Pull up a stool over ’ere.’ Thank God for Benji. Or perhaps not. He had a twinkle in his eye that suggested I’d made a fool of myself and he was just trying to make it worse. ‘I’m Benji.’

‘Daria,’ she said. ‘And this is my brother Emil.’

I sat up like the recoil of a bow, and everyone stared at me. For once, I didn’t care. All that mattered was a pair of coffee eyes, on a man who might actually be available for some European love.

I could get into the spirit of the contest a little early.

‘I’m Rose. And I love you – your outfit.’ At least I’d said that to Daria and not her delicious brother. Perhaps she’d understand that I was just lonely and Canadian. As Benji had explained on more than one occasion: ‘She’s not trying to pick you up; she’s just friendly.’ Except maybe I was trying to pick them up – I mean, him up. Was there a German word for overenthusiastically making a new friend and simultaneously trying to pick up their brother?

‘Uh, thanks,’ Daria said, swinging one long leg up over the stool. She had those skinny legs that look great in trousers, but no amount of working out would ever give me. I have wonky knees and booty. If I work out, I get muscle.

‘I love your scarf. I want one.’ I downplayed my comment with a smile, although I really meant it.

To my shock, she unwound it and shoved it into my hands. ‘Let’s tauschen – er, exchange.’

My fingers closed reflexively around the soft knit and it took me a few seconds to accept what she’d done. I scrabbled for my scarf – it was a nice one from ASOS, but nothing special – and handed it to her. She put it on while I stared.

I clutched her scarf in my fingers. ‘Wow, thanks,’ was all I could say.

She gave me a small smile. ‘It’s from a little shop in Kreuzberg, in Berlin. I don’t think you could buy it here.’

‘Is that where you’re from? Berlin?’

I glanced desperately at Benji. I was bursting with the need to tell them that I was going to Berlin in May. It all flooded me again – not a prick of realisation, but a tidal wave. I wriggled on my stool as Benji gave his head a firm shake. I’d signed an agreement an hour ago that I wouldn’t tell anyone my song had been selected until the official announcement, but I hadn’t expected to be so tempted. I wondered if he remembered me from outside the record company, but he hadn’t said anything yet, so it seemed unlikely.

‘We live in Düsseldorf, but we’ve spent a lot of time in Berlin,’ Daria explained. ‘Emil lived there for a few years.’

‘Are you here on holiday?’ Benji asked.

Daria shook her head and Emil nodded. They eyed each other, relaying silent messages.

‘We were here for a… business meeting, but it didn’t work out,’ Emil explained. He definitely didn’t remember me from before. Wait, was the business meeting at the record company? Had he just had some shitty news, while all of my dreams had come true?

‘Looks like he doesn’t want to talk about it,’ said Daria with a gently mocking smile.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ There I went apologising again. ‘Want another beer? Then you have to tell me about Berlin. I’ve always wanted to go.’

Daria nudged him with her shoulder. ‘Go on, Emil. Tell her all about Berlin.’

I was being way too obvious. I knew I should be aloof and mysterious, arouse his curiosity instead of… myself. But I couldn’t stop stealing glances at him. That jaw, those eyes. He was obviously close with his sister, which was actually really hot.

The first time I caught him sneaking a glance at me, my mind was made up. It was time for flirt factor one hundred.

Chapter 2

A couple of hours later, I was pinned to the door of a posh hotel room, honestly a bit worried I’d bitten off more than I could chew. His mouth was on mine, all hot and raw, like he was getting revenge for all my flirting.

My heart pounded and my legs were wobbly and refusing to cooperate. Despite my over-the-top flirting as we’d eaten dim sum – and drunk too much sake – together, I couldn’t quite believe he was here, his lean chest under my grabby hands and his tongue down my throat. He broke away with an audible smack of lips and I couldn’t stop a weird whimper of relief to have a moment to breathe.

He fumbled to shove the keycard into the little holder and then the lights came on. We blinked at each other for a moment, both breathing hard. His eyes drifted over my face. The way he looked at me… The way he’d looked at me all night, once he’d relaxed into our little party and stopped glancing watchfully at Daria.

He dismantled me with that gaze. I was an enormous gift, wrapped up in a bow, just waiting for him to unwrap me.

‘You okay?’ he asked between deep breaths.

I wasn’t, not with his eyes on me, cranked up to burning, but I managed to nod.

‘You sure?’ he prompted. I must have looked a little wild. In answer, I slid my hand around the back of his neck and dragged him back. He was bent awkwardly over me, too tall to press close. With a little grunt, he lifted me a few inches and I was worried I was about to transition from solid to liquid as his mouth routed mine and his leg pressed high.

My fingers curled in his springy hair. He tasted of beer and heavy kisses. I had to ask myself whether this was a good idea. Daria had made some flippant comment over the pork buns that Emil didn’t do relationships. I’d taken that as a massive green light, since I was a relationship-free spirit myself, but I was feeling this under my skin somehow.

The little panicky Rose, buried deep inside me, was jumping up and down, calling, ‘He’ll hurt you, Rose! Just like James!’ But what did she know? I was never going to see Emil again. I told panicky Rose to shove off and broke the kiss to sink my teeth into his earlobe. He gave a strangled groan. Score one, Rose.

After that, the game was on. He hauled me up and staggered to the bed, toeing off his shoes. I wrapped my legs around him as the kisses grew urgent – tongues and lips in a messy fever. He jimmied my shoes off and dumped me on the bed. Quickly shedding my winter things, I grabbed for him with greedy fingers. I pulled him on top of me and his mouth found my neck. I made way too much noise as he sucked on my skin and bit down on my collarbone.

I somehow remembered to set my glasses on the bedside table, hoping my bad eye would play ball. I have a fairly low glasses prescription and my frames are mostly to keep my bad eye looking straight. The upshot in that moment was that I could still see the heavy expression on his face pretty clearly as his gaze raked over me.

His hands tightened on my hips. I stuck my boobs out, frustration winning out over subtlety. He watched me with a not-quite smile as he tugged the ends of my blouse out of the waistband of my skirt and slowly popped the buttons. The strain on his face was as hot as the feel of his fingers over the lace of my pretty bra.

His breath huffed over my skin as he flung open my blouse and fumbled with my bra, as though he couldn’t wait to get his mouth on my boobs – except it was me who couldn’t wait. He peered up at me from under those lashes as he finally succeeded in getting my bra off and a second later, he opened his mouth wide on one breast and sucked hard. I whined as though I were an engine about to overheat.

I reached for him, but he didn’t let me, pinning my hands to the bed as he used his mouth on me. The ache between my thighs was unbearable.

God, one-night stands would be a whole lot more reliable in general if they were all with this guy. It was probably because he was leaving the next day – the actual very next day. This was the most one-nighty of one-night stands imaginable. That must be why it was so intense.

For a reserved guy who’d done little but watch me all evening, the blatant need crossing his features as his mouth and tongue worked over my skin was an enormous shock. I had to keep my head – somehow. Just because his actions suggested he found me irresistible, didn’t mean I was really a sex goddess anywhere outside of my own jokes.

My heart was bumping around loudly as he shoved my skirt up to my waist and yanked my tights down. He slipped a finger under my knickers and stifled a groan. I was incredibly wet, but that sound he made was the sexiest thing I’d heard in my life. Maybe it had been a while for him or something because I didn’t think a guy had ever made that noise in the proximity of my bits before.

He had to remove his finger to drag my knickers down and I took the opportunity to get some much-needed oxygen.

‘Do you have condoms?’ I asked before I lost my mind. ‘Lots and lots of condoms?’ My voice trailed off as his fingertips slid up my inner thigh.

‘I have some.’

‘That’ll have to be en—’ I moaned as his mouth fastened on my clit and his fingers pressed up inside as though he couldn’t wait for me to finish my sentence – or he’d realised after that evening that I talk too much. Words certainly deserted me when his fingers shoved in and curled. My eyes lost focus. Need wound up, shooting through my veins. I was never going to last long. It might be embarrassingly fast, but I didn’t care.

His tongue was flat on my clit and his knuckles at my entrance and I melted down in an orgasm that was probably audible from the moon – or at least the corridor outside. When I blinked my eyes open again, he was staring at me, his jaw slack.

‘Too much?’ I asked with a wince.

He shook his head, as though he was shaking himself, and rubbed his other hand over his face. ‘No, I… is this real?’ he muttered. I flushed, which probably wasn’t noticeable because all of my skin was already pink from… exertion. What did he even mean? My addled brain was taking the hot expression on his face and interpreting his comment to mean that he’d never met anyone like me. I liked the idea a little too much.

‘Why don’t you come here and find out?’ I mumbled, panting too much to achieve the sex goddess I was going for. He stared, his jaw working, and panicky Rose bounced a few more times in my throat.

He smoothed his palm down the centre of my torso, following the movement with his eyes. As though he knew panicky Rose needed soothing, he pressed a kiss to my sternum – hard and quick, but oddly tender. Then he nodded.

He stood to strip and nothing could have made me miss the show. He tugged his T-shirt and long-sleeved undershirt over his head in one move. He was broad and lean, all bone and wiry muscle. A short fuzz of dark chest hair fanned out over his pecs. And, strike me down, he had tattoos. On one bicep, he had a flaming heart being stabbed with a dagger. It