Page 121 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“What do you mean?”

She gave a nasty laugh. “Oh come on, Arden. He’s probably already with him. He always goes back to Lancaster.”

I stopped swinging. I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t going to cry anymore.

Ellery’s hand brushed my shoulder briefly. “He’s fucked up. He fucks everyone up. I’m sorry.”

“He’s so unhappy,” I mumbled.

“You’re not the first person to try and fix him.”

“I just wanted to be with him.” I leaned into her and while she made an irritated noise she didn’t move away. “And it seems cruel beyond reckoning that a man with such power over his world could have so little over himself.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Tragically ironic. And you know what else is tragically ironic?”

“What?”

“The fact you’re sitting here in the arse-end of Scotland, with nothing, and nowhere to go, and probably no clue about anything, trying to make me feel bad for the guy who treated you like shit.”

“Hey now,” I protested. “He offered me money and the apartment.”

“Like you were going to take it. How long was he with you? Did he know you at all?”

“We were kind of in the middle of an argument at the time.”

“Right. But it’s been over a week.”

It had. And I’d told myself I wasn’t hoping for anything. Except I must have been. Because now I felt silly.

Ellery kicked the tree moodily. “Stop feeling sorry for him. I expect he’s feeling sorry enough for himself. Or Lancaster’s found him a new whipping boy.”

“Don’t.”

“Sorry.”

“Did you really come all the way to Kinlochbervie to say I told you so?”

“No.” She pulled her hood up and disappeared into its shadows. “I came to ask if you want to live with me.”

I nearly fell off the swing. “Live with you?”

“Yeah. Thought I should move out. Do some shit with my life or something.”

“What sort of shit did you have in mind?”

She kicked the tree again. And then, apparently finding the shelter of her hood inadequate, caught the strings and yanked them so tight that only a tiny window was left for her face. “Thought I might go Bartók on some English folk songs. Try to bring them back into the popular consciousness or whatever.”

“Um. How?”

“Well. I thought I’d start by playing them.”

I gazed at her, slightly shocked. “That sounds amazing.”

“Right? I found one about baby murdering.”

“Wow. Yes. People need that in their lives.” I clutched my chest. “How can we, as a culture, have let our babymurdersongs whirl away upon the slipstreams of time?”

She made an odd muffled noise. I think she might have been laughing. “Is that a yes, then?”

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