The piece before me, written by a well-known crime journalist named Una Harris, who was the one to break the initial story about Jay, is certainly extreme. It delves into Jay’s background in America, where she claims he spent a year in a juvenile detention facility for assaulting a man on the street. Before that he’d been a runaway, squatting in derelict buildings in Boston.

Harris poses questions about Jay’s less than squeaky-clean background. She wonders how a man who spent time in prison, even if it was a young offenders’ prison, would be given permission to carry out dangerous stunts as he had been doing in his show. She also wonders why Jay, who had been performing some very successful live shows in Las Vegas, would give all that up to move to such a small pond as Ireland to film a series that would only reach a tiny audience in comparison to the States.

Overall, she basically out and out claims that Jay had shady motives for coming here, and perhaps he even intended for David Murphy to die. He did, after all, almost beat a man to death when he was just fifteen. Perhaps he’s simply come up with a more elaborate way to feed his need to harm people, Harris muses.

Whoa, this woman really doesn’t pull any punches with her insinuations. It’s almost like she’s begging for a lawsuit. I mean, I’ve worked with my dad long enough to know that you should always have hard evidence before you publicly make claims about people that could be construed as libellous. And aside from a few hazy pieces of information about Jay’s teenage years, Una Harris has zero evidence.

I draw my attention away from the newspaper to find that my dad and Jay had been having a conversation while I was lost in the article.

“Don’t get me wrong,” says Dad. “The thought of taking on such a case excites me. I haven’t worked on anything like this in years, but at the same time I need to be selfless and tell you that there are far better solicitors out there for the job. I can even give you a few names to contact. You do actually want to win this case, I presume?”

Jay uncrosses his legs and folds his arms. “Hell, yeah, I want to win it. And I know you’re the man for the job, Hugh, no matter how much you try to convince me otherwise.”

I silently hand him back the newspaper and he takes it, his fingertips brushing mine. The contact makes my skin tingle. Stupid handsome bastard.

Dad stares at Jay, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants to say yes — he just doesn’t have the confidence to do it. In all honesty, I’m hoping he continues to say no. I know how stressful the kind of case Jay is proposing can be, and I don’t want Dad going through all that. He just turned sixty last month. The landmark birthday only functioned to make me more aware of how many years he might have left.

“I’m sorry, Mr Fields, but I’m going to have to stick to my guns on his one,” Dad says apologetically. “Taking on a journalist is one thing, but suing a newspaper is going to require a top-notch firm. As you can probably see, we’re not that.”

Oh. Jay wants to sue the actual newspaper? I’m impressed. That takes some serious balls.

Okay, Matilda, stop thinking about the man’s balls.

Jay lets out a long sigh and turns his head to the window. A second later he gets up from his seat and thrusts his hand out at Dad. “Well, if there’s no way I can convince you,” he replies, and the two men shake hands. “Thanks for your time anyway.”

Jay goes to walk out the door but then turns back for a second, an impish gleam in his eye. “Oh, before I go, can you recommend anywhere I might be able to rent a place close to the city? I’ve had to move out of the apartment I’d been staying in.”

I take in a quick breath as Dad’s eyes light up. A couple of weeks ago he got it into his head to renovate the spare bedroom in our house so that he could take on a lodger and make a little extra money. I haven’t been too keen on the idea, since I don’t really want to share my living space with a stranger, but once Dad settled on the idea, there was no deterring him.

I certainly don’t want to share my living space with Jay Fields. Not because of his supposed history mapped out by Una Harris, but because I wouldn’t be able to relax around him. He has this magnetic energy that makes me feel anxious and excited all at once.

“It’s funny you should ask,” says Dad. “I’ve been planning on renting out our spare room — if you’re interested, of course. It’s got an en-suite, newly refurbished.”

I squeeze my fists tight and walk back out to the reception area, taking a seat at my desk and slugging back a gulp of my coffee. I don’t like how rapidly my heart beats at the thought of Jay moving into that room, so I leave before I hear his answer. Please, please, please let him say no.

My Dad’s raucous laughter streams out from the office; Jay’s obviously in there charming the pants off him. I silently curse my father for being such an easily charmed hussy.

No more than a minute later, both Dad and Jay leave his office. I can see Jay looking at me out of the corner of my eye, but I continue typing into the computer in front of me, feeling like if I look directly at him, he’ll somehow be able to tell how attractive I find him.

“Matilda, could you do me a huge favour and bring Jay out to the house on your lunch break to see the room? I’d do it myself, only I have a meeting to go to.”

Oh, Dad. You have no idea how you’re torturing me right now. It takes me several beats to answer. When I finally do, my voice is quiet. “Yeah, okay.”

What I really want to say is hell, no, but that would make me look like a bitch. And I’m not a bitch. Well, outside my own inner dialogue, I’m not.

“Great,” says Dad before turning to the waiting neck-brace woman. “Ah, Mrs Kelly. You can come on in now.”

Mrs Kelly follows Dad into his office, leaving me alone with Jay.

“What time do you have lunch?” he asks in a low voice, stepping closer to my desk.

“One o’clock. We’ll have to get a taxi, because I need to be back here by two.”

“That’s okay. I can drive us,” says Jay, and I bite my lip, looking up at him now. Wow, his eyes are kind of mesmerising, not quite brown, not quite green. We stare at one another for a long moment, and there’s a faint smile on his perfectly sculpted lips.

“All right. See you at one,” I tell him breezily, and then my eyes return to the screen in front of me as he leaves. On the outside I’m all business. On the inside I’m a nervous wreck. How in the hell am I going to act like a normal human being while spending at least an hour in his company? He really doesn’t know what he’s in for.

I wager I’ll last about five minutes before I blurt out something stupid, thus rendering the following fifty-five minutes an awkward delight. And when I say “delight,” I mean nightmare.

Just as I’m simultaneously organising files on my computer and agonising over my impending social doom, Will walks in the door, his wisp of brown hair a windswept mess atop his head. He was in court this morning, which is why he’s late to the office. Unlike most men, I get along with Will just fine. That’s probably because I find him about as sexually appealing as a pair of oversized granny knickers. So, when I said I’m crap with all men, I suppose I should adjust that statement. I’m just crap with all men that I fancy.

Sure, I can be their friend. But their girlfriend? Well, that just never seems to pan out. My one and only boyfriend from several years ago unceremoniously dumped me by text, and that just says it all. I’m still scarred from the experience.

“Morning, Will,” I greet my colleague as a folder slides out of his half-open briefcase. He bends over to pick it up, and I’m greeted with his unimpressive rear end. Two flat fried eggs in a hanky.

What? I said my inner dialogue was a bitch. The important thing is that I’d never actually say something so mean out loud. We all have thoughts that we would never, ever vocalise. And people who say they don’t are liars.