The apartment is open plan, with most of what I can see given over to a very fancy, cohesively decorated living area. The ceilings are double-height, a shallow cantilevered staircase to one side leading up to a mezzanine from which I assume you access the bedrooms. Beyond it, the kitchen area is an expanse of glossy white marble with chunky taupe veins: masculine and opulent in equal measure. It’s a kitchen to be seen, admired—to show off in.

If Brendan actually cooks for himself, which is a big if, it makes total sense that he’d want a spectacular backdrop against which to perform.

I bet it’s full of the toys he loves so much.

I’m just clocking the heavenly sight that is a glossy black grand piano over by the terrace when I hear my name and the man himself appears at the top of the staircase.

Well that grabs my attention.

He’s wearing nothing but a pair of bright blue running shorts and a heart rate monitor strapped around his chest, upper body bare and tanned and so shiny with sweat that it has the effect of his having covered himself in baby oil. Thick white sports socks accentuate the hairy muscularity of his legs. He has a towel in his hand, and the damp mess of his dark hair suggests he’s been towelling it. Mark shoots down the stairs ahead of him and bounds over to me.

‘Morning,’ I say, feeling suddenly shy, which is ridiculous. Still, working for the guy in his offices is one thing. Showing up here to his penthouse pad to find its master half naked is quite another. I bend to greet Mark, who’s rubbing his wide head over my calves as if he can’t believe I’m here, in his home.

I suppose that’s fair. It’s not like I’ve ever been here before. As far as he knows, I’m firmly an office fixture.

Brendan trots lightly down the steps and comes to stand in front of me. He’s still out of breath from whatever he’s been doing. I look up from Mark and take in the chunky globes of his biceps, the expanse of slick, flat stomach, the dark, dampened hair covering his pecs, and make a mental note to coax him out of the office more often so I can get him fully naked. Suddenly, the at-work trysts where he stays mostly clothed feel like a bum deal for me.

Because this man is spectacular.

‘I was on the Peloton, doing my FTP test,’ he explains. ‘I’m sweaty as fuck.’

‘FTP?’

‘Functional Threshold Power.’ He grins at me, his eyes roving over my cycling gear. Clearly I’m not the only one enjoying our working-from-home dress code.

‘How fun,’ I deadpan. I have no clue what that means, but it sounds horrifying.