Zeb takes his jacket off and hangs it neatly in the wardrobe, and I watch idly as he takes off his tie and coils it into a drawer before unbuttoning his shirt. Then I watch not so idly as the hairy planes of his chest appear. He’s muscled and the skin glows golden in the low lamplight. I think what I like best is that he’s not perfect. He doesn’t have a perfect six pack. He’s muscled but it lacks the definition of the gym junkies I’ve slept with lately. He looks more real somehow and all the more desirable for that. I study the way his trousers hang loosely from his narrow hips and the way the skin shines soft and warm there.

Realising that I’m watching him and getting the beginnings of a stiffy while he’s not paying any attention to me makes me feel a bit pervy, so I adjust myself quickly and turn my back on him, putting my phone down and making my way over to the fridge set under the polished table. I open it and wave some small bottles at him. “Which goes best with burgers? Jack Daniel’s or gin?” I shake my head. “We’ll have all of them. I can never understand hotel fridges. They’re either intended for alcoholic pixies or the manager is a half-hearted member of the temperance society.”

I hear a laugh and look up as he comes towards me. He’s wearing blue checked pyjama shorts and a white T-shirt that makes his face glow with his tan and his eyes seem very blue. I swallow hard and pass him the bottles. “There’s some ice in there too,” I instruct him. “You do the drinks while I get out of this suit.” I pause as he obeys me. “I must say I’m enjoying this new dynamic where I tell you what to do.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he advises me, and I sigh and slink over to my case. I rifle through it, pulling out my pyjama shorts and a T-shirt, and then seeing his jaundiced gaze fixed on the clothing spilling everywhere, I huff and start to hang everything up. The food arrives as I’m putting the last bits away, so I cram the rest of my clothes in higgledy-piggledy, and after a short battle with the wardrobe door I manage to force it closed.

I eye it dubiously and then shake my head. Food.

When I walk out onto the balcony, I find Zeb laying the food out neatly. Glasses full of ice and alcohol are set meticulously in the correct position and the cutlery is set neatly on the other side. I shake my head fondly. It’s burger and chips, but it looks like we’re expecting the queen.

He looks up and I don’t miss the way his eyes flit down my body. It’s a quick but comprehensive glance, and by the time his eyes raise up to my face again I’m half hard. Our eyes seem to meet and catch for a lovely, sleepy moment full of promise, but then he clears his throat and shutters his expression.