“What are you thinking? You’ve got a very funny expression on your face,” he asks, pouring red wine into a large glass.

“Oh, nothing,” I say quickly.

“Hmm.” He sounds suspicious. He turns back to the oven. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“Erm, penicillin,” I say slowly.

He laughs, and now I’m convinced he’s an alien that’s stolen the real Zeb. He’s a hot alien, though, because when he smiles and laughs it takes over his whole face. He fairly glows.

“No, I mean food allergies.”

“Oh no, nothing. I’ll eat anything.” I pause. “Are you feeding me?” The latter part of that sentence is a bit high, but this is Zeb. In his home. In those jeans. And he’s cooking. I feel like I’ve wandered onto the set of a very high-class porn movie.

“Your face is very animated even when you’re not speaking.” He smiles, sliding the glass to me and turning to the cooker. Within a few minutes he’s plated up two meals and is placing one in front of me.

I stare down at the rustic-looking white plate piled high with food.

“It’s only chilli.” He hesitates. “If you don’t want it, you don’t have to eat it. I’m sorry. It just seems that as I called you away at dinnertime, I ought to feed you.”

I slap my hand on his as he goes to move the plate away. “No, leave it,” I say quickly. “It smells bloody lovely.”

He stares at me, and I realise that I’m still holding his hand and, as a latter thought, that it feels nice. I feel the flush on my face and drop his hand and shove a mouthful of food in.

“Shit, that’s hot,” I gasp.

He smiles. “It usually is when it’s just come straight out of the pan.”

He lowers himself into the seat next to me and unfurls his napkin, and the next few minutes are spent eating. It’s absolutely delicious. Meaty-tasting and spicy. He’s served it with rice and homemade guacamole.

I eat hungrily. When I’ve satisfied the food gremlin inside me temporarily, I lean back. “So, why did you need to see me?”

He fiddles with his fork, drawing the tines through the sauce on his plate, making patterns like a child with sand.

“I have a favour to ask,” he finally says.

“Okay,” I say slowly.

There’s a short silence and then he sighs. “I need to hire you.”

I blink. “To do what?”

He bites his lip. “It’s a long story, but the short version is that Patrick is getting married.”

“Patrick, your ex?”

He nods. “He’s getting married in a month.”

“That’s what the invitation was on your desk,” I say out loud, unfortunately, and hurriedly gesture. “Tell me more,” I say quickly.