Page 1 of Best Man
PROLOGUE
JESSE - THREE YEARS AGO
I settle back into my chair and try to find a comfortable resting spot. However, the hard plastic makes that as unlikely a possibility as Keanu Reeves descending to Covent Garden and declaring his undying love for me.
I’ve just drifted off to a lovely dream of licking his beard when the office’s inner door slams open and a young man comes marching out with high spots of colour glowing over his cheekbones. I look at him with interest. It’s a marked change from when he went in all high head and confident dazzling smile.
Not that it’s a surprise. All six previous interviewees have gone in the same way and left just as quickly. I settle back and watch as he exits the office in a cloud of angst and Hugo Boss aftershave, letting in the faint twang of petrol fumes from outside and a whiff of bread from the bakery next door.
Several of the other people dotted around the room stir and look at each other while the man at the desk, obviously well used to this, carries on scratching away with his pen on a piece of paper.
He shows no sign of calling anyone else for an interview and theinner door remains shut, so I stand up and edge over to him. He looks up. He’s not pretty, but he has a very striking appearance with big hazel eyes and a tumble of black hair around a thin face. But my purpose isn’t to flirt today.
I perch on the edge of the desk, and he eyes my bum. His mouth quirks. “Can I help you? Did I not give you a chair? How very remiss of me.”
I look down at the nameplate on his desk and smile. “Yes, Felix, maybe you can help me. Is there any chance of me being interviewed today, or should I just settle down and wait for death to find me?”
He smirks. “Mr Evans has a long queue of people waiting.”
That’s not surprising. The Evans Agency is well known in London for catering to the needs of its customers who are largely from the LGBTQ community. Its employees can help a person with their business, do their gardening and their shopping, walk their dogs, or even pose as a fake boyfriend or girlfriend to help in awkward social situations. No job is too small for them, and the agency has become a byword for discretion and capability.
I’d heard about the job vacancy from my friend. His boyfriend had cheated on him just before his office Christmas party, and within a couple of hours an extremely gorgeous bloke turned up and escorted him to the party, much to the displeasure of the cheating ex.
“Mr Evans is very busy,” Felix says happily.
I look at the outer door which is still swaying gently in the breeze from the previous applicant. “He’s busy pissing people off from the looks of it,” I mutter. There’s a stack of post on the desk, and I lean closer and whistle. “Zebadiah Evans. Fucking hell, that’s a mouthful. Sounds like someone who’d be at home onThe Tudors. Wearing a wimple and chucking brimstone at a peasant.”
Felix’s eyes widening are the only sign that I’ve just stepped in shit. That and the low, posh voice from behind me.
“I knowThe Tudorstook a lot of liberties with facts, but I don’t think that even they went that far.”
I stiffen and then spin round. A tall, wide-shouldered man is leaning against the open doorway of the inner room, and fucking hell, he’s gorgeous. Thick, black, wavy hair frames a craggy face. There arefaint lines around his eyes telling me that he’s quite a bit older than me, but his eyes are the deepest blue I’ve ever seen. As blue as a cornflower. He’s wearing a very expensive pinstriped suit with a white shirt and red tie. I pause. And a very sardonic smile.Shit, this is the boss man.
I straighten up slowly, prepared to apologise. But one look at his expression and I change my mind. My student loans need this money, and I’m just going to have to brazen this out. So I look him up and down slowly instead. “No wimple, then?”
“Not in office hours,” he says primly, making me smile. His voice is deep with a slight husky catch to it. For a second we stare at each other, and then he shrugs and gestures to his room with one large hand. “You’d better come in. Felix might need to do some actual work on his desk at some point today.”
I swallow hard and, standing up, I edge past him, getting a waft of very expensive cologne that smells of orange and sandalwood. “Watch out for the brimstone,” he mutters. “It’s over by the window.”
I snort and shake my head. “What exactly is brimstone, anyway?”
“Your extensive knowledge ofThe Tudorsdidn’t give you that knowledge, then?” he says, gesturing me to a seat in front of an enormous desk piled high with very neat stacks of paperwork.
“I must have dozed off at that point. If Henry Cavill wasn’t naked, I lost interest.”
“What a discerning viewer you are,” he murmurs. He looks at me as he settles back into his chair and slips on a pair of black-framed glasses. “Brimstone is an alternative name for sulphur. In the Bible it was called brimstone, which means burning stone.”
“Ah, good job, you’re educated. I must have missed that page of the Bible when I passed out due to boredom.”
For a second he stares at me, and I think I catch a faint twitch around his mouth which might denote amusement, but more likely it just means he’d like to throttle me. That’s the more common reaction I’m used to.
I gaze at him, the only sound in the room that of the chatter of people wandering in the courtyard outside which filters in through the open window. It brings with it a faint breeze, and I strain to catch it,feeling the sweat dampening my underarms and the faint track of grime on my skin. England is in the middle of a heatwave and there’s nowhere more miserable than London when it’s hot.
I sigh, and he looks up from the piece of paper he’s holding. “Something wrong?”
“It’s just that you look as cool as a cucumber, and I look like I’ve been thrown in an oven and then pushed down a hill.” He blinks and I bite my lip. “What does that mean, anyway?”
“Are you asking me to decipher your entire sentence? Because I’ve a feeling that the Greek gods setting Hercules his labours wouldn’t have tasked him with that one.”
