Desired By The Boss. Catherine Mann

a box.

      A box labelled ‘Hugh’.

      Hugh’s eyes narrowed when he saw her.

      April knew she wasn’t supposed to be down here, but she just hadn’t been able to simply send an email.

      He wore a T-shirt, black jeans and an unzipped hoodie, and he held a cup of tea in one hand. He was barefoot and his hair, as she’d come to expect, was scruffy—as if he’d woken up and simply run a hand through it. Yesterday he’d been smooth-shaven, but today the stubble was back—and, as she’d also come to expect, she really rather liked it.

      Hugh Bennell seemed to be in a permanent state of sexy dishevelment, and she’d put money on it—if she had any—that he had no idea.

      But now was not the time to be pondering any of this.

      ‘Ms Spencer?’ he prompted.

      Ms Spencer—not April. He definitely wasn’t impressed.

      She swallowed. ‘I’m resigning,’ she said. ‘I didn’t just want to put it in an email.’

      A gust of wind whipped down from the street and through the doorway. Despite her coat, April shivered.

      Hugh noticed.

      He stepped back and gestured for her to come inside.

      April blinked—she hadn’t expected him to do that. She had a suspicion he hadn’t either, although his gaze remained unreadable.

      Somehow as she stepped past Hugh, slightly awkwardly with the large box, she managed to brush against him—just her upper arm, briefly against his chest. It was the most minimal of touches—made minuscule once combined with her heavy wool coat and Hugh’s combination of T-shirt and hoodie. And yet she blushed.

      April felt her cheeks go hot and her skin—despite all the layers—prickled with awareness.

      How ridiculous. Really only their clothing had touched. Nothing more.

      She forced her attention to her surroundings, not looking anywhere near Hugh.

      His basement flat was compact and immaculate. Two bikes hung neatly on a far wall, but otherwise the walls were completely empty. In fact the whole place felt empty—there wasn’t a trinket or a throw cushion in sight. The only evidence of occupation was the desk, pushed right up against the front window, and its few scattered papers, sticky note pads and pens were oddly reassuring in their imperfection.

      They were standing near his taupe-coloured couches, but Hugh didn’t sit so neither did she.

      Her blush had faded, so she could finally look at him again. Even if it was more in the direction of his shoulder rather than at his eyes. His knowing eyes?

      She refused to consider it.

      ‘Anyway,’ April said, deliberately brisk, ‘I found some more things today. A couple of photos of you and your mum and a birthday card.’

      She shook her head sharply when Hugh went to speak. She didn’t want to hear his spiel again.

      ‘And, look...maybe I should’ve chucked them out, as you’ve insisted. But then I found one of those old plastic photo negative barrels—you know? And it had a lock of baby’s hair in it.’

      She met his gaze.

      ‘A lock of hair, Hugh. Yours, I think. And then I was done. I’m not throwing that out. That’s not my responsibility, and it’s definitely not my decision.’

      She carefully put the box on Hugh’s coffee table.

      ‘So there’s the box with your things in it. You can throw it straight in the skip if you want, but I couldn’t.’ She turned around as she straightened, meeting Hugh’s gaze again. He gave nothing away. ‘I’ve finished that first reception room, and I’ve organised for the charity donations to be collected tomorrow.’

      Still in her coat and scarf, she felt uncomfortably warm—and not entirely because of the central heating.

      ‘I’d better get going.’

      ‘No notice?’ Hugh asked.

      His tone was calm and measured. He definitely wasn’t blushing, or paying any attention when April did.

      She was being ridiculous.

      ‘No,’ April said. ‘I didn’t see the point. Clearly I’m unsuitable for the position.’

      ‘What if I made the position suitable?’ he said, not missing a beat.

      ‘Pardon me?’

      ‘What if I said you didn’t have to make all the decisions any more?’ He spoke with perfect calm.

      ‘So I can have a “Hugh” box?’

      He nodded. ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you’ll come sort through it each day?’

      Now he shook his head. ‘No. I’ll come and throw it in the skip each day. But at least you wouldn’t have to.’

      No. That still didn’t feel right. April wasn’t sure she could let that happen...

      Wait. It wasn’t her call. It so wasn’t her call.

      And that was all she’d asked for—not to be the decision-maker.

      The job paid well. And it wasn’t very difficult—now Hugh had removed the requirement to throw out intensely personal items.

      And she still had her credit card debt, still had a manky shared house to move out of.

      It was a no-brainer.

      And yet she hesitated.

      The reason stood in front of her. Making her belly heat and her skin warm simply with his presence.

      His oblivious presence, it would seem.

      In which case...what was she worried about?

      She knew she didn’t want to walk straight from Evan and into another relationship, and that certainly didn’t seem to be on offer here.

      Hugh was looking at her with his compelling eyes, waiting not entirely patiently for a response. He did not look like a man who enjoyed waiting.

      April smiled.

      It had been fifteen years since she’d been single. It was probably normal that her hormones were being slightly over the top in the vicinity of a demonstrably handsome man.

      It was nothing more.

      ‘Deal,’ she said.

      She had nothing to worry about.

      But then Hugh smiled back—and it was the first time she’d seen him smile both with his divine mouth and with his remarkable eyes.

      Probably nothing.

      On the following day there was nothing to put into the ‘Hugh’ box.

      So April emailed Hugh with her daily update, put on her coat, went home to her still messy shared house and ate soup that had come out of a can while her housemates drank wine that came out of a box. Later, when her housemates headed out to a bar, April walked around the corner to her local supermarket and stacked more cans of soup—and lots of other things—until the early hours of the morning.

      The next day, at the Islington end-of-terrace house, April brewed a strong coffee in her Dockers mug, running her thumb across the chip on the handle as she always did. She then placed it on the marble benchtop just where the light hit it, artistically—or as artistically as a coffee mug could be placed—and took a photo.

      Really need this