The door opens, and my heart beats heavily as Mags appears. It’s a Saturday, so he’s dressed casually in olive-coloured shorts and a white T-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders. Being Magnus, his outfit is probably worth more than my entire wardrobe. The ever-present expensive running shoes on his feet—this time a lime green—make me smile. It seems to be a theme with him.

“Ah,” he says, leaning against the door with his arms folded. He looks me up and down, taking in my outfit of old shorts, Blondie T-shirt, and Converse that were white a few years ago. “My partner in crime.”

I wink at him. “Makes us sound like Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Did they break public indecency laws in a spa too?”

“No. But bagsy me being Bonnie, because Clyde was impotent in the film.”

He rolls his eyes. “Can I help you?”

I nod emphatically. “Yes. We’re late. Come on.”

A smile plays over his mouth, curling it in a wicked fashion that makes his clear brown eyes glow. My fingers itch with the desire to paint him.

“Ah,” he says. “What are we to do today? Are we having sex on the floor of the House of Parliament during Prime Minister’s Question Time? Or maybe we are jaywalking naked on a motorway today?”

I bite my lip to hold in my smile. “Much more exciting than that.” I lean close and inhale the scent of his aftershave. It smells of bergamot and ginger and is probably hideously pricey. “Bingo,” I whisper.

He draws back. “What?”

“Is your hearing bad?” I say in mock sympathy. I raise my voice and ask, “Do you need an ear trumpet?”

He shakes his head and steps back, waving me into the flat. I wander in, and my suspicions are immediately confirmed when I see the files spread out over the dining room table. “Work,” I say. “Ugh!”

“Your command of the English language never ceases to amaze me, Laurie. I’m preparing for the trial I mentioned.”

“How long have you been preparing today?”

He considers that. “Six hours.”

“Okay. Definitely time for a break. Go and grab your wallet. You’ll need the money, as you’ll likely be terrible at bingo.”

“I think I’d quite like to be dreadful at bingo. It sounds like something I don’t wish to be good at, yes?”

I laugh and then crow as I spot the legal thriller he bought at the bookshop. It’s open and set down over the arm of a chair, and it looks like he’s already halfway through it. “I knew it! Is it good?”

“It’s terrible,” he says smugly. “The legal details are completely wrong.”

“And I bet you’ve enjoyed every second of it. I told you fiction was fun.”

“What has been fun is composing my letter to the author.”

“No,” I say, putting my hand up. “Just no. Get your stuff.”