Desired By The Boss

But then, she’d supposed he also had staff to interview lowly employees like herself—and he’d already done that himself.

If anything, it just added to the general sense of mystery: mysterious boxes for her to unpack, complete with a mysterious billionaire CEO who was mysteriously hands-on with the recruitment of unskilled labour.

It was late morning now. She hadn’t had time to change, so she still wore what she now considered her ‘interview suit’. Her shoes were freshly polished, and her hair was looped in an elegant low bun that she was rather proud of. Her stylist back in Perth would be impressed.

The liquorice-black door opened.

And revealed a man.

A tall man. With dark hair, dark stubble. Dark eyes.

Dark eyes that met her own directly. Very directly.

Momentarily April felt frozen beneath that gaze.

So this is what a mysterious tech billionaire looks like.

Jaw-droppingly handsome.

She blinked. ‘Good morning,’ she said, well practised from years of socialising at every event anyone could imagine. ‘I’m April Spencer. Are you Mr Bennell?’

He nodded. ‘You got here quickly.’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘The agency emphasised the urgency of this placement.’

Silence. But, despite her usually sparkling conversational skills, April didn’t rush to fill it. Instead she simply stood still beneath Hugh Bennell’s gaze.

He was still looking at her. Unreadably but intensely. It was a strange and unfamiliar sensation.

But not entirely uncomfortable.

There was something about him—the way he stood, maybe—that created a sense of calm. And of time.

Time to take a handful of moments to study the man before her—to take in the contrast of his black hair and olive skin. To admire the thick slashes of his eyebrows, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the elegance of his mouth.

He was more interesting than gorgeous, she realised, with a slightly crooked nose and an angular chin. His too-long hair and his stubble—forgotten, she was sure, rather than fashionable.

But it was that sum of those imperfect parts that made a darkly, devastatingly attractive whole.

And definitely not what she’d been expecting.

Whatever she’d thought a mysterious billionaire who deliberately shunned the spotlight would look like, this was not it.

He was also nothing like Evan.

That realisation came from left field, shocking her.

April blinked again. What was she doing?

‘Please come in,’ Hugh Bennell said. As naturally as if only a beat of time had passed.

Maybe it had?

April felt flustered and confused—and seriously annoyed with herself.

She’d just met her new boss. She needed to pull herself together.

She was probably just tired from the long hours she’d been working.

But did tiredness explain the way her gaze documented the breadth of her new boss’s shoulders as she stepped inside?

Nope.

There was no way she could pretend she didn’t know what the fireworks in her belly meant. It had just been a long time since they’d been associated with anyone but her husband.

And a pretty long time since she’d associated them with Evan.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second.

No. No. No, no, no.

She had not flown halfway around the world to turn into a puddle over a man. Over her boss. No matter how mysterious.

That certainly wasn’t why she was working two jobs and sharing a room in a truly awful shared house.

She’d come to London to live independently. Without her mother’s money for the first time in her life and without Evan for the first time since she was seventeen.

And she needed this job. She certainly needed the very generous hourly rate.

She didn’t need fireworks, or the heat that had pooled in her belly.

‘Miss Spencer?’

April’s eyes snapped open. ‘Sorry, Mr Bennell.’

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

He did have gorgeous eyes. Thoughtful eyes that looked as if a million things were happening within them.

‘Of course,’ she said with a deliberate smile.

He inclined his chin, somewhat sceptically. ‘I was just saying that we’ll run through your responsibilities in the kitchen.’

She nodded, then followed him down the narrow hall beside the rather grand if dusty staircase.

As they walked April did her absolute best to shove all thoughts of fireworks or heat firmly out of her mind—and her body. Frustratingly, Hugh’s well-worn, perfectly fitted jeans did nothing to help this endeavour.

Neither did the unwanted realisation that—for the first time since Evan had told her he didn’t love her and her sparkling life had been dulled—she felt truly alive.

April Spencer was beautiful.

Objectively beautiful. As if she’d stepped off the pages of a catalogue and into his mother’s house.

For a while he’d stood and just looked at her, because he’d felt helpless to do anything but.

He’d looked at her chocolate-brown hair, at her porcelain skin and her crystal blue eyes. At her lips—pink, and shining with something glossy. At her fitted clothes and the long coat cinched in tight at her waist.

He’d expected a backpacker. Someone younger, really. Someone he could actually imagine lifting and shifting boxes.

This woman was not it.

This woman was poised and utterly together. Everything about her exuded strength and confidence. As if she was used to commanding a room. Or a corporation.

Not rummaging through boxes.

It just didn’t fit.

He’d let her in, but then he had turned to face her—to question her.

He needed to know who she was and what she was doing here.

But when he’d turned her eyes had been closed.

He’d watched her for a second as she’d taken deep breaths. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. And it was in that moment—while that knowledgeable gaze had been hidden—that he’d sensed vulnerability. A vulnerability that had been completely disguised by her polish and her smile.

And so, instead of interrogating her, he’d asked her if she was okay.

And instead of calling the agency back, asking for someone more suitable, he’d led her into the kitchen and handed her a confidentiality agreement to sign.

That moment of vulnerability had long gone now, and the woman in his mother’s kitchen revealed nothing of whatever he’d seen.

But he had seen it. And he of all people knew that people were rarely what they first appeared. He’d spent most his life hiding all but what people absolutely needed to know.

So for now he wasn’t going to question April Spencer.

But he did acknowledge her incongruity, and he didn’t like that this project to clear his mother’s house already felt more complicated than he wanted it to.

April laid his pen on top of the signed paperwork. ‘All done, Mr Bennell,’ she said with a smile.

‘Call me Hugh,’ he said firmly.

‘April,’ she said, with eyes that sparkled.

He was again struck by her beauty, but forced himself to disregard it. The attractiveness of his employees was none of his concern.

He nodded briskly, and didn’t return her smile. ‘You’ll be working alone,’ he said, getting straight to the point, ‘and I’ve provided guidelines for how I want items sorted. It should be self-explanatory: paperwork containing personal details is to be saved, all other papers to be shredded and recycled. Junk is to be disposed of. Anything of value should be separated for donation. I’ve provided the details of local charities you can contact to organise collection.’

April nodded, her gaze on the printed notes he’d left for her.

‘Is there anything other than papers you want kept?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said.

Maybe louder than he’d intended, as her head jerked upwards.

‘Okay,’ she said carefully. ‘And how do I contact you if I have any questions?’

‘You don’t,’ he said. ‘I’m not to be disturbed.’

Her glossy lips formed a straight line. ‘So who can I contact?’

He shrugged dismissively. ‘You won’t need to contact anybody. It’s all made very clear in my instructions. Just send me an email at the end of each day with details of your progress.’

‘So you know what’s in the boxes? Caroline implied that you didn’t, which is why you need me to sort through them.’

Hugh shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

April met his gaze. ‘So you trust me to go through a whole room of boxes and make all the decisions myself?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s all junk. You aren’t going to stumble across a hidden fortune, I promise you.’

She looked unconvinced.

‘And besides—it’s not a room. It’s the whole house.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Pardon me?’

He ran a hand through his hair. He just wanted this conversation to be over and to be out of this place. This stuffed full, oppressive house which this woman only complicated further.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Three floors. Leave any furniture where it is. Don’t lift anything too heavy. I’ve left you a key and the security code. I expect you to work an eight-hour day.’ He stopped, mentally running through any further extraneous details he should mention. ‘If there’s an emergency—only an emergency—you can call me. My number is listed in the documentation.’

‘That’s it?’ she said.

‘That’s it,’ he said.

‘Great,’ she said. ‘Where do I start?’

‘I’ll show you,’ he said.

Minutes later they stood before a wall built with pale brown cardboard.

‘Wow,’ April said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before.’

Hugh had.

‘Did you buy the place like this?’ she asked.

‘Something like that,’ he said, needing to leave. Not wanting to explain.

She’d work it out soon enough.

‘I’ll get this sorted for you,’ April said, catching his gaze.

He already had one foot in the foyer.

She spoke with assurance—reassurance?—and with questions in her eyes.

But Hugh didn’t want to be reassured, and he certainly didn’t want her questions. He hated the way this woman, this stranger—his employee—thought he needed to be somehow comforted.

He’d barely said a word since they’d entered this room—what had he revealed?

‘That’s what you’re here for,’ he said firmly.

Nothing more.

Now he could finally escape from the boxes, and his breath came steadily again only as he closed the front door behind him.

CHAPTER THREE

TWO DAYS LATER April sat cross-legged amongst a lot of boxes and a lot of dust.

She was dressed in jeans, sneakers and a floppy T-shirt—her jumper having been quickly removed thanks to the excellent heating and the many boxes she’d already shifted today—and yet another box lay ready for her attention. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, and the local radio station filled the room via her phone and a set of small speakers she’d purchased before she’d realised she had absolutely no money.

But she was glad for her previous financial frivolity. This massive house was creaky and echoey, and she’d hated how empty it had felt on her first day, when she’d been sorting through boxes wearing a pencil skirt, heels and a blouse with a bow—in total silence.

Bizarre how such an overflowing house could feel so empty, but it did.

Music helped. A little.

Now, on day three of her new job, already many boxes lay flattened in the foyer. The shredder had disposed of old takeaway menus and shoe catalogues and local newspapers. And she’d labelled a handful of empty boxes for donations. Several were already full with books and random bits and pieces: a man’s silk tie, a mass-produced ceramic vase, eleven tea towels from the Edinburgh Military Tattoo—and so much more. It was nearly impossible to categorise the items, although she’d tried.

But much of the boxes’ content was, as Hugh had told her, junk. The packaging for electronic items, without the items themselves. Gossip magazines from ten years ago, with British reality TV stars she didn’t recognise on the covers. Sugar and salt packets. Pens that didn’t work. Dried-out mascara and nail polish bottles.

It was all so random.

Initially she’d approached each box with enthusiasm. What was she going to learn about the person who’d packed all these boxes from this box?

But each box gave little away.

There was no theme, there were no logical groupings or collections, and so far there was absolutely nothing personal. Not even one scribble on a takeaway menu.

Hugh hadn’t given anything away, either.

It was hard in this house, with all its mysterious boxes, not to think about the rather interesting and mysterious man who owned them all.

Were they his boxes?

April didn’t think so. That morning in the kitchen, those clear but sparse directions and neat instructions had not indicated a man who collected such clutter. There was something terribly structured about the man: he exuded organisation and an almost regimented calm.

But that had changed when he’d shown her this room. The instant he’d opened the door he’d become tense. His body, his words. His gaze.

It had been obvious he’d wanted to leave, and he had as soon as humanly possible.

So, no, the boxes weren’t his.

But they didn’t belong to a stranger, either—because the boxes meant something to Hugh Bennell.

Her guess was that they belonged to a woman. The magazines, toiletries... But who?

His wife? Ex-wife? Mother? Sister? Friend?

So—with enthusiasm—April had decided to solve the mystery of the boxes.

But with box after box the mystery steadfastly remained and her enthusiasm rapidly waned.

On the radio, a newsreader read the ten o’clock news in a lovely, clipped British accent.

Only ten a.m.?

Her self-determined noon lunchbreak felt a lifetime away.

April sighed and straightened her shoulders, then carefully sliced open the brown packing tape of her next box.

On top lay empty wooden photo frames, one with a crack through the glass. And beneath that lay two phone books—the thick, heavy type that had used to be delivered before everyone had started searching for numbers online.

The unbroken wooden frames would go to the ‘donate’ box, and the phone books into the recycling. But as she walked out into the foyer, to add the books to the already mountainous recycling pile, a piece of card slipped out from between the pages.

April knelt to pick it up. It was an old and yellowed homemade bookmark, decorated with a child’s red thumbprints in the shape of lopsided hearts.

Happy Mothering Sunday!

Love Hugh

The letters were in neat, thick black marker—the work of a school or kindergarten teacher.

And just like that she’d solved the mystery.

She started a new category: Hugh.

She wasn’t making a decision on that bookmark, no matter what he said.

She’d let him know in her summarising email that evening.

The email pinged into Hugh’s inbox shortly before five p.m. As it had the previous two days at approximately the same time, with the same subject line and the day’s date. Exactly as he’d specified—which he appreciated.

She did insist on prefacing her emails with a bit of chatter, but she’d stuck to his guidelines for updating him on her progress.

Which was slower than he’d hoped. Although he didn’t think that was April’s fault—more his own desire for the house to be magically emptied as rapidly as possible.

That option still existed, of course. He’d researched a business that would come and collect all his mother’s boxes and take them away. It would probably only take a day.

But he just couldn’t bring himself to do that.

He hated those boxes—hated that stuff. Hated that his mother had been so consumed by it.

Despite it being junk, despite the way the boxes weighed so heavily upon him—both literally and figuratively—it just felt...

As if it would be disrespectful.

Hi Hugh,

I’ve found a bookmark today—photo attached—and I’ve put it aside for you. If I find anything similar I’ll let you know.

Otherwise all going well. About two thirds through this room...

Hugh didn’t read the rest. Instead he clicked open the attachment.

A minute later his boots thumped heavily against the steps up to his mother’s front door. It was freezing in the evening darkness—he hadn’t bothered to grab a coat for the very short journey—but the foyer was definitely a welcome relief as he let himself in.

April was still in the kitchen, her coat halfway on, obviously about to leave.

‘Don’t panic—I didn’t throw it out,’ she said.

‘Throw what out?’ he asked.

He hadn’t seen her since that first morning, and she looked different in jeans and jumper—younger, actually. Her cheek was smudged with dust, her hair not entirely contained in the knot on top of her head.

‘The bookmark,’ she said. ‘I’ll just go grab it for you.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’

She’d already taken a handful of steps, and now stood only an arm’s length before him.

‘Okay,’ she said. She inclined her chin in a direction over his shoulder. ‘It’s in a box out there. I’ve labelled it “Hugh”. I’ll just chuck anything in there that I think you should have a look at.’

‘No,’ he said again. ‘Don’t.’

Now she seemed to realise what he was saying. Or at least she was no longer wilfully ignoring him. He knew how clear he’d been: with the exception of any paperwork that included personal details, April was to donate or trash everything.

‘Are you sure?’

Hugh shrugged. ‘It’s just a badly painted bookmark.’

Up until a few minutes ago he’d had no recollection of that piece of well-intentioned crafting, so his life would definitely be no lesser with it gone.

‘I wasn’t just talking about the bookmark,’ April said. ‘I meant anything like that. I’m sure more sentimental bits and pieces are going to turn up. And what about photos? I found some photo frames today, so I expect eventually I’ll find—’

‘Photos can go in the bin,’ he said.

Hugh shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. Again, he just wanted to be out of this place. But he didn’t leave.

April was watching him carefully, concern in her clear blue gaze. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot. Fidgeting. He never fidgeted.

He wasn’t himself in this house. With all this stuff. Now that the boxes had necessarily flowed into the foyer behind him the clutter was everywhere.

April had left an empty coffee mug on the kitchen sink.

Now he skirted around her, making his way to the other side of the counter, grabbed the mug and opened the dishwasher. It was empty.

‘I’ve just been hand-washing,’ April said. ‘I can wash that before I go—don’t worry about it.’

Hugh ignored her, stuck the plug in the sink and turned on the hot water. Beneath the sink he found dishwashing liquid, and squirted it into the steaming water.

As the suds multiplied he was somewhat aware of April shrugging off her coat. He had no idea why it was so important for him to clean this mug, but it was.

‘You can go,’ he said, cleaning out the coffee marks from inside the mug. He realised it wasn’t one of his mother’s—it was printed with the logo of a Fremantle sporting team he didn’t recognise and had a chip in the handle. It was April’s.

He rinsed the mug in hot water and placed it on the dish rack.

Immediately it was picked up again—by April.

She was standing right beside him, tea towel in hand, busily drying the mug.

He hadn’t noticed her move so close.

She didn’t look at him, her concentration focused on her task. Her head was bent, and a long tendril of dark hair curled down to her nape.

This close, he could see the dust decorating her hair, a darker smudge creating a streak across her cheekbone.

She turned, looking directly at him.

She was tall, he realised, even without her heels.

Today her lips weren’t glossy, and he realised she probably wasn’t wearing make-up. Her eyelashes were no longer the blackest black; her skin wasn’t magazine-perfect.

She didn’t look better—or worse. Just different. And it was that difference he liked.

That she’d surprised him.

He hadn’t been able to imagine her unpacking boxes—but she looked just as comfortable today as she had in her sharp suit. And her gaze was just as strong, just as direct.

He realised he liked that, too.

It should have been an uncomfortable and unwanted realisation. Maybe it was—or it would be later. When his brain wasn’t cluttered with boxes and forgotten bookmarks and had room for logic and common sense...and remembering who he was. Who she was.

Boss. Employee...

For now, he simply looked at the surprising woman beside him.

‘I know this is your mum’s house,’ she said. ‘I get that this must be difficult for you.’

Her words were soft and gentle. They still cut deep.

But they shouldn’t—and his instinct was to disagree. They’re just boxes. It’s just stuff. It’s not difficult in any way at all.

He said nothing.

‘Do you want me to come back tomorrow?’

Had she thought he might fire her over the bookmark?

He nodded sharply, without hesitation. Despite how uncomfortable her kind words had made him. Despite how unlike himself she made him. How aware he was of her presence in this room and in this house. How aware he was of how close she stood to him.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave my mug, then.’

He didn’t look at her as she stepped around him and put the coffee mug into an overhead cupboard.

By the time she’d shrugged back into her coat, and arranged her letterbox-red knitted scarf he’d pulled himself together.

‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, with a smile that was bright.

And then she was gone, leaving Hugh alone with a sink full of disappearing bubbles.

April’s roommate was asleep when she got home from stacking shelves at the supermarket, so she went into the communal living room to call her mum.

For once the room was empty—usually the Shoreditch shared house tended to have random people dotted all over the place.

Evidence of the crowd of backpackers who lived here—three from Australia and two from South Africa—was scattered everywhere, though. Empty beer bottles on the cheap glass coffee table, along with a bowl of now stale chips—crisps, they were called here—and a variety of dirty plastic plates and cups. One of the other Aussie girls had had a friend dossing on the couch, and his sheets and blankets still lay tangled and shoved into a corner, waiting for someone magically to wash them and put them away.

Which would happen—eventually. April had learnt that someone would get sick of the mess, and then do a mad tidy-up—loudly and passive-aggressively.

On a couple of occasions in the two weeks she’d been here it had been her—a lifetime of a weekly house-cleaning service meant she definitely preferred things clean, even though she’d had to look up how to clean a shower on the internet. She’d then realised that her relatively advanced age—she was the oldest of the group by six years—meant that everyone expected her to be the responsible, tidy one who’d clean up after everyone else.

And that wasn’t going to happen.

She was too busy working her two jobs and trying to stay on top of her April Molyneux social media world to add unpaid cleaner to the mix. So she’d coordinated the group, they’d all agreed on a roster...and sometimes it was followed.