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Jack

Proud.

It was the only way I could describe the warmth spreading across my chest and creeping up my throat. The blush covering my cheeks, desperately trying to hide behind my greying, trimmed stubble, could be described as un-manly.

Standing before a black-rimmed mirror, beneath a warm-lit globe light in a small downstairs bathroom within a period property located in Ponteland, I was overwhelmed with pride.

Every now and then, it would hit me at the most inconvenient times: I was achieving my professional dreams. A joint CEO of Lambert & Johnson, the most prestigious estate agents in the luxury property field within the north-east of England, I was leading the industry alongside my life-long best friend, Mike Johnson, and it caught me off-guard in the worst possible moments.

Now, for example, I was seconds from leading the most prominent meeting of my professional career to date.

The goal? To sell the property, holding the very bathroom I was sweating out in, to a businessman who was intent on settling down with his fourth wife after deeming Newcastle Upon Tyne to be the best place to live to remain far, far away from his previous wives.

If – when – we would receive his offer, it would likely hit the ￡1.

6 million mark, and for a boy who cocked up his O-Levels, this was a dream could come true.

Minutes ticked by as I stood hunched over the brass basin breathing heavily, willing myself to present as cool, calm and collected. I peeked from beneath my furrowed brow at my reflection, a bead of sweat hovered on my grey hairline. A small tap at the door snapped me out of my daze.

“Jack?” a hushed, feminine voice called through the black bathroom door. “Are you okay? Mr Ellison’s car just pulled through the gates.”

Willow Thornton.

Another reason for sweat to build along my hairline.

After six years as my assistant at Lambert and Johnson, Willow attended almost every single meeting, sale and event – aside from those she was on annual leave for, and even then, it was hard to keep her away.

I was on high alert whenever she was near.

Six years – or more accurately, six years, seven months, thirteen days and some hours – of working together meant that she knew me better than I knew myself.

I didn’t know how to feel about it.

It was a familiarity I’d expect a best friend or a wife to have.

But even Mike, didn’t know my ins and outs quite this well, despite our twenty-five years of friendship.

My wife couldn’t possibly know the current me at all, since she was scattered over the beach near Warkworth Castle eleven years ago.

Willow knew that I wasn’t a coffee guy, preferring a strong dark Yorkshire Tea over anything else, and would fill my mug and reusable water bottle if she saw either of them empty or suspected I’d be stuck at my desk for any length of time.

She knew my parents well enough to chat to them when they’d call the office, knowing I was more likely to be there than at home, and would spend the first ten minutes of every call chatting about their days in rainy Scotland.

She knew that on days like today, where I was overwhelmed by the magnitude of a meeting that I needed to take the longer route from the office to the property and preferred to stay quiet, or at most listen to Smooth Radio on a low volume.

And yet I knew barely anything about her.

I knew she preferred to have her long, dark hair down rather than up, mainly because whenever she’d refill the pen stash on my desk, her hair would faintly tickle my arms, cheeks, ears. Anything it touched, and my skin would ache to feel it again.

I knew she lived with her boyfriend – Callum? Christian? Calvin? His name was unimportant, but what was important was how frustrated I was knowing he merely existed. That he ate with her, breathed the same air as her and revelled in her love.

I had come to terms with, at forty-seven, I was lusting over my twenty-something-year-old assistant, and I couldn’t fucking stop.

“Uh, yeah all good,” was the answer I decided upon, wiping the sheen of sweat and correcting the collar on my white open-neck shirt, brushing down my charcoal suit before opening the door and stepping out into the entryway of the two-story Georgian property.

Forcing myself not to look Willow up and down either like a forlorn puppy desperate for a new owner or like a lion waiting for its next meal.

I took my place by Willow and faced the front door just as Graham Ellison’s car crackled over the driveway gravel and came to a stop in front of the house. Inevitably, he didn’t park neatly by my own, he parked at an angle, making it known to all and sundry that this was his space – all of it.

As we waited, I glanced at Willow. Her dark locks were curled into a bouncy blow-dry – I wished I didn’t know that, but eleven years of solo parenting a daughter meant this was key information.

Her thick but perfectly manicured brows matched her hair and arched over dark chocolate eyes.

Her makeup was flawless – darkened lashes fanning her big eyes with a tiny amount of warm shadow to her waterline, her olive skin was met with a deep mauve blush on her cheekbones and a pinkie-brown lipstick over her perfect lips.

I couldn’t imagine she needed makeup, but what she added only enhanced her natural beauty.

She wore a burgundy long sleeve top, the neckline offering slithers of the tanned skin along the curvature of her neck. The silky material hugged her curves until it slid below black wide-leg trousers, cinched at the waist by a belt.

Nearly catching me sneak a peek at her beauty, Willow turned to look at me. Her lashes flickering as she glanced across my face, presumably an attempt to read my emotions before Graham entered.

“You good?” she muttered quietly, her husky voice huskier in her attempt to be quiet, with one eyebrow slightly arched.

I nodded, my brow furrowed with concentration.

Annoyingly, my concentration wasn’t completely on the impending meeting, but on her blush colour and wondering if her real blush resembled that at all.

“This is what you’ve worked for, what we’ve worked towards for six months.

” I smiled at her vote of confidence, ever the optimist was Willow.

“You’re too good for an assistant, if only you’d let me promote you.”

“Who would sort your pens and keep you in line?” The corner of her mouth quirked up with her sarcastic quip. I breathed out a laugh as the front door opened with Graham Ellison and his assistant, the latter struggling to hold the door open for his boss.

Automatically, my body kicked itself into corporate mode, marching forward and putting a hand out to shake Graham’s, the other clasping his hand in mine as if we were old friends. We weren’t, we were nothing more than professional acquaintances, but such was the name of the realtor game.

“Graham, nice to see you again. I trust you found the property okay?” I asked, noting my posher work voice kicking in.

“Just fine. Kevin, my assistant—” He gestured behind him to Kevin, who was now safely inside the house, rather than stumbling around with the front door handle like it was more complicated than it was.

“And you are?” Graham questioned, neck craning around me, eyes wide like saucers as if he’d spotted his latest lottery win.

The hairs stood on the back of my neck as I realised Willow was the source of his curiosity.

I didn’t like the way his eyes drew up and down her body, appreciating what I wanted to appreciate.

“Willow Thornton, Corporate Assistant for Lambert & Johnson. Nice to meet you Mr Ellison. I’m here to support with today’s meeting.”

Willow appeared at my side, shook Graham’s hand professionally and clasped her hands in front of her like she always did. I was evidently not the only hot-blooded male who noticed her, but seemingly the only one not to use that to my advantage.

“Oh yes, I’d say it’s very nice to meet you, Miss Thornton.

” Graham looked her up and down with a smirk.

I found Kevin doing the same but with bewilderment, as if she was mythical.

He wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t for either of them to find out.

It wasn’t for me to find out, no matter how much I longed to.

I’d committed long ago to keeping my feelings – both emotional and physical – for Willow to myself and treating her with the utmost respect, it was the least she deserved.

Thankfully, Willow remained unbothered by either man.

I cleared my throat to return their attention to me, which they did, though Kevin’s shift was notably quicker than Graham’s.

Graham’s head turned slowly but his eyes remained somewhere between Willow’s shoulders and her hips for longer than they should have.

No wonder he’s on wife number four. I felt a growl rise up my throat before recalling the purpose of this meeting.

I’d make it up to Willow at a later date, for now I had an arse to lick.