As I’m not meeting Matt until 7:30 p.m., I have a quick catnap and when I wake to my alarm forty-five minutes later, I feel groggy, as if I’ve been asleep for hours. I’m also less refreshed than expected. Padding lethargically around my apartment, I get ready to go out, while throwing something resembling a meal down my throat – all the time wondering why I didn’t ask Matt if we could do Saturday instead. That would have given me a bit of recuperation time. But by the time I’m walking out the main door of my apartment block, I’ve perked up, and the adrenaline and excitement of finally spending some proper time in Matt’s company have kicked in. Along with some stomach-churning nerves.

I look up where I’m meeting him on Google Maps and start walking in that direction. Something I’ve realised I love about living on the fringe of the city centre is that everywhere I want to go is within easy reach. I cross the plaza at Brindley Place, descend the arc-shaped steps and amble along the canal bank, scrolling through Twitter on my phone. Although it’s dark, I feel quite comfortable doing this alone. It’s a well-lit path and there’s plenty of people around, meandering between the handful of eating and drinking establishments that line the waterway.

I reach the Tetris-like exterior of the Cube, tentatively enter the foyer, locate the lift and take it to the twenty-fifth floor. My stomach feels like it’s going through a forty-degree wash. Between the feeling of ascension, my giddy nervousness and my underlying exhaustion, I’m ever so slightly nauseous. It’s a feeling I’ve never quite experienced. Not even on my first date with Dom.

Several seconds later, the lift stops and the doors ping open. I step out into a much smaller foyer as the second lift dings and out steps Matt, nearly colliding with me as he does.

‘Hi there.’ His gorgeous features break into a grin. ‘Seems we both have good timing.’

‘So we do.’ I smile back at him, my nerves having now kicked into spin-cycle mode.

He leans across, touching me lightly on my upper arm as he greets me with a kiss on the cheek. It’s hardly off the scale in terms of physical contact, but this, along with his fresh, citrusy eau de toilette wafting into my nostrils, sets off a symphony of fireworks in my body. He’s even more delicious than I remember. His beard is perfectly groomed, hair just the right balance of styled with a hint of ‘just out of bed’. And those eyes: like melted chocolate. They make me want to dive right in.

‘How was your day?’ he asks a little too forcefully, his Birmingham accent thicker than I remember.

I can tell he’s trying to break the ice quickly, his initial confidence wavering. That’s all we need. The two of us turning into a pair of gibbering idiots who can’t manage a coherent conversation.

‘It was fine. Busy.’