I nod dumbly but forget to actually move. The driver clears his throat pointedly.
“Oh, yeah, right.” I reach for my wallet.
“The fare’s paid.”
Duh, of course it is. My body remembers it's capable of movement, and I get out of the car and shut the door. The taxi drives off, leaving me standing staring at the gates.
Deep breath.
I head to the gates and try to push one side open, but they’re locked, obviously. I glance around and locate a security box on a brick post and press the call buzzer. I have to buzz three times and wait several minutes before I get a reply.
“Who is it?” It’s definitely Hamish, even though his voice is tinny and distorted.
“Archie Morris.”
“Who?”
Fuck. Valerie never actually told him my name. Has she emailed him a copy of my CV?
“I’m from Next Generation Recruitment. Valerie Marchant sent me. To interview for the PA vacancy you have.” I’m already stumbling over my words, incapable of stringing more than a few together at a time, which is making my sentences choppy. This is not the kind of first impression I want to give a potential employer.
The gate starts to swing open in an unhurried fashion. I'm too impatient to wait for it to open fully, so I squeeze through the moment the gap is wide enough for me to slip through. There's a hedge along the edge of the large driveway, tall enough to hide the grounds in front of the house from my view. It's a bit of a walk to another set of gates, which have already been opened for me. My feet crunch on white gravel as I step onto a short drive and parking area. The garden is a well-manicured, slightly sloping lawn, with huge slabs of stone forming a pathway up to a patio. I take note of the oversized grey wicker garden furniture, which is turned to face the first extension. It's a curved semicircle of full-height glass, two storeys high. The roof juts over the structure, and I can see lights positioned between each dark metal roof support. I imagine, at night, it might look a little like a flying saucer. I'm utterly blown away by how gorgeous everything is, and I haven't even stepped inside the house yet.
Speaking of inside, the room I can see every inch of from outside is a kitchen, dining, and living area combined. There are three two-seater sofas arranged around a slender wooden coffee table by the windows. A large TV has been mounted on the brick wall of the old building. The kitchen forms an L-shape. The cupboards are glossy white, and the appliances are built in. Except for the double oven, they're all hidden too. It's so damn clean I'd be afraid to even cook in there. There's a wooden table with benches on either side, and the flooring is made of stone. Fuck, it's gorgeous. I could literally have an orgasm just thinking about that room.
“Well, don’t just stand there gawping.”
I jump. I’d been too busy drooling through the windows I didn’t even notice Hamish open a patio door to the side of the building.
He's an imposing man. I've seen dozens of pictures of him, but nothing prepared me for being in his presence. He's big—tall, broad, and heavy set—but the untucked off-white roll-neck top and grey blazer he's wearing make him look perfectly proportioned. My stare travels down, taking in his black chinos and bare feet. I wasn't expecting that. He fills the clothes out, without them looking tight on him. His head is completely shaved, but he's sporting a well-groomed beard and moustache, which has plenty of grey and even a touch of red among the dark brown. In contrast, his eyebrows are a pale reddish blond. His thick neck is cleanly shaved. There are permanent worry lines on his forehead and crow's feet around his hard blue eyes. The only comprehensible thoughts in my brain are how fucking gorgeous he is and that the photo on the back cover of all his books does not do him any justice at all.
Iwasdrooling over the house; now I’m drooling over him.
“Get inside,” he snaps.
I follow him into the kitchen, where I notice a hole in the ground, covered by what I assume is safety glass. It seals off a deep hole with brickwork all around it like a well. Floodlights illuminate a huge metal pipe down extending out of a box with a hand wheel on it at the bottom.
“It used to be a water tower.” Hamish lounges against a counter, arms loosely folded. “Can you make a good cup of coffee?”
I’m too awestruck by him and the house and too stunned by the question to be able to figure out whether he’s being serious or not. Films and TV shows might portray PAs as nothing more than glorified teaboys, but that’s not even close to what we actually do. We run business errands, make and distribute the minutes of meetings, ensure records are kept up to date, manage calendars and appointments, among other things.
“Pretty good.”
“Prove it.” Hamish opens a cupboard above his head, revealing white mugs and several different types of coffee beans.
There's a fancy-looking coffee machine on the worktop. I'm actively sweating as I select one of the bags of coffee beans at random and try to fathom the machine. My skin prickles beneath the collar of my shirt, and my armpits feel damp. Up close and personal, I realise how much bigger than me Hamish really is. We're less than a foot apart from each other, and he makes me feel tiny. I'm half a foot shorter than him, at least. I've never considered myself scrawny, but beside him, I look like Steve Rogers before he gets turned into Captain America. And if I'm Steve Rogers, Hamish is the Hulk. Now that's a ship I've never come across on the internet but suddenly want to find so badly. What would it be like to be held in such huge, powerful arms? I'd happily be crushed against that man's chest.
Fuck. Thinking like that is only going to make me sweat even more.
Coffee. Make coffee. Why the fuck am I making him coffee? I'm a PA. Yet I don't stop myself or confront him about it. I make the damn coffee.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“I take it black.”
I hand him the mug. Our fingers brush as he takes it. A little jolt of energy shoots up my arm, leaving me breathless. I watch as he blows over the top of the coffee, displacing the coils of steam that are rising up from the black surface. He closes his eyes as he takes a sip. A murmur passes his lips. Then he opens his eyes and puts the mug down with a soft thud, sloshing some of the hot liquid onto the quartz countertop.
“It’ll do. Can you type?”
