My eyes were broken. Also, my head was too heavy and my tongue felt fat. My whole body felt like it didn’t belong to me. Had I come down with the flu?

As I tried to peel back my eyelids, a memory rushed in. I’d opened the door to a shadowy figure – two shadowy figures. There’d been a light, shining in my eyes. Maybe that’s why they were broken.

Had I been attacked?

Where was I?

I really, really needed to open my eyes.

Heart thrashing, I ran my fingers over the duvet and felt the familiar imprint of embroidered butterflies on the cover.

Phew.

Prising open one gummy eye, I saw pale sunlight slanting through the window and across the rug on the floor.

Not kidnapped, then.

A rush of relief brought another memory, of me sloshing wine into a glass. Of course. I’d had too much to drink. It was so long since I’d had a hangover, I’d forgotten how awful they were.

My stomach gave a queasy roll, and I closed my eye again.

There was a smell in the room that I couldn’t identify. Nice, but unfamiliar. Maybe it was another hangover symptom, affecting my battered senses.

‘Never drinking again,’ I moaned. Even my voice sounded wrong – as if I’d swallowed something fluffy. I blindly felt for my phone, impressed I’d placed it on my bedside table as usual before falling into bed. If only I’d closed the curtains. It was far too bright in the room, even with my eyes shut.

‘Well, hello!’

My phone clattered to the floor.

There was a man in my bedroom. There was a man in my bedroom.

My mind hurtled through the possibilities.

I’d gone to the pub… and brought someone home?

No. I’d have remembered, and anyway it wasn’t my style. Plus, I didn’t know any pubs in Shipley.

The man on the doorstep. Perhaps I’d invited him in and…

No. I’d definitely have remembered that.

The floorboards creaked, and I managed to hold in a scream. Perhaps if I pretended to be asleep he would leave me alone.

‘I know you’re awake, your nose is twitching.’

My nose was twitching in response to his cologne wafting over me – the scent I’d detected on waking and now recognised as fresh linen with a hint of basil, and something exotic that made me think of palm trees. It was surprisingly soothing, and my panic subsided a little.

‘Please wake up, Miss Ambrose.’

My eyes pinged open. That cut-glass voice definitely belonged to the man on the doorstep, but why was he in my bedroom if I hadn’t invited him in?

Then it came rushing back. The man had been Ollie Matheson. He’d turned up early. He’d seen my boobs. He was in my bedroom. He’d seen my boobs. And my muffin top. Had he put me to bed?

A panicky sweep of my body confirmed I was fully dressed. In fact, I was wearing more clothes than I had been when I answered the door, and I remembered pulling my top over my head before rushing upstairs to be sick.

I struggled upright, clutching the duvet to my chin, wincing as the hammering in my head increased. ‘Why…’ I cleared my throat. ‘Why are you in my bedroom, Mr Matheson?’

‘Oh, please, do call me Ollie,’ he said. ‘I wanted to make sure you didn’t die in the night. I couldn’t have your death on my conscience.’ His accent reminded me of the time Mum was cast as a toff in one of her plays, and spent several weeks in character, saying things like, ‘Oh, yah, absolutely, how WAAANDERful!’ to everyone’s bemusement. Except Ollie’s voice was lower pitched and unexpectedly sexy. ‘You snore like a bear,’ he added.

‘I do not.’ My eyes swivelled painfully in the direction of his voice. He was standing between the bed and the door, his hands braced on his hips, and although I’d intended to order him out, a gasp jammed in my throat.

Ollie Matheson was – I blinked and double-checked – gorgeous. Like a fairy-tale prince. He looked so different to his photo, his browny-blond stubble giving him an edgier look, and his golden hair was longer – thick and wavy, swept back from a broad, tanned forehead. He was taller than I’d expected, with a presence that hadn’t translated in his picture. I felt almost cheated, even as a hot flush travelled through my body. He was supposed to be weedy, not look like he worked out for twelve hours a day, giving the impression he could handle himself in a fight. And those eyes! What was that shade even called? Brandy or cognac – something alcoholic – sprang to mind. Deep-set and intensely twinkly, framed by gold-tipped lashes, they radiated a flirty warmth that was matched by a wide-lipped smile. His mouth was almost indecently sensuous, and his teeth, although white, weren’t blindingly so.

In short, he was very handsome.

At least the outfit was exactly what I’d expected: turned-up shirt collar, paisley cravat, navy blazer, and narrow-legged trousers in a shade my grandmother would have called maroon. He wasn’t wearing socks – a pet hate of mine – with his tan brogues, and the laces were unfastened.

‘You’ll trip over those, if you’re not careful,’ I croaked, resorting to teacher-speak to counteract the way my traitorous body was reacting.

‘What?’ He glanced down in surprise, and it was as if a spell had been broken and I could finally tear my eyes away. ‘I didn’t want to dirty your carpet so I removed them, but when the heating went off my feet got cold, so I—’

‘Wait!’ My gaze wandered to the palm-print armchair in the corner of the room. My dressing gown was flung over the arm, and there was a cushion on the floor, next to one of my mugs. ‘Have… have you been in here all night?’

‘Most of it, yah.’ He gave a frisky smile that set my insides twanging. ‘Like I said, I wanted to keep an eye on you. I have a younger sister, you see, and would do the same for her. In fact, I have done.’ He cocked a shoulder. ‘She was a bit of a tearaway in her teens.’

The thought of a coffee-sipping stranger watching me sleep was deeply unnerving. Even one as good-looking as Ollie Matheson. ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ I said, pushing my matted hair back. ‘As far as I know, I didn’t even ask you in, which means, technically, you’re an intruder.’

‘Hey, look, you don’t need to worry,’ he soothed, his eyes dancing over me as though I resembled a sex kitten, rather than someone horribly hung-over and smelly. ‘I felt bad, that’s all. You didn’t lock your front door. Anyone could have come in.’ Like he had. ‘I couldn’t leave you in that state.’

That state. I’d assumed that I would be the one making judgements, once we finally met, and was scalded with embarrassment that his first impression of me had been so unflattering. And what about during the night? I might have broken wind, or talked in my sleep. Thank god I hadn’t been sick again.

‘In case you’re wondering, you crashed onto the bed once you’d finished in the bathroom, and I covered you up and made sure you were comfortable.’ He smoothed the air with both hands. ‘Not everything you’ve read about me is true. Here.’ He slipped a smart-phone from his blazer pocket, tapped the screen a few times and thrust it under my nose. ‘This is me with the fam.’

‘Fam?’ Nothing was making any sense.

‘Family,’ he said. He sat on the side of the bed, knees spread wide, the fabric of his trousers straining over his well-built thighs. ‘Ma, Pa, Aunt Belinda, Uncle Toby, and that piece of grey fur is Prissy’s Miniature Schnauzer, Bentley.’ His chuckle was affectionate. ‘He tends to do his business around the house, but gets away with it because he once saved Prissy’s life. She got into trouble in the swimming pool, and Bentley dived right in and pulled her to safety.’ He hitched a bit closer, his proximity making my head swim. Or perhaps it was the hangover, heightening my senses.

I goggled at his ‘fam’ who were all as good-looking and expensively clothed as Ollie, with perfect teeth and salon-styled hair, posing in what looked like the grounds of a stately home.

‘That’s your house?’

‘One of them,’ he said, shooting his fingers through his hair. ‘They mostly live in the Kensington pad these days, except in the summer when they decamp to the chateau in France.’ His head was so close to mine I could almost see my reflection in his hair. ‘This is the family shack in Hertfordshire, where I was raised.’ Shack? ‘We were celebrating Uncle Toby winning a world conservation award.’ A smile tilted the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s big on saving badgers.’

‘That’s… amazing,’ I said, aware that I probably smelt of vomit. A sideways peek at the mirror propped against the wall shot back an image of my bed-ruffled, puffy-eyed appearance, the remnants of the mud-mask clinging to my face as if I’d slept in a swamp. Ollie Matheson looked like my ridiculously handsome carer.

‘Your family seem lovely and I’m sure I’m not in any danger,’ I said, adopting a no-nonsense tone that was undermined by a hiccup. ‘Sorry.’

‘Hey, I should be the one apologising, for scaring the life out of you and your pussy.’

I shot a look at his face, but he looked genuinely repentant. Was this the same man who’d declared that turning on Christmas lights was beneath him? That Erin had said was a tosser? He seemed… nice.

‘He’s not my cat,’ I said, remembering how Marmite had lashed out and clawed my arm. That’s why it was sore. ‘He’d just stolen my dinner, actually. I hadn’t eaten much, and I’d had rather a lot of wine, which is why…’ I gestured at my face.

‘You look ravishing,’ he said, which was clearly a lie – unless he liked the madwoman look.

‘I wasn’t expecting you until lunchtime today.’

‘Yah, I guess I should have called ahead,’ he said. ‘Craig actually told me to, but I wanted to fly under the radar—’

‘Craig?’

‘My cameraman, Craig Daniels.’ The other shadowy figure from last night. So, where was he, I wondered? ‘You see, the last time I did a public appearance was at a book-signing in Soho—’

‘You’ve written a book?’ I loosened my grip on the duvet. If Ollie Matheson was a writer, we at least had something in common.

‘It was an autobiography, Ollie Uncovered. Sort of a play on words, because I was in my pants on the cover.’ He gave a twinkly eye-roll. ‘Crazy, I know, to write my life story at my age, especially when I haven’t done anything magnificent or brave. But, the point is, at this book-signing someone took a swing at me for something I’d supposedly said on Twitter, and broke my jaw.’

‘That’s awful,’ I said. Although, hadn’t Ollie hit someone on Players? Still, two punches didn’t make a right.

‘She had quite a right hook,’ he conceded, adjusting his cravat. ‘Goes with the territory, unfortunately. That’s the deal when you sign up for a reality show.’

It was too early to be having a heart-to-heart in my bedroom with a hot reality TV star, especially when I looked such a state, but I couldn’t deny I was curious about how he’d got on to the show in the first place.

I wanted to ask, but my bladder was full to bursting, my skull was throbbing relentlessly, and my mouth was like the Sahara. ‘I need a drink,’ I said. ‘Of water, I mean.’

‘Oh, I left some. Here.’ Ollie bent to pick a glass off the floor by the bed, his hair flopping forward. ‘I found these in a drawer,’ he added, flicking his hair back again as he handed me a packet of aspirin with a flirty smile.

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. The idea of him going through my house was almost as unsettling as him watching me while I slept. Where were his boundaries? Maybe he didn’t abide by the same rules as lesser mortals – ones who lived normal lives, away from the glare of cameras, in houses that weren’t the size of castles, or chateaux in France. All the same, I relinquished my grip on the duvet and took the tablets and water.

‘So, you wouldn’t rather be in the Maldives?’ I said when I’d finished, handing him the glass.

He gave a charmingly apologetic grin. ‘I was in a bit of a strop when Erin called,’ he said. ‘Tattie, my so-called girlfriend, had just sold a story about me to the press, and I wasn’t in the best of moods.’ He looked suddenly crestfallen, and I guessed he must be in love with this ‘Tattie’, and wondered whether any of the females in his circle possessed an ordinary name. ‘I suddenly figured a gig like this was a step in the right direction,’ he added. He rose in an easy movement so my eyes were level with his crotch, planting his hands in his trouser pockets so the material tightened around what Erin would call his ‘package’. ‘A show about the real me, you know? To show… certain people that I’m a nice, normal guy, and persuade them I’m worth their time.’

So, he was here to win back his girlfriend. Still, as long as he did what he’d come to do, with minimum fuss and disruption, that was all that mattered.

‘I need a shower,’ I said, hoisting my eyes to his face.

‘Oh, of course.’ He gave me a devilish grin. ‘Can I help? I’m very good with a loofah.’

‘I think I can manage,’ I said politely, as if he’d offered to do a spot of painting.

His twinkly gaze lingered until my cheeks felt hotter than Venus. ‘In that case, I’ll go and tell Craig you’re awake and we’ll have breakfast together, make a plan.’

I assumed the cameraman must have crashed out on the sofa. Brilliant. Two strange men in my house, and I’d slept soundly for nearly ten hours.

‘Give me twenty minutes,’ I said, and waited until he’d descended the stairs, letting my pulse rate settle, and trying not to think about the mess I’d left down there. I hadn’t even washed up or put my baking away. My mince pies would be stale.

‘Did that really just happen?’ I looked in the mirror and groaned. Twenty minutes wasn’t long enough. I needed a week, and several extensive beauty treatments – possibly a body lift – to turn me into the sort of female Ollie Matheson was used to hanging around with.