Best Man (Close Proximity Book 1)

by Lily Morton

  Best Man

  A Close Proximity Novel

  Lily Morton

  Copyright © 2019 by Lily Morton

  Book cover design by Natasha Snow Designs

  www.natashasnowdesigns.com

  Professional beta reading and formatting by Leslie Copeland, editing by Courtney Bassett www.lescourtauthorservices.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  References to real people, events, organizations, establishments or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please purchase only authorized editions

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following products mentioned in this work of fiction: Vans, McDonalds, Converse, Audi, LEGO, Ralph Lauren, Sesame Street, Tipp-ex. Tom Ford, Mercedes, Fiat, Travelodge

  All songs, song titles and lyrics mentioned in the novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Warning

  This book contains material that is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content and adult situations.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Newsletter

  Thank You

  Contact Lily

  Also by Lily Morton

  Blurb

  Zeb Evans doesn’t do messy.

  The product of a disorganised and chaotic childhood, Zeb likes order and control, and as the boss of his own employment agency he can give that to himself. Life runs along strict lines and he never mixes business with pleasure. Everything in his life lives in neat, alphabetized boxes. Until Jesse.

  Jesse Reed is Zeb’s complete opposite. He’s chaos personified. A whirling cyclone of disorder. He’s also charming and funny and a very unwanted distraction.

  Which is why it comes as a complete surprise to Zeb to find himself asking Jesse to pose as his boyfriend for a few days in the country at a wedding.

  Zeb doesn’t do impulsive, but as the time away progresses, he finds himself increasingly drawn to the merry and irreverent Jesse. But can he bring himself to break the hard-won lessons he’s learnt in life? And even if he can, how could Jesse be attracted to him anyway? He’s so much older than Jesse, not to mention being his boss.

  From the bestselling author of the Mixed Messages and Finding Home series comes a warm and funny romance about one man’s fight for control and another man’s determination to circumvent it.

  This is the first book in the Close Proximity series, but it can be read as a standalone.

  For Hailey

  A wonderful friend

  “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”

  Oscar Wilde

  Prologue

  Three Years Ago

  Jesse

  I settle back into my chair and try to find a comfortable resting spot. However, the hard plastic makes that as unlikely a possibility as Keanu Reeves descending to Covent Garden and declaring his undying love for me.

  I’ve just drifted off to a lovely dream of licking his beard when the office’s inner door slams open and a young man comes marching out with high spots of colour glowing over his cheekbones. I look at him with interest. It’s a marked change from when he went in all high head and confident dazzling smile.

  Not that it’s a surprise. All six previous interviewees have gone in the same way and left just as quickly. I settle back and watch as he exits the office in a cloud of angst and Hugo Boss aftershave, letting in the faint twang of petrol fumes from outside and a whiff of bread from the bakery next door.

  Several of the other people dotted around the room stir and look at each other while the man at the desk, obviously well used to this, carries on scratching away with his pen on a piece of paper.

  He shows no sign of calling anyone else for an interview and the inner door remains shut, so I stand up and edge over to him. He looks up. He’s not pretty, but he has a very striking appearance with big hazel eyes and a tumble of black hair around a thin face. But my purpose isn’t to flirt today.

  I perch on the edge of the desk, and he eyes my bum. His mouth quirks. “Can I help you? Did I not give you a chair? How very remiss of me.”

  I look down at the nameplate on his desk and smile. “Yes, Felix, maybe you can help me. Is there any chance of me being interviewed today, or should I just settle down and wait for death to find me?”

  He smirks. “Mr Evans has a long queue of people waiting.”

  That’s not surprising. The Evans Agency is well known in London for catering to the needs of its customers who are largely from the LGBTQ community. Its employees can help a person with their business, do their gardening and their shopping, walk their dogs, or even pose as a fake boyfriend or girlfriend to help in awkward social situations. No job is too small for them, and the agency has become a byword for discretion and capability.

  I’d heard about the job vacancy from my friend. His boyfriend had cheated on him just before his office Christmas party, and within a couple of hours an extremely gorgeous bloke turned up and escorted him to the party, much to the displeasure of the cheating ex.

  “Mr Evans is very busy,” Felix says happily.

  I look at the outer door which is still swaying gently in the breeze from the previous applicant. “He’s busy pissing people off from the looks of it,” I mutter. There’s a stack of post on the desk, and I lean closer and whistle. “Zebadiah Evans. Fucking hell, that’s a mouthful. Sounds like someone who’d be at home on The Tudors. Wearing a wimple and chucking brimstone at a peasant.”

  Felix’s eyes widening are the only sign that I’ve just stepped in shit. That and the low, posh voice from behind me.

  “I know The Tudors took a lot of liberties with facts, but I don’t think that even they went that far.”

  I stiffen and then spin round. A tall, wide-shouldered man is leaning against the open doorway of the inner room, and fucking hell, he’s gorgeous. Thick, black, wavy hair frames a craggy face. There are faint lines around his eyes telling me that he’s quite a bit older than me, but his eyes are the deepest blue I’ve ever seen. As blue as a cornflower. He’s wearing a very expensive pinstriped suit with a white shirt and red tie. I pause. And a very sardonic smile. Shit, this is the boss man.

  I straighten up slowly, prepared to apologise. But one look at his expression and I change my mind. My student loans need this money, and I’m just going to have to brazen this out. So I look him up and down slowly instead. “No wimple, then?”

  “Not in office hours,” he says primly, making me smile. His voice is deep with a slight husky catch to it. For a second we stare at each other, and then he shrugs and gestures to his room with one large hand. “You’d better come in. Felix might need to do some actual work on his desk at some point today.”

  I swallow hard and, standing up, I edge past him, getting a waft of very expensive cologne that smells of
orange and sandalwood. “Watch out for the brimstone,” he mutters. “It’s over by the window.”

  I snort and shake my head. “What exactly is brimstone, anyway?”

  “Your extensive knowledge of The Tudors didn’t give you that knowledge, then?” he says, gesturing me to a seat in front of an enormous desk piled high with very neat stacks of paperwork.

  “I must have dozed off at that point. If Henry Cavill wasn’t naked, I lost interest.”

  “What a discerning viewer you are,” he murmurs. He looks at me as he settles back into his chair and slips on a pair of black-framed glasses. “Brimstone is an alternative name for sulphur. In the Bible it was called brimstone, which means burning stone.”

  “Ah, good job, you’re educated. I must have missed that page of the Bible when I passed out due to boredom.”

  For a second he stares at me, and I think I catch a faint twitch around his mouth which might denote amusement, but more likely it just means he’d like to throttle me. That’s the more common reaction I’m used to.

  I gaze at him, the only sound in the room that of the chatter of people wandering in the courtyard outside which filters in through the open window. It brings with it a faint breeze, and I strain to catch it, feeling the sweat dampening my underarms and the faint track of grime on my skin. England is in the middle of a heatwave and there’s nowhere more miserable than London when it’s hot.

  I sigh, and he looks up from the piece of paper he’s holding. “Something wrong?”

  “It’s just that you look as cool as a cucumber, and I look like I’ve been thrown in an oven and then pushed down a hill.” He blinks and I bite my lip. “What does that mean, anyway?”

  “Are you asking me to decipher your entire sentence? Because I’ve a feeling that the Greek gods setting Hercules his labours wouldn’t have tasked him with that one.”

  I shake my head. “What does ‘cool as a cucumber’ mean? Cucumbers aren’t particularly chilled. I mean, they’re not in the fridge at Tesco’s. They’re out in boxes. So, why cucumber? Why not as cool as the pre-cut carrots?”

  He blinks. “This is not the way I thought this interview would go.” He shakes his head as if to try and empty it. “Moving back to business, Mr Reed?”

  “Jesse,” I say helpfully. “Just call me Jesse. Mr Reed sounds like my dad.”

  “How lovely that we’re circumventing the awkwardness of the interview format. What a joy,” he says dryly, and I grin at him.

  “I do my best.”

  “Okay.” He peers down at the piece of paper. “So, looking at your resume, it appears that you don’t stick at jobs, Mr Reed.”

  I clear my throat, and when he looks at me, I smile. “Jesse.”

  He stares at me over the top of his glasses. “Oh, of course. Well, it appears, Jesse, that you have all the sticking ability of a plaster on a cut after a few days.”

  I sit back in my chair. “That’s probably a fair summary.”

  “Your old boss, who gave you a reference, has written something that’s very …” He seems to pause to look for words. “Nebulous. If the army ever need a code writer, they’d do well to contact this man. He manages to say so much while not actually saying anything at all.”

  “Not in person,” I assure him. “In person he managed to say quite a lot.” I shake my head. “All the way through my lunch hour and somebody else’s too.”

  He slowly puts the piece of paper down and takes his glasses off. “Jesse,” he says slowly. I sit forward, waiting to hear words of wisdom. “Your job history is spottier than Boris Johnson’s.”

  He surprises a laugh out of me, and I grin at him. “Well, look what job he got,” I say. He shudders and I laugh. “I just wasn’t the right fit to be a taxi rank operator or a dog groomer.”

  “Or a bus driver,” he says wryly, stabbing the paper with one long finger. “Apparently, you diverted the route you’d been given to pick your mate up.”

  “That’s a long story,” I say cagily. “It’s best that you don’t press me for it.”

  “Oh, okay,” he says faintly.

  “Look,” I say, leaning forward. “Let’s chuck the CV away.”

  “Oh, please do,” he says, waving a hand. “But unfortunately, the thing’s engraved on my brain now.”

  “Try and wipe it clean,” I advise him. I look around the office. “The truth is that you need me.”

  “I do?”

  I nod, and then do it again more emphatically in case he missed the point. “This is an agency that deals a lot with LGBTQ customers, isn’t it?” He nods and I sit back. “Perfect, I’m gay.”

  He blinks. “It’s a teeny bit more involved than that.”

  I wave my hand airily. “Not much.”

  “Okay, then please enlighten me as to how with your atrocious job history you’ll be a boon to me.”

  “Well, I’m charming.” He opens his mouth and I wag my finger at him. “I am. You might not recognise it, which probably makes you a bit odd, but few are immune to my charm.” He looks like he wants to argue, so I carry on quickly. “I just have a bit of a problem with my attention span in that I get bored easily. I can’t abide to be backed into a corner and stuck doing the same thing all the time. Which makes me perfect for your jobs. I can do most things I turn my hand to, mainly because I’ve had a job doing nearly everything.” I pause. “Hopefully you won’t need the funeral company experience, but you never know.” His mouth quirks, and I spread my hands. “Ta-da! Perfect match.”

  “So, the fact that you’re a jack of all trades and master of none is an attractive quality. Oh, I see now,” he says mockingly. “How can I have been so blind?”

  “That’s a potential problem for you,” I say sympathetically.

  I can see that the laugh he lets loose shocks him, which makes me smile.

  He looks down at the paper again. Damn that CV. “You’re very young,” he says doubtfully.

  “I’m twenty-one,” I say indignantly. “I hope you’re not going to be ageist.”

  He blinks. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says faintly. He leans back in his chair and considers me. “So, if I were to give you this job, how would you approach it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, every case is different. We help people with their needs. Sometimes it’ll be someone who needs you to do their shopping, sometimes it’s to act as a PA, and sometimes it’s pretending to be a boyfriend for a family party so the person doesn’t lose face. How would you approach all these people with their very different needs?”

  I stare at him in surprise. “Well, like they’re people.” I hastily try to cover up the “duh” tone in my voice. “Every person is different, Zebadiah. Can I call you Zebadiah?”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t,” he says testily.

  “Okay then. Zeb.” I nod. “I like that. Makes you sound less like a manager and more like a DJ in Ibiza.”

  “Oh joy, that’s my life goal attained, then.”

  “I’m sure sarcasm isn’t appropriate for a job interview.”

  “I do beg your pardon.” His face is alight with amusement.

  “What was I saying?”

  “You were talking about how every person in this world is different. I’m halfway expecting you to launch into the chorus of ‘We All Stand Together’.”

  This time it’s me that laughs. I sober and smile at him. “People are really difficult. There’s a reason why Basil Fawlty was so popular.” I shrug. “But I like them better than a computer or a typewriter.” I pause and shudder. “Or a funeral hearse and the cremation machine.” His eyes go wide, and I shake my head regretfully. “I’m afraid I agreed never to discuss that matter.” I think hard. “I’m respectful, diligent, obliging, and focused.”

  “And you’ve obviously swallowed a thesaurus at some point in your life.” He sighs and looks at me, and his gaze is suddenly piercing. “There’s to be no sex.”

  I blink. “Zeb, this so, so sudden.” I put my hand
to my chest. “I’m not that sort of boy.”

  He shakes his head and this time doesn’t bother to contain the laugh. “You’re impossible.” He turns serious. “No sleeping with clients. It’s the number-one rule. This is not the littlest whore house in Neal’s Yard.”

  I look him up and down, and the heat from the summer day seems to run in my blood. “Does that apply to the boss?”

  He stares at me, and the silence stretches for a second. “It especially applies to the boss,” he says gruffly. “I don’t shit where I eat.”

  “What a charming expression. I’m surprised your dance card isn’t filled up for the millennium.”

  Another laugh. I’m beginning to like peeling them out of him. He sobers. “So, no fucking the clients.”

  “I won’t even kiss them on the lips,” I promise. “I feel like Julia Roberts,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll be lying on a grand piano in my dressing gown soon. But that would make you Richard Gere, which is a crime.”

  “You don’t like Richard Gere?” he asks, and I shake my head.

  “Face like a ferret and a personality to match. If he’d stopped that car for me, I’d have waved the fucker on.”

  His laughter bursts out loud and joyful, and the door to the office opens and Felix pokes his head around. “Everything okay, sir?” he asks cautiously, looking like he thinks zombie hordes are about to flood the room.

  Zeb wipes his eyes. “I’m fine, thank you, Felix. Come and meet the newest member of staff.”

  Felix looks insultingly astonished. “Really?” he says in a doubtful voice.

  Zeb nods. “May God help me?”

  “You don’t need him,” I say earnestly. “You’ve got me now.”