Desired By The Boss. Catherine Mann

      He didn’t want complications. Right now—getting this house cleaned out—or ever.

      His lifestyle was planned and structured to avoid complications.

      Even when he dated women it was only ever for the briefest of times—brevity, he’d discovered, avoided the complications that were impossible for him: commitment, cohabiting, planning a future together...

      Relationships were all about complications, and to Hugh complications were clutter.

      And he was determined to live a clutter-free life.

      But today contact with April’s skin had again made his blood heat and his belly tighten.

      He should go.

      They’d moved the box to where April had directed, so Hugh headed for the door.

      ‘Don’t forget your coffee,’ April said.

      He turned and saw she held the two mugs in her hands—the one for him printed with agapanthus.

      He should go—he could make his own coffee downstairs. There was nothing to be gained by staying, and as always he had so much on his to-do list today.

      But he realised, surprised, that the boxes that surrounded him weren’t compelling him to leave. At some point the tension that had been driving him from this house had abated.

      It was still there, but no longer overpowering. Nor, it seemed, was it insurmountable.

      So he found himself accepting his mug from April. A woman who, with no more than her smile and against all his better judgement, had somehow compelled him to stay.

      He hadn’t been supposed to stay.

      April had honestly expected Hugh to take his coffee and head on down to his basement apartment.

      But instead he’d taken his mug and approached the first box she’d planned to go through—its top already sliced open, the flaps flipped back against the thick cardboard sides.

      For a moment it had looked as if he was going to start looking through the box. He’d stepped right up beside it, his spare hand extended, and then he had simply let it fall back against his jean-clad thigh.

      Now he brought his mug to his lips, his gaze, as usual, impossible to interpret.

      ‘You really don’t like these boxes,’ April said. Her words were possibly unwise—but they’d just slipped out.

      Hugh Bennell intrigued her. And not just his looks—or his touch, however accidental. But who he was and what all these boxes meant to him.

      The boxes, of course, intrigued her too.

      He shot a look in her direction, raising an eyebrow. ‘No.’

      And that was that. No elaboration.

      So April simply got to work.

      Hugh walked a few steps away, propping his backside against the only available arm of the sofa. Boxes were stacked neatly on the seat cushions beside him.

      This box was full of clothes. A woman’s. April hadn’t come across women’s clothes before, and the discovery of the brightly coloured silks and satins made her smile and piqued her interest.

      She held a top against herself: a cream sheer blouse with thick black velvet ribbon tied into a bow at the neck. It was too small for April—smaller even than the sample size clothing she’d used to have sent to her by designers before she’d given up on starving herself.

      ‘Was this your mum’s?’ April asked, twisting to face Hugh.

      She absolutely knew it wasn’t her place to ask him, but she just couldn’t not.

      It was too weird to be standing in this room with Hugh, in silence, surrounded by all this stuff that meant something to him but absolutely nothing to her. And she was the one sorting through it.

      Hugh didn’t even blink. ‘All clothing is to be donated,’ he said.

      ‘That wasn’t why I was asking,’ April said.

      She tossed the shirt into the ‘donate’ box in the centre of the room. Soon after followed a deep pink shift dress, a lovely linen shawl and a variety of printed T-shirts. Next April discovered a man’s leather bomber jacket that was absolutely amazing but about a hundred sizes too big.

      Regardless, April tried it on. Felt compelled to.

      Was it disrespectful to try it on?

      Possibly. Probably.

      But Hugh was about to donate it all, anyway. He was the one who insisted it was all junk, all worthless.

      Maybe this was how she could trigger a reaction from this tall, silent man?

      It was unequivocally a bad idea, but she spent her days unpacking boxes and her evenings stacking shelves. Mostly in silence.

      Maybe she was going stir crazy, but she needed to see what Hugh would do.

      She just didn’t buy it that he didn’t care about this stuff. So far his measured indifference had felt decidedly unconvincing.

      She had to call his bluff.

      ‘I’m not paying you to play dress-up,’ Hugh pointed out from behind her.

      His tone was neutral.

      She spun around to show him the oversized jacket. ‘Spoilsport,’ she said with a deliberate grin, catching his gaze.

      If he was just going to stand there she couldn’t cope with all this silence and gloom. Her sisters had always told her she was the sunny sister. That she could walk into a room and brighten it with her smile.

      It had always sounded rather lame—and to be honest part of her had wondered what that said about her in comparison to clever Ivy or artistic Mila. Was it really such an achievement to be good at smiling?

      It had been a moot point in the months since Evan had left, anyway.

      Until now. Now, this darkly moody man felt like a challenge for sunny April.

      Acutely aware that this might all backfire horribly, but incapable of stopping herself in the awkward silence, she playfully tossed her hair in the way of a supermodel.

      ‘What do you think?’

      What would he do? Smile? Shout? Leave?

      Fire her?

      Hugh’s shake of the head was barely perceptible.

      But...was that a quirk to his lips?

      Yes. It was definitely there.

      April’s smile broadened.

      ‘Fair enough,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders and then tossing the jacket into the ‘donate’ box. ‘How about this?’ she asked, randomly grabbing the next item of clothing in the box.

      A boat-neck blouse, in a shiny fabric with blue and white stripes. But too small. Which April realised...too late.

      Hands stuck up in the air, fabric bunched around her shoulders on top of her T-shirt, April went completely still.

      ‘Dammit!’ she muttered.

      She hadn’t been entirely sure of her plan, but becoming trapped in cheap satin fabric was definitely not part of it.

      She wiggled again, trying to dislodge the blouse, but it didn’t shift.

      Her T-shirt had ridden up at least a little. April could feel cool air against a strip of skin above the waistband of her jeans.

      Mortified, she struggled again, twisting away from where she knew Hugh stood, feeling unbelievably silly and exposed.

      ‘Stay still,’ he