Blurb

Zeb Evans doesn’t do messy.

The product of a disorganised and chaotic childhood, Zeb likes order and control, and as the boss of his own employment agency he can give that to himself. Life runs along strict lines and he never mixes business with pleasure. Everything in his life lives in neat, alphabetized boxes. Until Jesse.

Jesse Reed is Zeb’s complete opposite. He’s chaos personified. A whirling cyclone of disorder. He’s also charming and funny and a very unwanted distraction.

Which is why it comes as a complete surprise to Zeb to find himself asking Jesse to pose as his boyfriend for a few days in the country at a wedding.

Zeb doesn’t do impulsive, but as the time away progresses, he finds himself increasingly drawn to the merry and irreverent Jesse. But can he bring himself to break the hard-won lessons he’s learnt in life? And even if he can, how could Jesse be attracted to him anyway? He’s so much older than Jesse, not to mention being his boss.

From the bestselling author of the Mixed Messages and Finding Home series comes a warm and funny romance about one man’s fight for control and another man’s determination to circumvent it.

This is the first book in the Close Proximity series, but it can be read as a standalone.

Dedication

For Hailey

A wonderful friend

Epigraph

“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”

Oscar Wilde

Prologue

Three Years Ago

Jesse

I settle back into my chair and try to find a comfortable resting spot. However, the hard plastic makes that as unlikely a possibility as Keanu Reeves descending to Covent Garden and declaring his undying love for me.

I’ve just drifted off to a lovely dream of licking his beard when the office’s inner door slams open and a young man comes marching out with high spots of colour glowing over his cheekbones. I look at him with interest. It’s a marked change from when he went in all high head and confident dazzling smile.

Not that it’s a surprise. All six previous interviewees have gone in the same way and left just as quickly. I settle back and watch as he exits the office in a cloud of angst and Hugo Boss aftershave, letting in the faint twang of petrol fumes from outside and a whiff of bread from the bakery next door.

Several of the other people dotted around the room stir and look at each other while the man at the desk, obviously well used to this, carries on scratching away with his pen on a piece of paper.

He shows no sign of calling anyone else for an interview and the inner door remains shut, so I stand up and edge over to him. He looks up. He’s not pretty, but he has a very striking appearance with big hazel eyes and a tumble of black hair around a thin face. But my purpose isn’t to flirt today.

I perch on the edge of the desk, and he eyes my bum. His mouth quirks. “Can I help you? Did I not give you a chair? How very remiss of me.”

I look down at the nameplate on his desk and smile. “Yes, Felix, maybe you can help me. Is there any chance of me being interviewed today, or should I just settle down and wait for death to find me?”

He smirks. “Mr Evans has a long queue of people waiting.”

That’s not surprising. The Evans Agency is well known in London for catering to the needs of its customers who are largely from the LGBTQ community. Its employees can help a person with their business, do their gardening and their shopping, walk their dogs, or even pose as a fake boyfriend or girlfriend to help in awkward social situations. No job is too small for them, and the agency has become a byword for discretion and capability.

I’d heard about the job vacancy from my friend. His boyfriend had cheated on him just before his office Christmas party, and within a couple of hours an extremely gorgeous bloke turned up and escorted him to the party, much to the displeasure of the cheating ex.

“Mr Evans is very busy,” Felix says happily.

I look at the outer door which is still swaying gently in the breeze from the previous applicant. “He’s busy pissing people off from the looks of it,” I mutter. There’s a stack of post on the desk, and I lean closer and whistle. “Zebadiah Evans. Fucking hell, that’s a mouthful. Sounds like someone who’d be at home on The Tudors. Wearing a wimple and chucking brimstone at a peasant.”

Felix’s eyes widening are the only sign that I’ve just stepped in shit. That and the low, posh voice from behind me.

“I know The Tudors took a lot of liberties with facts, but I don’t think that even they went that far.”

I stiffen and then spin round. A tall, wide-shouldered man is leaning against the open doorway of the inner room, and fucking hell, he’s gorgeous. Thick, black, wavy hair frames a craggy face. There are faint lines around his eyes telling me that he’s quite a bit older than me, but his eyes are the deepest blue I’ve ever seen. As blue as a cornflower. He’s wearing a very expensive pinstriped suit with a white shirt and red tie. I pause. And a very sardonic smile. Shit, this is the boss man.

I straighten up slowly, prepared to apologise. But one look at his expression and I change my mind. My student loans need this money, and I’m just going to have to brazen this out. So I look him up and down slowly instead. “No wimple, then?”

“Not in office hours,” he says primly, making me smile. His voice is deep with a slight husky catch to it. For a second we stare at each other, and then he shrugs and gestures to his room with one large hand. “You’d better come in. Felix might need to do some actual work on his desk at some point today.”

I swallow hard and, standing up, I edge past him, getting a waft of very expensive cologne that smells of orange and sandalwood. “Watch out for the brimstone,” he mutters. “It’s over by the window.”

I snort and shake my head. “What exactly is brimstone, anyway?”

“Your extensive knowledge of The Tudors didn’t give you that knowledge, then?” he says, gesturing me to a seat in front of an enormous desk piled high with very neat stacks of paperwork.

“I must have dozed off at that point. If Henry Cavill wasn’t naked, I lost interest.”

“What a discerning viewer you are,” he murmurs. He looks at me as he settles back into his chair and slips on a pair of black-framed glasses. “Brimstone is an alternative name for sulphur. In the Bible it was called brimstone, which means burning stone.”

“Ah, good job, you’re educated. I must have missed that page of the Bible when I passed out due to boredom.”

For a second he stares at me, and I think I catch a faint twitch around his mouth which might denote amusement, but more likely it just means he’d like to throttle me. That’s the more common reaction I’m used to.

I gaze at him, the only sound in the room that of the chatter of people wandering in the courtyard outside which filters in through the open window. It brings with it a faint breeze, and I strain to catch it, feeling the sweat dampening my underarms and the faint track of grime on my skin. England is in the middle of a heatwave and there’s nowhere more miserable than London when it’s hot.

I sigh, and he looks up from the piece of paper he’s holding. “Something wrong?”

“It’s just that you look as cool as a cucumber, and I look like I’ve been thrown in an oven and then pushed down a hill.” He blinks and I bite my lip. “What does that mean, anyway?”

“Are you asking me to decipher your entire sentence? Because I’ve a feeling that the Greek gods setting Hercules his labours wouldn’t have tasked him with that one.”

I shake my head. “What does ‘cool as a cucumber’ mean? Cucumbers aren’t particularly chilled. I mean, they’re not in the fridge at Tesco’s. They’re out in boxes. So, why cucumber? Why not as cool as the pre-cut carrots?”

He blinks. “This is not the way I thought this interview would go.” He shakes his head as if to try and empty it. “Moving back to business, Mr Reed?”

“Jesse,” I say helpfully. “Just call me Jesse. Mr Reed sounds like my dad.”

“How lovely that we’re circumventing the awkwardness of the interview format. What a joy,” he says dryly, and I grin at him.

“I do my best.”

“Okay.” He peers down at the piece of paper. “So, looking at your resume, it appears that you don’t stick at jobs, Mr Reed.”

I clear my throat, and when he looks at me, I smile. “Jesse.”

He stares at me over the top of his glasses. “Oh, of course. Well, it appears, Jesse, that you have all the sticking ability of a plaster on a cut after a few days.”

I sit back in my chair. “That’s probably a fair summary.”

“Your old boss, who gave you a reference, has written something that’s very …” He seems to pause to look for words. “Nebulous. If the army ever need a code writer, they’d do well to contact this man. He manages to say so much while not actually saying anything at all.”

“Not in person,” I assure him. “In person he managed to say quite a lot.” I shake my head. “All the way through my lunch hour and somebody else’s too.”

He slowly puts the piece of paper down and takes his glasses off. “Jesse,” he says slowly. I sit forward, waiting to hear words of wisdom. “Your job history is spottier than Boris Johnson’s.”

He surprises a laugh out of me, and I grin at him. “Well, look what job he got,” I say. He shudders and I laugh. “I just wasn’t the right fit to be a taxi rank operator or a dog groomer.”

“Or a bus driver,” he says wryly, stabbing the paper with one long finger. “Apparently, you diverted the route you’d been given to pick your mate up.”

“That’s a long story,” I say cagily. “It’s best that you don’t press me for it.”

“Oh, okay,” he says faintly.

“Look,” I say, leaning forward. “Let’s chuck the CV away.”

“Oh, please do,” he says, waving a hand. “But unfortunately, the thing’s engraved on my brain now.”

“Try and wipe it clean,” I advise him. I look around the office. “The truth is that you need me.”

“I do?”

I nod, and then do it again more emphatically in case he missed the point. “This is an agency that deals a lot with LGBTQ customers, isn’t it?” He nods and I sit back. “Perfect, I’m gay.”

He blinks. “It’s a teeny bit more involved than that.”

I wave my hand airily. “Not much.”

“Okay, then please enlighten me as to how with your atrocious job history you’ll be a boon to me.”

“Well, I’m charming.” He opens his mouth and I wag my finger at him. “I am. You might not recognise it, which probably makes you a bit odd, but few are immune to my charm.” He looks like he wants to argue, so I carry on quickly. “I just have a bit of a problem with my attention span in that I get bored easily. I can’t abide to be backed into a corner and stuck doing the same thing all the time. Which makes me perfect for your jobs. I can do most things I turn my hand to, mainly because I’ve had a job doing nearly everything.” I pause. “Hopefully you won’t need the funeral company experience, but you never know.” His mouth quirks, and I spread my hands. “Ta-da! Perfect match.”

“So, the fact that you’re a jack of all trades and master of none is an attractive quality. Oh, I see now,” he says mockingly. “How can I have been so blind?”

“That’s a potential problem for you,” I say sympathetically.

I can see that the laugh he lets loose shocks him, which makes me smile.

He looks down at the paper again. Damn that CV. “You’re very young,” he says doubtfully.

“I’m twenty-one,” I say indignantly. “I hope you’re not going to be ageist.”

He blinks. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says faintly. He leans back in his chair and considers me. “So, if I were to give you this job, how would you approach it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, every case is different. We help people with their needs. Sometimes it’ll be someone who needs you to do their shopping, sometimes it’s to act as a PA, and sometimes it’s pretending to be a boyfriend for a family party so the person doesn’t lose face. How would you approach all these people with their very different needs?”

I stare at him in surprise. “Well, like they’re people.” I hastily try to cover up the “duh” tone in my voice. “Every person is different, Zebadiah. Can I call you Zebadiah?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” he says testily.

“Okay then. Zeb.” I nod. “I like that. Makes you sound less like a manager and more like a DJ in Ibiza.”

“Oh joy, that’s my life goal attained, then.”

“I’m sure sarcasm isn’t appropriate for a job interview.”

“I do beg your pardon.” His face is alight with amusement.

“What was I saying?”

“You were talking about how every person in this world is different. I’m halfway expecting you to launch into the chorus of ‘We All Stand Together’.”

This time it’s me that laughs. I sober and smile at him. “People are really difficult. There’s a reason why Basil Fawlty was so popular.” I shrug. “But I like them better than a computer or a typewriter.” I pause and shudder. “Or a funeral hearse and the cremation machine.” His eyes go wide, and I shake my head regretfully. “I’m afraid I agreed never to discuss that matter.” I think hard. “I’m respectful, diligent, obliging, and focused.”

“And you’ve obviously swallowed a thesaurus at some point in your life.” He sighs and looks at me, and his gaze is suddenly piercing. “There’s to be no sex.”

I blink. “Zeb, this so, so sudden.” I put my hand to my chest. “I’m not that sort of boy.”

He shakes his head and this time doesn’t bother to contain the laugh. “You’re impossible.” He turns serious. “No sleeping with clients. It’s the number-one rule. This is not the littlest whore house in Neal’s Yard.”

I look him up and down, and the heat from the summer day seems to run in my blood. “Does that apply to the boss?”

He stares at me, and the silence stretches for a second. “It especially applies to the boss,” he says gruffly. “I don’t shit where I eat.”

“What a charming expression. I’m surprised your dance card isn’t filled up for the millennium.”

Another laugh. I’m beginning to like peeling them out of him. He sobers. “So, no fucking the clients.”

“I won’t even kiss them on the lips,” I promise. “I feel like Julia Roberts,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll be lying on a grand piano in my dressing gown soon. But that would make you Richard Gere, which is a crime.”

“You don’t like Richard Gere?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“Face like a ferret and a personality to match. If he’d stopped that car for me, I’d have waved the fucker on.”

His laughter bursts out loud and joyful, and the door to the office opens and Felix pokes his head around. “Everything okay, sir?” he asks cautiously, looking like he thinks zombie hordes are about to flood the room.

Zeb wipes his eyes. “I’m fine, thank you, Felix. Come and meet the newest member of staff.”

Felix looks insultingly astonished. “Really?” he says in a doubtful voice.

Zeb nods. “May God help me?”

“You don’t need him,” I say earnestly. “You’ve got me now.”

“I need a new religion.” He sighs and I smile, getting up to shake his hand. I swallow at the tingle I get when our palms meet, and, looking at him, I know he feels it too.

“Shame,” I say softly so his assistant doesn’t hear.

His face twitches, and I watch the cool expression slide over his face. “Not where I eat,” he reminds me, and I step back, walking towards the door.

“It’s because the inside of cucumbers are twenty degrees cooler than the outside air,” he says just as I get to the door.

I stop and turn back. “What?”

“You asked where the idiom ‘cool as a cucumber’ came from. That’s what it means.”

“I don’t know how I lived this long without knowing that,” I say solemnly, and his face creases into a smile.

“Welcome aboard, Mr Reed.”

“Aye aye, captain,” I say. “And it’s Jesse.”

“Welcome aboard, Mr Reed,” is his reply. “Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out.”

Chapter One

Three Years Later

Jesse

I walk through the narrow, whitewashed alley, coming out into the glory of Neal’s Yard. Even after three years, this place still makes me happy. It’s almost a shock to cross from the main road with its cars and noise into this small courtyard full of the scent from the window boxes hanging from the tall, narrow buildings that are painted intensely vivid colours from pink to lime green to sky blue. It’s hidden in plain sight and I’ve always thought it was like a psychedelic Diagon Alley, full of small shops, restaurants and cafes, and tourists taking the perfect Instagram shot.

According to Zeb, the area was once the home of occultists and astrologers, and to me it seems that atmosphere lingers a little in the open and welcoming feel of the courtyard.

Zeb’s building is one of the prettiest. It’s four storeys in the original brick with windows painted bright orange. It has the original bay doors from when it was a warehouse, and pretty Juliet balconies. His front door is painted lime green with a discreet sign advertising the name of the agency, and when I open it and walk into the hallway, it’s blessedly cool and filled with the scent of roses from the flower arrangement on a low table.

I saunter through the reception area, which contains the usual load of people waiting to see Felix or Zeb. Felix grins at me.

“Why the sunglasses inside, Brad Pitt? Hiding from the paparazzi?”

I shake my head. “They’re needed today.”

“Have you got a hangover?” he asks sympathetically.

“Why does everyone always leap to the conclusion that anything I do is alcohol related?”

“Because it is,” comes a deep voice from behind me. I whirl round to see Zeb standing in his doorway. He’s in his shirtsleeves, his tie at half-mast, clutching a handful of papers and wearing a sardonic smile.

“I feel judged,” I say. They keep looking at me, and finally I sigh and lower my glasses.

Zeb drops his papers and strides towards me immediately. “What the fuck?” he says angrily. “Who did this?”

I gape at him as he lifts my face and examines my black eye intently.

“Well?” he says. His voice is sharp, but the fingers he touches to the side of my eye are gentle. I blink at him, smelling the scent of oranges. I’m sure he doesn’t realise how close he’s standing, but I’ll take the time to enjoy it while I can.

Felix shifts position and realisation comes into Zeb’s eyes as well as discomfort, and he drops his hands from my face.

I mourn the loss of his closeness before I realise that he just said something. “Huh? What?” I say.

He shakes his head. “Did you hit your head when this happened?”

“No?”

He sighs. “Okay, this is just normal behaviour, isn’t it? I keep forgetting that.”

Felix breaks into laughter, and I shake my head before putting my glasses back on. “It’s a long story,” I say slowly.

“Ah, would it have anything to do with the very long email I received from Mr Sampson this morning?”

“It depends on whether that email is praise or recrimination.” He stares at me and I shake my head again. “Okay, a bit of both, then,” I say sadly.

“Into my office, Mr Reed,” he says, waving his hand towards the door as if I’ve forgotten where it is.

I square my shoulders. “Just so you know, this is totally like being called in to see the Head. And not in a good way.”

“Is there a good way?” he asks, his mouth twitching at the corner as he shuts the door.

“In porn there is.”

“Ah, I can’t help feeling, Mr Reed, that watching porn has given you rather unrealistic expectations of life.”

I slump into the chair opposite his desk. “Maybe. But I have realised by now that it’s never that easy to get a plumber.”

He can’t help the smile this time, but he quashes it remorselessly and sits down in his chair before resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers together. It’s a thoughtful pose, but I can testify that it’s a better interrogation technique than anything MI5 use. And more threatening, I think morosely.

“Well?” he murmurs.

“Oh, okay then,” I say sulkily. “There might have been a tiny fight at the wake.”

He blinks. “And did you cause it?”

“No, of course not,” I say indignantly. He stares at me and I slump some more. “But I might have finished it. You should have seen Peter Sampson’s family. All of them glaring at him like he was Voldemort arriving for the wake, rather than just a gay man with his partner.”

“Pretend partner.”

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