Just as I’m simultaneously organising files on my computer and agonising over my impending social doom, Will walks in the door, his wisp of brown hair a windswept mess atop his head. He was in court this morning, which is why he’s late to the office. Unlike most men, I get along with Will just fine. That’s probably because I find him about as sexually appealing as a pair of oversized granny knickers. So, when I said I’m crap with all men, I suppose I should adjust that statement. I’m just crap with all men that I fancy.

Sure, I can be their friend. But their girlfriend? Well, that just never seems to pan out. My one and only boyfriend from several years ago unceremoniously dumped me by text, and that just says it all. I’m still scarred from the experience.

“Morning, Will,” I greet my colleague as a folder slides out of his half-open briefcase. He bends over to pick it up, and I’m greeted with his unimpressive rear end. Two flat fried eggs in a hanky.

What? I said my inner dialogue was a bitch. The important thing is that I’d never actually say something so mean out loud. We all have thoughts that we would never, ever vocalise. And people who say they don’t are liars.

“Hi, Matilda, could you be a love and make me a cup of tea? I’m parched.”

“Sure,” I reply. “It’s a good thing you’re a tea man, because the coffee machine’s on the outs again.”

He shakes his head. “That machine is broken more often than it’s functioning. I think it’s time to retire the poor old dear.”

I let out a mock gasp. “Don’t ever let Dad hear you say that. You know he never throws anything out until it’s well and truly dead.”

Will laughs and walks into his office. I register the next couple of appointments as they arrive and spend the hours before lunch carrying out my usual mundane administrative tasks. I’d much rather be at home working at my sewing machine.

By day I might be a legal secretary, but by night I’m a dress designer extraordinaire. I design and make my own creations, and sell them through Etsy. It doesn’t make me enough money to be a proper wage, though, which is why I work here.

Before she died, my mother was a seamstress, and one of my earliest memories was of her teaching me how to sew. The hobby stuck with me, and now it’s my true escape. I find it wonderfully therapeutic to lose myself in a new design. In fact, it’s one of the only ways that I can still feel close to my mum.

When I glance at the clock and see it’s almost one, I make a quick run to the bathroom to fix my hair and the little makeup I put on this morning, staring at my face in the mirror. If I’d known I’d be meeting someone like Jay Fields today, I would’ve made more of an effort.

My friend Michelle tells me I have great lips and that I should try to enhance my best features. Actually, her exact words were “blowjob lips,” and I blushed like a maniac. I tend to get along with people who are the opposite of me. Confident girls who take to men and sex like ducks to water. They paddle through the lake of dating without a care in the world. Michelle is one of those girls, and I admire that about her. There’s a certain bravery in not giving a crap what other people think and simply grabbing what you want in life.

I run a brush through my long dark brown hair, making sure to sweep it close to my face on the side with my scar. I almost always wear my hair down in order to disguise it. It’s just a few silver lines, and yet I’m constantly aware of their presence, hoping people don’t notice.

I can barely remember his face, and yet I hate the man who scarred me more than anything else in this world. And I hate him more for killing my mother. Hate is an ugly emotion, though, so I try not to let it consume me.

After swiping on one more layer of mascara to frame my light blue eyes, I pack up my handbag and walk back out to the reception. I stop in my tracks when I find Jay leaning against the wall, his arms folded casually across his chest. I hadn’t heard anyone enter the office, so I get a tiny fright, my hand going to my heart for a second. Damn, he’s got those super-silent ninja skills.

His eyes are on me, and I know it must only be one-sided, but every time our eyes connect, I feel a fire burning low.

What is it about this man? He’s incredibly attractive, yes, but there’s something else, and for the life of me I can’t figure it out.

He smiles at me, showing teeth, and jangles some car keys in his pocket. “You all set, Matilda?” he asks.

I take a deep breath and nod my head.

Two

The first thing I notice as we round the corner to where Jay parked is that he’s got a really nice car. A black Aston Martin V8. One of Dad’s favourite television shows is Top Gear, so I can’t help unconsciously absorbing useless car information sometimes. The second is that he seems to have all his worldly possessions packed in the back seat.

It’s bizarre to think that he’s temporarily homeless, and yet he’s driving around in a car worth well over 100,000 euros. It just doesn’t make sense. I slide into the passenger seat when Jay opens the door for me, savouring the feel of the leather. For a second I pretend I’m a sassy Bond girl about to be chauffeured by my spy lover to a swanky hotel for sweaty, passionate, over-the-top sex.

“So, where to?” Jay asks, now in the driver’s seat and waiting for my instructions. I got a little lost in the fantasy there.

“Oh, our house is in Clontarf. Do you know the way?”

“I know the gist of it. You can direct me once we get close,” he responds, smiling, and pulling away from the curb.

As he starts the engine, the radio comes on, heavy rock music blasting from the speakers. I glance at the dash to check what station is playing, my nervous disposition urging me to fill this short car journey with some variety of conversation.

“Oh, I see you’re a Phantom FM fan,” I say over the music. The sentence couldn’t have come out any nerdier, but it’s the first crappy thing that popped into my head.

Jay’s eyes flick to me, then to the dash, then back to the road ahead of him. His expression is blank before the edges of his mouth curve in a smile.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he finally responds before lowering the music so we can talk properly. Oh, no, don’t do that. “They play some good shit.”

“You should give Radio Nova a listen. They play some, uh, good shit, too.”

Jay lets out a deep chuckle, and I resist the urge to face-palm. “Oh, yeah? What kind of good shit?”

“Um, the usual rock fare. They play a lot of Fleetwood Mac. I love Fleetwood Mac.”

Jay laughs some more, and I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or laughing with me. Then he gives me this warm look that tells me it’s the latter. There’s the fire again. I really wish he’d stop looking at me like that, but asking him to stop would surely be too weird a request.

“What’s a kid like you doing listening to Fleetwood Mac? Shouldn’t you be swooning over Brandon Flowers or something?” he teases, and it raises my hackles slightly.

“I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-three, for your information.”

Jay turns his head to look at me again for a brief moment. His lips curve, and it makes me realise he was only teasing.

“So, Fleetwood Mac?” he probes.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I just love every single one of their songs — not to mention there was this palpable angst about them back in the day. So many emotions flying around, you know?”

“I get you,” says Jay, fixing his attention back on the road. “Do I bang a left here or a right?” he asks as we approach a roundabout.

His turn of phrase amuses me as I respond, “Go left, then keep on driving straight ahead. Our house isn’t far. Also, on the subject of our house, why on earth do you want to rent a room when you’re driving around in a car like this? People who drive Aston Martins can generally afford to buy their own house — buy several, in fact.”

Jay gives me a sneaky look. “If you really want to know the truth, I won this car on a bet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That must have been some bet.”

“It was. Found myself playing poker with a bunch of guys who performed with the circus one night. Long story short, I came away with an Aston Martin, five grand, two llamas and an elephant. I was feeling generous, so I let them keep the llamas and the elephant. I mean, who has a backyard big enough for an elephant?”

I stare at him, my mouth open slightly. “Is that true?”

His hands flex on the steering wheel. “Of course it’s true. Why would I lie?”

Laughter bubbles out of me. “You must lead a very colourful life, Mr Fields.”

The way he smiles after I say it makes me think he likes that idea. When we pull into the drive, Jay gets out first, and before I have the chance to do it myself, he walks around the car and opens my door for me. I like that.

I rummage through my bag as I exit, trying to locate my keys. By the time I reach the door, I still haven’t found them, and I try to backtrack in my head to remember if I forgot to bring them with me this morning.

A little jingle sounds at my ear, and I turn to see Jay standing behind me, my keys hanging from his hand and a brazen gleam in his eyes.

“Are these what you’re looking for?” he asks with a smirk.

I stare at him, hands on my hips, while a little rush of curiosity goes through me. “Okay, how did you do that?”

He gives me the keys before answering innocently, “Do what?”

I snicker. “You’d make a great pickpocket, you know.”

“Correction,” Jay replies. “I made a great pickpocket.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Are you sure this is something you want to be telling a prospective housemate?”

“Generally, no, but you’ve already decided that you like me, and discovering I used to pick pockets isn’t going to change that,” he says with absolute certainty as he rocks back on his heels and looks down at me, a devilish smile on his lips.

Okay, hold on a second. How can he possibly know that? Even if it is true. I step inside the hallway, and he follows suit.

“When did you come to this conclusion?” I ask in a low, self-conscious voice.

“Do you really want to know?” He grins, leaning closer.

I stare at him for a second, and my heart stutters. He really is gorgeous, especially up this close. I’m thinking that if I say yes, I could be opening a whole can of worms, so I go for the safe answer. “No. I guess I don’t.”

His eyes sparkle with mischief, and I quickly walk forward to lead him up the stairs. “The room’s this way,” I call behind me.

I’m halfway up, and he’s so quiet that I have to turn to make sure he’s following. What I find when I do makes my heart stutter even harder, because those hypnotic eyes are unmistakably glued to my arse, and it looks like he’s enjoying the view. Tingles spread through my chest as his gaze travels up to me and his lips form a smirk. Oh, God. Before he can say anything, I turn back around and practically jog the rest of the way up.

When we reach the spare room Jay takes a look around. The only furniture is a pine double bed, a matching wardrobe, and a bedside dresser. The walls are painted a plain magnolia, and there are simple cream cotton curtains on the window. Jay has a happy look on his face as he steps inside the en-suite. He emerges a minute later, declaring, “The room is perfect, Matilda. Where do I sign?”

I almost stammer. “Oh, well, I’ll have to talk to Dad first. He probably has a few more prospective tenants he needs to show around before he selects the person he’s going to rent it to. He’ll also want to do a background check.”

Jay leans his arm against the door frame and eyes me. “Hmm, is she lying or telling the truth? I think she’s lying. You don’t want me living here, darlin’?”

“I’m not lying,” I state, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. “I’ll call Dad now if you like and let him tell you himself,” I say, shoving my hand into my bag for my phone. I can’t find it, though, and I let out a little huff of frustration.

Eyeing him suspiciously, I ask, “You didn’t happen to swipe my phone as well as my keys, did you?”

Two dimples deepen in each of Jay’s cheeks as he answers, “I never swiped your keys, Matilda. They fell out of your bag when you were leaving the car. I simply picked them up for you.”

Great, that means I’ve lost my phone and will probably have to fork out for a new one. I distinctly remember slipping it into my bag about twenty minutes before lunch. Did I drop it when I was on the street?

Jay pushes off the doorframe and takes a few steps toward me, stopping a mere foot away. As he tilts his head to the side, his eyes never leave mine. A second that feels like an hour passes before he shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out an iPhone. “I’ll just call your Dad myself, let him know I’m interested.”

“Yeah, you go right ahead,” I reply, doing my best to sound breezy.

He’s silent for a moment as he holds the phone to his ear, then says, “Hugh? Yeah, it’s Jay. Listen, I’ve just had a look at the room, and it’s exactly what I had in mind.”

He pauses for a second as my dad talks to him down the line. I walk over to the window and glance out at the view of the houses on the street behind ours, my skin goose-pimpling. Jay was right when he said I liked him, and I don’t even know why I do, aside from his obvious attractions. There’s something about him that tells me he’s one of the good guys, despite what the little I know of him would lead me to believe. And yet, the idea of us living under the same roof has my stomach all a-flutter.