‘He likes you. He doesn’t like everyone.’ Clever doggy. Mark is exquisitely discerning when it comes to humans, and Marlowe has passed his test with flying colours. My dog, who regularly snubs supermodels and once growled at a Victoria's Secret Angel, is acting like Marlowe has slipped him a steak. Between his silent if enthusiastic approval and the glorious fucking sight in front of me, I may as well hire her on the spot. It’s not like I give a shit what her qualifications are like. The only skills of hers I’m interested in are the ones I won’t get to test out until the next round.

Fuck, I wish it was the next round.

As I usher her over to the huge white L-shaped sofa in the corner and Plain Elaine appears to take our coffee orders, I eye-fuck her as hard as I can.

Marlowe, that is. Not Elaine.

She looks far more groomed than at our ill-fated meeting at the RA. I was too busy spinning out to lock down a concrete memory of her, but my memory is of a messy bun and lots of blonde wisps and a floaty dress. Now her hair is a shiny golden curtain, and I’m a far bigger fan of the fitted sleeveless dress she’s wearing today. It’s demure but sexy, and it definitely says bend me over your desk and spank me, Mr Sullivan. So there’s that. Still, it’s not screaming for attention, unlike the packaging most of the women I date present themselves in. It’s just framing what’s already worth looking at. It’s classy.

And I’d forgotten her eyes were brown. How the hell could I have forgotten that? Blonde hair—it looks natural—and brown eyes and creamy, lightly tanned skin are an intoxicating combination. They’re a clear coffee colour and they bring so much warmth to her appearance. She’s tall and willowy and her bare legs are, from the clear view I got as she was petting Mark, knockout.

Between the legs and the face, she’s a solid ten, and she’ll hold that rank as long as she knows how to use her little pink mouth properly. The fact that I’ll soon be paying to find out feels almost criminal—kind of like getting a brand new Aston Martin at a police auction.

She’s everything I remembered from that first sucker punch but all wrapped up in some sexy secretary package, which is so compelling that it feels like Christmas. She could play some kind of sleek receptionist to a Bond villain.

The logical conclusion to that train of thought is that I’m the Bond villain in this scenario.