Desired By The Boss. Catherine Mann

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       CHAPTER FIVE

      HUGH HADN’T SLEPT WELL.

      He’d woken late, so he’d been too late to join the group he normally rode with on a Wednesday, so instead he’d headed out alone. Today that was his preference anyway.

      Because it was later, traffic was heavier.

      It was also extremely cold, and the roads were slick with overnight rain.

      London could be dangerous for a cyclist, and Hugh understood and respected this.

      It was partly why he often chose to ride in groups, despite his general preference for solitude. Harried drivers were forced to give pairs or long lines of bikes room on the road, and were less likely to scrape past mere millimetres from Hugh’s handlebars.

      But other times—like this morning—his need to be alone trumped the safety of numbers.

      Today he didn’t want the buzz of conversation to surround him. Or for other cyclists to share some random anecdote or to espouse the awesomeness of their new carbon fibre wheels.

      When he rode alone it was the beat of his own pulse that filled his ears, alongside the cadence of his breathing and the whir of the wheels.

      Around him the cacophony of noise that was early-morning London simply receded.

      It was just him and his bike and the road.

      Hugh rode hard—hard enough to keep his mind blank and his focus only on the next stroke of the pedals.

      Soon he was out of inner London, riding down the A24 against the flow of commuter traffic. He was warm with exertion, but the wind was still icy against his cheeks. The rest of his body was cloaked in jet-black full-length cycling pants, a long-sleeved jersey, gilet and gloves.

      Usually by now the group would have begun to loop back, but today Hugh just kept on riding and riding, heading from busy roads to country lanes, losing track of time. Eventually he reached the Surrey Hills and their punishing inclines, relishing the burning of his lungs and the satisfying ache of his thighs and calves.

      But midway up Box Hill, with his brain full of no more than his own thundering heartbeat, he stopped. On a whim, abruptly he violently twisted his cleats out of his pedals and yanked hard on the brakes until his bike was still. Then, standing beside his bike, he surveyed the rolling green patchwork of the Dorking valley as it stretched towards the South Downs beneath a clear blue sky. Out here, amongst woodland and sheep-dotted fields, London was thirty miles and a world away.

      What was he doing?

      He didn’t have to check his watch to know he’d missed his morning teleconference. He’d miss his early-afternoon meetings too, given it would take him another two and a half hours to get home again.

      Reception would be patchy up here, he knew, but still, he should at least try to email his assistant—who worked remotely from Lewisham—and ask her to clear his calendar for the rest of the day.

      But he didn’t.

      He hadn’t planned to ride this far, but he’d needed to. He’d needed to do something to ease the discontent that had kept him awake half the night—much of it spent pacing his lounge room floor.

      Hugh didn’t like how he felt. All agitated and uncertain.

      He usually lived his life with such definition: he knew what he was doing, why he was doing it, and he always knew it was the right thing to do. Hugh made it his business to plan and prepare and analyse everything. It was why his business was so successful. He didn’t make mistakes...he didn’t get distracted.

      His mother’s house had always been the exception.

      When she’d died he’d considered selling it. He’d been living in his own place in Primrose Hill, not far away.

      But back then—as now—he just hadn’t been able to.

      For a man who prided himself on being the antithesis of his mother—on being a man who saw no value in objects and who ruthlessly protected his life from clutter—his attachment to the house was an embarrassing contradiction.

      But he knew how much that house had meant to his mum. He knew exactly what it had represented.

      For his mother it had been a place of love, after so many years of searching.

      And for Hugh it had been where his mother had finally lived a life free of clutter—a life he had been sure she’d lost for ever. For more than a decade she’d been happy there, her hoard no more than a distant memory.

      And so he’d kept it.

      He’d ended up hoarding his mother’s hoard. There was no other way to explain his three-year refusal to dispose of all that junk.

      Even now, as April Spencer attempted to clean out his mother’s house, he couldn’t let it go.

      A stranger—April—had seen that.

      Why else would she be going to such lengths to save sentimental crap unless she’d sensed that he wasn’t really ready to relinquish it?

      And she was right. The original ‘Hugh’ box still remained as April had left it, cluttering up his coffee table in all its ironic glory.

      He just hadn’t been able to walk to the skip behind the house and throw it all away. It had felt impossible.

      How pathetic.

      Yesterday he’d helped April move those boxes in an effort to normalise the situation: to prove to himself that his visceral reaction to them could be overcome. Except he hadn’t considered April. He hadn’t considered his visceral reaction to her.

      He hadn’t considered that, while he might be able to dismiss his attraction to her as nothing when he spent only short periods of time with her, more time together might not be so manageable.

      Because more time with her meant he’d seen another side of her: a mischievous forthrightness that really shouldn’t have surprised him, given her refusal to follow his original instructions.

      And he liked it. A lot.

      He’d also liked it—a lot—when she’d got tangled up in that shirt.

      He’d liked being so very close to her—close enough to smell her shampoo and admire the Australian tan revealed below her bunched up T-shirt. Close enough to feel her shiver beneath his touch. To hear the acceleration of her breathing.

      In those long moments after he’d helped her out of the blouse it had been as intimate as if he’d actually undressed her.

      It had felt raw and naked—and incredibly intense. As if, had he touched her, they would’ve both lost control completely. And for those long moments he’d wanted nothing more than to lose control with April Spencer.

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