The last slither of setting sunlight peeks it’s head over the dark horizon as I stand in the street outside my house, setting the sky above in beautiful ripples of smokey grey, dark purple and fiery orange. It’s an enchanting sight, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes from the sleek, black Mercedes that has just pulled up in front of me.

As I gawp like an open-mouthed fool, a man steps out of the driver’s side. For a second my breath catches in my throat, thinking that it could be Logan Norse - my mesmerisingly good-looking (if undeniably impertinent and arrogant) boss. But then I catch sight of the chauffeur's cap and the double breasted, shining silver buttoned jacket, and my heart allows itself to resume its normal pace. Of course I should have known that Norse would never drive himself anywhere, let alone come and pick me up to take me to the airport personally.

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