Desired By The Boss. Catherine Mann

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       CHAPTER THREE

      TWO DAYS LATER April sat cross-legged amongst a lot of boxes and a lot of dust.

      She was dressed in jeans, sneakers and a floppy T-shirt—her jumper having been quickly removed thanks to the excellent heating and the many boxes she’d already shifted today—and yet another box lay ready for her attention. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, and the local radio station filled the room via her phone and a set of small speakers she’d purchased before she’d realised she had absolutely no money.

      But she was glad for her previous financial frivolity. This massive house was creaky and echoey, and she’d hated how empty it had felt on her first day, when she’d been sorting through boxes wearing a pencil skirt, heels and a blouse with a bow—in total silence.

      Bizarre how such an overflowing house could feel so empty, but it did.

      Music helped. A little.

      Now, on day three of her new job, already many boxes lay flattened in the foyer. The shredder had disposed of old takeaway menus and shoe catalogues and local newspapers. And she’d labelled a handful of empty boxes for donations. Several were already full with books and random bits and pieces: a man’s silk tie, a mass-produced ceramic vase, eleven tea towels from the Edinburgh Military Tattoo—and so much more. It was nearly impossible to categorise the items, although she’d tried.

      But much of the boxes’ content was, as Hugh had told her, junk. The packaging for electronic items, without the items themselves. Gossip magazines from ten years ago, with British reality TV stars she didn’t recognise on the covers. Sugar and salt packets. Pens that didn’t work. Dried-out mascara and nail polish bottles.

      It was all so random.

      Initially she’d approached each box with enthusiasm. What was she going to learn about the person who’d packed all these boxes from this box?

      But each box gave little away.

      There was no theme, there were no logical groupings or collections, and so far there was absolutely nothing personal. Not even one scribble on a takeaway menu.

      Hugh hadn’t given anything away, either.

      It was hard in this house, with all its mysterious boxes, not to think about the rather interesting and mysterious man who owned them all.

      Were they his boxes?

      April didn’t think so. That morning in the kitchen, those clear but sparse directions and neat instructions had not indicated a man who collected such clutter. There was something terribly structured about the man: he exuded organisation and an almost regimented calm.

      But that had changed when he’d shown her this room. The instant he’d opened the door he’d become tense. His body, his words. His gaze.

      It had been obvious he’d wanted to leave, and he had as soon as humanly possible.

      So, no, the boxes weren’t his.

      But they didn’t belong to a stranger, either—because the boxes meant something to Hugh Bennell.

      Her guess was that they belonged to a woman. The magazines, toiletries... But who?

      His wife? Ex-wife? Mother? Sister? Friend?

      So—with enthusiasm—April had decided to solve the mystery of the boxes.

      But with box after box the mystery steadfastly remained and her enthusiasm rapidly waned.

      On the radio, a newsreader read the ten o’clock news in a lovely, clipped British accent.

      Only ten a.m.?

      Her self-determined noon lunchbreak felt a lifetime away.

      April sighed and straightened her shoulders, then carefully sliced open the brown packing tape of her next box.

      On top lay empty wooden photo frames, one with a crack through the glass. And beneath that lay two phone books—the thick, heavy type that had used to be delivered before everyone had started searching for numbers online.

      The unbroken wooden frames would go to the ‘donate’ box, and the phone books into the recycling. But as she walked out into the foyer, to add the books to the already mountainous recycling pile, a piece of card slipped out from between the pages.

      April knelt to pick it up. It was an old and yellowed homemade bookmark, decorated with a child’s red thumbprints in the shape of lopsided hearts.

      Happy Mothering Sunday!

      Love Hugh

      The letters were in neat, thick black marker—the work of a school or kindergarten teacher.

      And just like that she’d solved the mystery.

      She started a new category: Hugh.

      She wasn’t making a decision on that bookmark, no matter what he said.

      She’d let him know in her summarising email that evening.