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There was the briefest pause. ‘It’s quite a small foundation,’ April said, her tone confident. ‘And I worked closely with the managing director. It was my job to schedule posts and monitor comments—I needed to know what to announce, and also what comments to remove in case anyone gave one of our generous benefactors away.’
From the notes Caro had provided, it seemed April’s work with the Molyneux Foundation had been the reason she’d been put forward. Hugh had made it clear that a proven ability to maintain strict confidentiality was essential for this position.
‘And you’re available immediately?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ April said.
Hugh nodded at the phone. ‘Right—thank you, Ms Spencer,’ he said. ‘A decision will be made shortly.’
Then he ended the call.
* * *
After the interview April left the small meeting room and returned to the recruiter’s office.
It had all been rather bizarre. She’d come in this morning expecting to be assigned to an interview for something similar to her two jobs so far—both short-term entry level social media roles to cover unexpected leave—and yet she’d been put forward for a job unpacking boxes, with a phone interview to take place almost immediately.
Across from her, at her large, impressive desk, sat Caroline Zhu, the senior recruiter at the agency April had been working for since her supermarket debacle three weeks earlier.
‘I’m sorry,’ April said. ‘I don’t think the interview went particularly well.’
Terribly, actually. She felt she’d answered the questions well enough, but Hugh Bennell had barely said a word. Certainly not a word of encouragement, anyway.
‘Possibly,’ Caro said, in the no-nonsense voice that matched her jet-black no-nonsense ponytail. ‘But unlikely. It’s been several years since Mr Bennell has required my services, but I’m certain his interview technique has not changed. He is not one for superfluous conversation.’
April nodded. Yes, she’d got that.
It fitted, she supposed—her frantic internet searching in the short period of time she’d had before her interview had revealed little about Hugh Bennell. She knew of Precise, of course—practically everyone with a smartphone would have at least one app from the company. April, in fact, had about six, all related to scheduling, analytics and online collaboration. But, unlike other international tech companies that were synonymous with their founders, Hugh Bennell was no more than a name on the company website—and the subject of several newspaper articles in which a string of journalists had attempted to discover the man behind such a massive self-made fortune.
But all had failed.
All April had learnt from those quickly skimmed articles was that Hugh had grown up in council housing in London, the only child of a single, hard-working mother. As soon as he’d left university it had been as if he’d wiped all trace of himself from public record—she’d found no photos of him, and his Wikipedia entry was incredibly brief.
It was strikingly unusual in this share-everything world.
Mysterious, even.
Intriguing, actually.
‘You’ll know soon enough,’ Caroline continued. ‘In my experience, Mr Bennell makes extremely swift decisions.’
‘Are you able to tell me a bit more about the position?’
Caroline raised an impatient eyebrow. ‘As I said, the information Mr Bennell provided is limited. He has a room full of a large number of boxes that require sorting and disposal. Not antiques. Nothing dangerous. He requires someone trustworthy and hardworking who can start immediately. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘And you thought I was suitable because...?’
‘Because you’re keen to work as much as possible for as much pay as possible. You were quite clear on that when we first met.’
True. After some judicious reimagining of her work experience—she’d repositioned herself as April Spencer, Social Media Manager at the Molyneux Foundation, which was technically true—she’d turned up at the best-reviewed temp agency within walking distance of her overpriced flat at nine a.m. the Monday after her credit card had been declined.
She’d been absolutely—possibly over-zealously—clear in her goals. To work hard and earn as much money as she could. In fact, she’d even found a night job, stacking shelves at a supermarket near her new home.
She needed her credit card debt cleared pronto. She needed money yesterday.
Fortunately Caroline Zhu had seemed to consider her desperation-tinged enthusiasm a positive.
The phone rang in pretty musical tones.
‘Ah, here we go,’ Caroline said, raising her eyebrows at April. She picked up the phone, had the briefest of conversations that ended with, ‘Excellent news, Mr Bennell. I’ll let the successful applicant know.’
She hung up and turned back to April.
‘Just as I thought,’ Caroline said. ‘I’m rarely wrong on such things. Mr Bennell has selected you as his preferred candidate. You start immediately.’
‘Unpacking boxes?’
‘For a mouthwatering sum an hour.’
‘I’m in,’ April said with a grin.
Caroline might have let slip the slightest of smiles. ‘You already are. Here’s the address.’
* * *
Hugh Bennell’s house was beautiful.
It felt familiar, actually—she’d stayed with her mum and sisters at a similar house for Christmas, many years ago. It was the year she and her sisters had campaigned for a white Christmas and, like so many things in her childhood and adult life, it had just happened.
She straightened her shoulders, then knocked on the front door.
She’d been told Hugh Bennell would be meeting her—which had surprised her. Surely the boss of a company like Precise had staff to deal with a lowly employee like herself?
But then, she’d supposed he also had staff to interview lowly employees like herself—and he’d already done that himself.
If anything, it just added to the general sense of mystery: mysterious boxes for her to unpack, complete with a mysterious billionaire CEO who was mysteriously hands-on with the recruitment of unskilled labour.
It was late morning now. She hadn’t had time to change, so she still wore what she now considered her ‘interview suit’. Her shoes were freshly polished, and her hair was looped in an elegant low bun that she was rather proud of. Her stylist back in Perth would be impressed.
The liquorice-black door opened.
And revealed a man.
A tall man. With dark hair, dark stubble. Dark eyes.
Dark eyes that met her own directly. Very directly.
Momentarily April felt frozen beneath that gaze.
So this is what a mysterious tech billionaire looks like.
Jaw-droppingly handsome.
She blinked. ‘Good morning,’ she said, well practised from years of socialising at every event anyone could imagine. ‘I’m April Spencer. Are you Mr Bennell?’
He nodded. ‘You got here quickly.’
‘I did,’ she said. ‘The agency emphasised the urgency of this placement.’
Silence. But, despite her usually sparkling conversational skills, April didn’t rush to fill it. Instead she simply stood still beneath Hugh Bennell’s gaze.
He was still looking at her. Unreadably but intensely. It was a strange and unfamiliar sensation.
But not entirely uncomfortable.
There was something about him—the way he stood, maybe—that created a sense of calm. And of time.
Time to take a handful of moments to study the man before her—to take in the contrast of his black hair and olive skin. To admire the thick slashes of his eyebrows, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the elegance of his mouth.
He was more interesting than gorgeous, she realised, with a slightly crooked nose and an angular chin. His too-long hair and his stubble—forgotten, she was sure, rather than fashionable.
But it was that sum of those imperfect parts that made a darkly, devastatingly attractive whole.
And definitely not what she’d been expecting.
Whatever she’d thought a mysterious billionaire who deliberately shunned the spotlight would look like, this was not it.
He was also nothing like Evan.
That realisation came from left field, shocking her.
April blinked again. What was she doing?
‘Please come in,’ Hugh Bennell said. As naturally as if only a beat of time had passed.
Maybe it had?
April felt flustered and confused—and seriously annoyed with herself.
She’d just met her new boss. She needed to pull herself together.
She was probably just tired from the long hours she’d been working.
But did tiredness explain the way her gaze documented the breadth of her new boss’s shoulders as she stepped inside?
Nope.
There was no way she could pretend she didn’t know what the fireworks in her belly meant. It had just been a long time since they’d been associated with anyone but her husband.
And a pretty long time since she’d associated them with Evan.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a second.
No. No. No, no, no.
She had not flown halfway around the world to turn into a puddle over a man. Over her boss. No matter how mysterious.
That certainly wasn’t why she was working two jobs and sharing a room in a truly awful shared house.
She’d come to London to live independently. Without her mother’s money for the first time in her life and without Evan for the first time since she was seventeen.
And she needed this job. She certainly needed the very generous hourly rate.
She didn’t need fireworks, or the heat that had pooled in her belly.
‘Miss Spencer?’
April’s eyes snapped open. ‘Sorry, Mr Bennell.’
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
He did have gorgeous eyes. Thoughtful eyes that looked as if a million things were happening within them.
‘Of course,’ she said with a deliberate smile.
He inclined his chin, somewhat sceptically. ‘I was just saying that we’ll run through your responsibilities in the kitchen.’
She nodded, then followed him down the narrow hall beside the rather grand if dusty staircase.
As they walked April did her absolute best to shove all thoughts of fireworks or heat firmly out of her mind—and her body. Frustratingly, Hugh’s well-worn, perfectly fitted jeans did nothing to help this endeavour.
Neither did the unwanted realisation that—for the first time since Evan had told her he didn’t love her and her sparkling life had been dulled—she felt truly alive.
* * *
April Spencer was beautiful.
Objectively beautiful. As if she’d stepped off the pages of a catalogue and into his mother’s house.
For a while he’d stood and just looked at her, because he’d felt helpless to do anything but.
He’d looked at her chocolate-brown hair, at her porcelain skin and her crystal blue eyes. At her lips—pink, and shining with something glossy. At her fitted clothes and the long coat cinched in tight at her waist.
He’d expected a backpacker. Someone younger, really. Someone he could actually imagine lifting and shifting boxes.
This woman was not it.
This woman was poised and utterly together. Everything about her exuded strength and confidence. As if she was used to commanding a room. Or a corporation.
