“I’ll get the door on my way out.” Kissing him on the head, I walk into the hall and open the front door. I grin at Misha. He’s dressed in a grey suit and with his black hair, olive skin, and bright blue eyes, he looks as good-looking as normal. And as irritable. Surly and handsome looks great on him.

“You scrub up nicely.” I laugh, and he grins at me.

“Not half as nicely as you. Look at you with the whole matching-your-eye-to-your-shirt-thing you’ve got going on.”

I snort. “Baby, I wrote the fashion bible.”

“I’d be slightly more reassured if you’d written the actual Bible.”

As I step back to let him through the door, I grab his arm. “He had a turn,” I whisper.

Worry flares in his eyes. “Is he okay?”

“Bit fragile. But it wasn’t a bad one.”

“I hate them,” he says slowly but fiercely. He gives me a half-hearted smile. “You on your way out?”

“Been called back in.”

“What have you done now?”

I shake my head sadly. “So predictable. You staying with him?”

He instantly nods. “I’ll kip on the sofa if you’re not back.” He eyes the lounge. “I might kip here anyway.”

I nod and wave goodbye before clattering down the stairs.

An hour later I knock on the front door of the office. All the windows are dark, and I frown and knock again. Then a light switches on and I see the fuzzy form of Zeb appear.

When he opens the door, I nearly swallow my tongue. In the three years I’ve known him I’ve never seen him in anything other than his very expensive suits. Tonight he’s barefoot and wearing a grey T-shirt and an ancient pair of jeans. Worn white in places, they hang on him, perfectly cupping his package like an overeager man at kicking-out time in a night club. His hair is slightly dishevelled, as if he’s being running his hand through it, and he has thick stubble on his chin.

“Hello,” he says and then pauses. “You okay? You look a bit shell-shocked.”

I recover myself. “Just getting my expression perfectly right for the bollocking you’re surely going to give me.”

He shakes his head. “You have such a pessimistic outlook for someone so young.”

“I’d say realistic,” I mutter, following him in as he gestures. I look around the dark office. “Is this going to be one of those events where they torture people so that the office bonds as a group? Or like that SAS programme where they blindfold people and bang wooden spoons?”

He blinks. “Why on earth would I want to bang wooden spoons around you? And since when is torture associated with office bonding?”