She grabbed my attention the very first time I saw her. Heels on the high side—skirt on the short side. Long legs—tight arse. And brown, talk-to-me eyes.

She carried herself with the poise and elegance of an older woman but she could barely have been thirty. And she had the confidence of a model—she dressed like someone who has strutted down the catwalk. Her jackets and coats were really well cut—the designs weren’t those you saw in high street shops.

As well as elegance and style, she was sharp. You could also see she listened very carefully to those around her. Only those with a fair bit of emotional intelligence listen like that.

I first saw her in a coffee shop. She was in front of me in the queue so I discovered that her name was Daisy from the paper cup the barista wrote on.

Daisy was probably the hottest woman I’d ever met, or am ever likely to meet. If you asked me which women in the whole world I’d like to fuck and I had the choice of absolutely anyone, I’d choose Daisy. And, after what happened next, I would choose her again, and again, and again.

I bumped into her in the town outside what I thought was her office a couple of days later. It was totally contrived. I’d walked up and down near that cafe for the best part of an hour and managed to walk straight into her, seemingly by accident. There was a spark between us, that burst of energy I felt whenever I saw her, I knew how it wasn’t just my imagination.

“I’m sorry, I…” she started to apologise for my clumsiness.

“No, it was totally, my…” I took over but stopped when our eyes locked. Yes, yes, her pupils dilated and she looked as startled as I felt by the static that buzzed between…