by Lily Morton
“Make sure you clean all your crevices,” he says and chuckles to himself.
Half an hour later, showered and dressed in Levis and a black shirt, I push my hand through my still-wet hair. “Right, I’m off. I’ll be back later. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says firmly. The doorbell rings and his face brightens. “That’ll be Misha.”
“I’ll get the door on my way out.” Kissing him on the head, I walk into the hall and open the front door. I grin at Misha. He’s dressed in a grey suit and with his black hair, olive skin, and bright blue eyes, he looks as good-looking as normal. And as irritable. Surly and handsome looks great on him.
“You scrub up nicely.” I laugh, and he grins at me.
“Not half as nicely as you. Look at you with the whole matching-your-eye-to-your-shirt-thing you’ve got going on.”
I snort. “Baby, I wrote the fashion bible.”
“I’d be slightly more reassured if you’d written the actual Bible.”
As I step back to let him through the door, I grab his arm. “He had a turn,” I whisper.
Worry flares in his eyes. “Is he okay?”
“Bit fragile. But it wasn’t a bad one.”
“I hate them,” he says slowly but fiercely. He gives me a half-hearted smile. “You on your way out?”
“Been called back in.”
“What have you done now?”
I shake my head sadly. “So predictable. You staying with him?”
He instantly nods. “I’ll kip on the sofa if you’re not back.” He eyes the lounge. “I might kip here anyway.”
I nod and wave goodbye before clattering down the stairs.
An hour later I knock on the front door of the office. All the windows are dark, and I frown and knock again. Then a light switches on and I see the fuzzy form of Zeb appear.
When he opens the door, I nearly swallow my tongue. In the three years I’ve known him I’ve never seen him in anything other than his very expensive suits. Tonight he’s barefoot and wearing a grey T-shirt and an ancient pair of jeans. Worn white in places, they hang on him, perfectly cupping his package like an overeager man at kicking-out time in a night club. His hair is slightly dishevelled, as if he’s being running his hand through it, and he has thick stubble on his chin.
“Hello,” he says and then pauses. “You okay? You look a bit shell-shocked.”
I recover myself. “Just getting my expression perfectly right for the bollocking you’re surely going to give me.”
He shakes his head. “You have such a pessimistic outlook for someone so young.”
“I’d say realistic,” I mutter, following him in as he gestures. I look around the dark office. “Is this going to be one of those events where they torture people so that the office bonds as a group? Or like that SAS programme where they blindfold people and bang wooden spoons?”
He blinks. “Why on earth would I want to bang wooden spoons around you? And since when is torture associated with office bonding?”
“That’s a question you’ll have to take up with all those companies that offer team-building exercises. All I’ll say is that if you want your workplace to bond, take them to the pub and pay the bar bill.”
He shakes his head and moves forward, gesturing for me to follow him. “I’d be bankrupt within twenty minutes.”
I laugh and then stop as he opens the door next to his office. “Oh my God,” I breathe. “Are we going up to your flat?”
He pauses, looking worried. “We were, but we can stay down here if you want. I was cooking dinner, so I thought we could talk while I do that.”
“So, it’s not some surprise appraisal.”
“I’m not quite sure you understand the ways of the workplace. I don’t spring appraisals on people at eight o’clock at night. What do you think happens? That I shin up a drainpipe and shout through their bedroom window?”
I follow him into a hallway decorated with whitewashed walls and a lovely parquet floor. An olive tree sits in a huge stone container next to a tall window. He moves up a flight of stairs and I follow, trying not to look too much at that very fine arse of his. Oh, okay, I totally seize the day and look to my heart’s content. Carpe diem and everything, as Robin Williams said in Dead Poet’s Society.
He opens a huge battered wooden door, gesturing me through, and I find myself in a long hallway. I trot behind him as he moves away, looking through a door and glimpsing his lounge. It’s lit by three floor-to-ceiling windows and they’ve been thrown open, letting in the sounds from the courtyard below. The Juliet balconies are painted the same bright orange as the windows and complement the huge turquoise sofa that sits catty-corner to a battered leather sofa. Two of the walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and there is bright artwork on the walls.
I look ahead and pick up my pace to catch up with him. Signs of the building’s previous history as a warehouse are everywhere, from the original loading doors to the sandblasted beams. Some of the walls have been stripped back to the bare brick while others are painted clear, warm colours. The floor is the original wood planks and they’ve been refurbished to a soft sheen. Someone very skilled did this renovation, and looking at my boss’s broad back, I somehow know it was him. I think what most surprises me is the feeling of warmth and comfort here. I’d imagined him in something pristine and modern, not this place with its bright walls and comfy furniture and books everywhere.
However, it’s still extremely neat, which feels very familiar after three years of watching Zeb organise everyone around him to an inch of their lives. I try to imagine living here, but I’m pretty sure that after twenty-four hours of my mess he’d chuck me out of a window. We pass a laundry room with not even a sock on the worksurface, and I amend that to two hours.
“This is lovely,” I say. “Bang smack in the middle of Seven Dials and all this space.”
He glances back, looking suddenly almost shy. “Thank you. I like it. There are another two floors above us. This floor has the kitchen, dining room, and lounge. Next floor has the spare bedrooms and then at the top is the master suite.”
“I bet this cost a fortune.”
He shakes his head. “My father was a property developer. He left me this in his will. He bought it for a song years ago when Neal’s Yard was derelict and just a place for bins and rats. But even though the other buildings got renovated, he never did anything with this. I think he actually forgot about it and when I inherited, it was very dilapidated, so I had to spend a long time doing it up.”
So it was him. “Did Patrick help?” I say and hold my breath. That’s way too personal, but I’m curious about his ex.
He smiles. “No, he didn’t, and if you knew Patrick you’d be thankful for that. He hardly knows how to change a bulb, so the idea of him tackling wiring is rather scary.” He shrugs, leading me into a huge kitchen. The cabinets are painted navy with a wooden worksurface and the floor is made of navy-and-white patterned floor tiles. It could look cold but it’s warmed by the exposed brick wall, battered-looking sideboard, and the bright paintings giving it a slightly shabby chic look. “Anyway, this was mine before Patrick came along. And it’s stayed mine,” he says thoughtfully.
“Yes, I heard you’d split up.”
A funny expression crosses his face. “Is it a topic of conversation now? It was a year ago.”
I shrug. “I only found out recently. Sorry.”
There’s an awkward sort of pause as he stares at me without saying anything. Then a lid on one of the saucepans rattles, and it breaks the stasis. He gestures me to one of the barstools at the central island. “Sit down. Do you want a glass of wine?”
I stare at him as I sit down where instructed, looking at the very healthy-looking herbs in their ceramic pots. If this was my house, they’d be dead. “Okay,” I say faintly. “That would be lovely.” Is this a dream? I wonder. If it is, hopefully we’ll have sex soon.
“What are you thinking? You’ve got a very funny expression on y
our face,” he asks, pouring red wine into a large glass.
“Oh, nothing,” I say quickly.
“Hmm.” He sounds suspicious. He turns back to the oven. “Are you allergic to anything?”
“Erm, penicillin,” I say slowly.
He laughs, and now I’m convinced he’s an alien that’s stolen the real Zeb. He’s a hot alien, though, because when he smiles and laughs it takes over his whole face. He fairly glows.
“No, I mean food allergies.”
“Oh no, nothing. I’ll eat anything.” I pause. “Are you feeding me?” The latter part of that sentence is a bit high, but this is Zeb. In his home. In those jeans. And he’s cooking. I feel like I’ve wandered onto the set of a very high-class porn movie.
“Your face is very animated even when you’re not speaking.” He smiles, sliding the glass to me and turning to the cooker. Within a few minutes he’s plated up two meals and is placing one in front of me.
I stare down at the rustic-looking white plate piled high with food.
“It’s only chilli.” He hesitates. “If you don’t want it, you don’t have to eat it. I’m sorry. It just seems that as I called you away at dinnertime, I ought to feed you.”
I slap my hand on his as he goes to move the plate away. “No, leave it,” I say quickly. “It smells bloody lovely.”
He stares at me, and I realise that I’m still holding his hand and, as a latter thought, that it feels nice. I feel the flush on my face and drop his hand and shove a mouthful of food in.
“Shit, that’s hot,” I gasp.
He smiles. “It usually is when it’s just come straight out of the pan.”
He lowers himself into the seat next to me and unfurls his napkin, and the next few minutes are spent eating. It’s absolutely delicious. Meaty-tasting and spicy. He’s served it with rice and homemade guacamole.
I eat hungrily. When I’ve satisfied the food gremlin inside me temporarily, I lean back. “So, why did you need to see me?”
He fiddles with his fork, drawing the tines through the sauce on his plate, making patterns like a child with sand.
“I have a favour to ask,” he finally says.
“Okay,” I say slowly.
There’s a short silence and then he sighs. “I need to hire you.”
I blink. “To do what?”
He bites his lip. “It’s a long story, but the short version is that Patrick is getting married.”
“Patrick, your ex?”
He nods. “He’s getting married in a month.”
“That’s what the invitation was on your desk,” I say out loud, unfortunately, and hurriedly gesture. “Tell me more,” I say quickly.
His mouth quirks. “That’s about it. He’s having a house party for a few days in a country hotel. They’ve rented out the whole hotel.”
“For a few days? Is he Richard Branson?”
He laughs. “No, but his future bride is the daughter of someone worth the same money.”
“Oh, okay.” The record comes to a jerky screech. “What? A bride?”
Incredibly, he smiles. “Yes, a bride.”
“But he was with you for five years.”
“There is something called bisexuality,” he says mildly.
“Are you bisexual?” I want to gasp because that was incredibly personal, but he just shrugs, an almost sad expression on his face.
“No, I’m gay.” He pauses and then waves a hand as if dismissing the conversation. When he speaks next his voice is very brisk and businesslike. “The house party will be a few days full of activities for the wedding party at a hotel in the Cotswolds. Then they’ll get married a month later. I’d like you to come with me to both events.”
“Do you really want to do this?” I ask softly. “That’s a hard thing to do. You were together for five years. Spending that amount of time with him and his new partner won’t be particularly nice.”
He shrugs, looking awkward. “I have to. I’m the best man.” I make a choked sound but he ignores me, still speaking like a model of a businessman. “I meant to do something about it before, but the time passed quicker than I noticed, and now the week is on me and I need to take someone with me.”
“And that’s me?” He nods. “You do know you could find someone—” I snap my fingers. “—just like that?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want any romantic complications. I’m a private person, and this is a lot of time to spend with someone. If I take you, we both know it’s just a business transaction. I’ll pay your usual fee and double it. Would you be interested?”
“But you think I’m incompetent.”
He looks startled. “I do not. Where on earth did you get that ridiculous idea?”
“The amount of times you’ve bollocked me in your office.”
He shakes his head. “You just care about people,” he says. “Too much,” he finishes darkly. “You get involved and want to help and sometimes that goes wrong. I have to tell you off, but it doesn’t mean I don’t understand.”
I stare at him. “This would have made the last three years much more understandable,” I say faintly.
There’s a flush on his cheeks, and he has the appearance of someone who’s being tortured, but he looks at me determinedly. “So, would you be interested?” He smiles slightly. “I promise not to tell you off while we’re away.”
I stare at him, thinking hard. All that time to spend with him. To be in close confines with someone I have to admit I’m attracted to and who plainly doesn’t fancy me back wouldn’t be most people’s idea of a good time. Then I shrug. I’ve always been contrary.
“I’ll do it,” I say softly and his shoulders slump slightly in relief. I hold up my hand. “But I don’t want paying.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he immediately and predictably starts, and I shush him.
I take a second to enjoy him obeying me, albeit with a dark look, and carry on talking. “I don’t want paying. I’ll do this for you on one condition.”
“What?” He sounds wary.
I smile. “You have to call me Jesse.”
He groans. “Okay,” he finally says. “It goes against the grain, but I’ll do it.” I open my mouth but he holds up a hand. “A phrase made famous by Shakespeare, meaning if you planed the wood in the wrong direction, you’d rough it up,” he says, well used to our conversational detours by now. He pauses. “Why would you not want to get paid?”
“Because I respect you and I quite like you. As a boss,” I say quickly as alarm floods his face. “I will not accept payment,” I say firmly. I don’t know where this is coming from because I always need the money, especially with my student loan running thin now, but somehow it feels right, so I carry on. “If you try to pay me, I will leave you in the Cotswolds with the wedding party from hell.”
He looks like he wants to argue, so I give him a cross look and he subsides.
“I’m not comfortable with this,” he mutters.
“Is it because you’re not in control suddenly?” I say sweetly. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” He glares at me and I grin. “And a few days in the Cotswolds is never a hardship,” I say lightly and smile. “Just think what fun we’re going to have.”
He looks faintly sick. “What have I done?” he mutters.
“I’m not sure,” I say comfortingly. “But it’s probably best just to relax and go with the flow.” I laugh. “Last time I said that, I ended up with a night in the cells.”
Chapter Two
Zeb
I hear the door opening behind me as I stare down at the paperwork on my desk.
“Are you not supposed to be halfway to the Cotswolds on a dirty mini-break with the office hunk?”
I look up over my glasses at Felix. I think about trying a frown, but it would just be a waste of my facial muscles. He’s been my assistant for seven years, and I know that nothing cows him. Nothing.
Instead, I grimace. “I’m going. I just…”
My words trail of
f and he shakes his head before sitting down on the chair in front of my desk.
“I was only joking about the dirty mini-break.” He pauses. “Well, actually I wasn’t.”
“What?” My voice is a bark of astonishment.
He shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to see you and Jesse together.”
I take off my glasses slowly and stare at him. “Have you been drinking this morning?”
He grins. “He’d be really good for you. So much better than bloody Patrick.”
“Would it be any good for me to say for the five-millionth time that I wish you wouldn’t talk about Patrick like that?”
He considers it. “No,” he finally says, and I slump.
“I’m sure my company details list me as the boss. I’m almost positive. Can you get the paperwork for me so I can check?”
He sighs. “You’re nominally in charge, but I’ve known you for far too long to take any notice. I’ve also known Patrick for far too long, but that’s just something between my therapist and myself.”
“He’s not that bad,” I say slowly, driven to stand up for him for some godforsaken reason.
“Zeb, he’s a selfish twat. He’s far too in love with himself to ever make a good partner for anyone. I’d send pitying thoughts over to his new bride if I didn’t have a sneaking suspicion that she’s exactly the same as him.”
I think about arguing, but some of what he’s saying does skirt perilously close to my own thoughts on the matter.
I sigh. “I know all that.”
“So, why are you being his best man? You spent five years doing that, and he rewarded you by cheating on you.”
A year ago I’d have flinched at that, but somehow, now it seems to have happened a decade ago. Like a distant memory. It’s how I know that I’m healed. “I have to,” I finally say. “I made a commitment to doing it, so I’ll go through with it.”
“Why did you promise?”
I shrug. “Because he was full of pretty apologies, and once upon a time I loved him.” I hold my hands up. “I honestly don’t know, but he caught me at a weak moment blathering on about wanting to be friends, and I gave in. There’s no going back. I can’t do that.”
