‘‘I’m busy,’’ I answer moodily and wander to our shared desk to pick up a new file he’s left sitting there. It has a post-it note on top, which reads. “London, take care of this … TODAY!’’

I swear he makes me want to poison his next gin. I hate it when he uses that as my name, and it riles me that even in written form, the man can sound like an arsey control freak and make me rage.

‘‘It wasn’t an offer. It was an order.’’ He sounds like he’s trying ...