Page 5 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘Oh! You sure? Our styles are a little… uh…’

‘Different,’ I finish. ‘I know, but youlovethese,’ I say, alluding to her fondness for ‘lost love’ cases. I’m guessing that Nasrin has her own lurking in the past.

‘I do but…’ She pauses, internal conflict blaring from her face. Nasrin is either on the precipice of a gigantic moan about the unfairness of the universe or… well, not. She reins it in. ‘That would be fab, Poppy. I’ll send through the invite.’ She gets up from my desk and immediately turns back around. ‘Oh, and ourclient, the one who’s coming in – she’s actually ourrealclient’s sister.’

‘Oh. So, a secret behind-the-scenes match?’

‘Exactly,’ she says with a lift of her brows.

Ooh, this case already appeals to me.

‘Tris, is that you?’ I call from my nook in the guest bedroom.

I’m sat at my beloved antique secretary, catching up on work emails and aiming to get my inbox down to zero before dinner. And even though I went for a quick after-work drink, as mandated by George, I still beat Tristan home by an hour.

‘No, darling, it’s your lover, Raoul.’

A grin spreads across my face. It was only weeks into our marriage when we began this playful exchange for post-work sexy time. ‘Well, you’d better get in here and ravish me. My husband will be home any minute now.’

Tristan appears at the doorway, rumpledly handsome after a long workday moving money across the globe in complicated multi-million-pound transactions.

‘Hello, wife,’ he says, his whisky-coloured eyes boring into mine. Not too long ago, I considered the word ‘wife’ to be a perfunctory, unsexy word. From Tristan’s lips, it has superpowers and my body floods with heat.

Without a second thought, I abandon my work and fling myself into his arms. His mouth finds mine and he kisses me hungrily. I tug at his silk tie, loosening it, then carelessly drop it to the floor. And so begins our rushed disrobing, buttons taking too long to come free and zippers annoyingly stubborn. Since making love for the first time, on our wedding night, we cannot keep our hands off each other.

‘Here or?—’

‘Here,’ I say against his lips, as our bedroom seems a mile away even though it’s just on the other side of the lounge room. Tristan backs me up to the bed, then performs the (very smooth) manoeuvre of lowering me onto it with one arm while hovering over me with the other. He pulls back, regarding me intensely, and a grin breaks across his face. ‘I missed you today.’

‘I missed you too,’ I say, my voice raspy with lust. I grab him, impatient, and the feeling of his skin against mine almost sends me over the edge –almost.

But my newish husband knows exactly how to tease me, leading me up to the brink, then bringing me back in an excruciatingly exquisite dance.

Sometime later, I surrender to sensation and cry out. We still, lying side by side, our skin glistening and both out of breath. Well, I am. Tristan is so fit, he could probably run a marathon at a moment’s notice.

‘How was your first day back?’ he asks.

I prop myself onto one elbow and trail my other hand lazily over his (deliciously sexy) chest. ‘It was good – nice to see everyone. Oh! The Carruthers case has finally come to a close.’

Last year, the now-former Mrs Carruthers discovered that her love match was one-sided and threatened to expose the agency,andsome of our high-profile clients. Quite a terrifying time for a matchmaking agency that prides itself on discretion and confidentiality. Five months on, after some next-level matchmaking by my colleague, Ursula, and she’s on her way to the altar with a real love match.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful news,’ he says.

‘Yep. Everyone’s relieved to close the door on that one, especially Saskia and Ursula.’

Saskia Featherstone: former solicitor, founder of the agency, and one of my mentors. We secretly call her ‘The Swan’ forher unwavering cool-headedness, and evenshewas fazed by the Carruthers case. As was Ursula, senior agent and my other mentor. It was one of Ursula’s rare ‘failings’ as a matchmaker.

‘Understandable,’ says Tristan. He knows exactly how close the agency was to imploding (and me losing my much-loved job), as he showed up to propose to me the same day Mrs Carruthers barged into the office and caused a massive scene.

I lift my hand from his chest and run a finger gently over the ridge of his right cheekbone. Tristan really issohandsome. I once described him to my best friend, Shaz, as the love child of Henry Cavill and Theo James.

‘And any prospective cases on the horizon?’ he asks after a few moments. He must have been lost in thought too – probably musing about how beautiful I am. Hah! I’m not, but he says I am – and often.

‘Actually, yes,’ I reply. ‘A referral from Nas – long-lost love. We’re meeting with the client’s sister tomorrow and I’ll decide then.’

‘You really get to pick and choose your cases?’ he asks, a reminder that even months into our marriage, we’re still learning about each other.

I nod. ‘Mmm-hmm. I have to be all-in to be an effective agent.’

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