Page 34 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

I totally did.

As I brushed my fingers over the smooth fabric, I tried to convince myself I should turn down the amazing present from my billionaire non-boyfriend. That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? I was pretty sure there were nebulous moral and social rules governing the acceptance of extravagant gifts from rich, (slightly) older men.

But I was already sleeping with the rich, (slightly) older man in question. Enthusiastically and for free. And, proportionally speaking, if you looked at it in terms of annual income, a coat like that was probably the equivalent of a packet of crisps and a pint of Stella to Caspian.

Not a big deal at all.

Except…that wasn’t true. Because this wasn’t just a post-bang bunch of roses he’d told his assistant to arrange. It was something he’d chosen specially.

While thinking of me.

Well. While thinking I was a Dickensian urchin who would freeze to death come winter.

But hey. It was a thought. It counted.

And now I couldn’t tell whether I was trying to talk myself into it or out of it, or whether I felt good or bad or what. Maybe it would have been easier if Caspian had actually been here. He would have been able to tell me I deserved to be lavished in expensive gifts. And I could thank him with my hands and mouth and body.

And then wear the coat.

Great. Now I was having a sexy fantasy that essentially amounted to prostituting myself for tailored outerwear.

This was why I couldn’t have nice things.

Knowing how busy he was, I didn’t want to interrupt him. So I ended up making my awkward thank-you call in the evening. He picked up with velociraptor swiftness on the second ring.

“Hello, Arden.”

“Good evening, Mr. Hart.”

“Did you…I mean. I sent you something. I trust it arrived.”

Oh bless, he sounded, well, not nervous exactly. But eager and trying to cover it up. And I suddenly felt a whole lot better about the coat. “Yes. Thank you. It’s perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Best thing in my entire wardrobe. I won’t wear anything else ever again.”

“Anything else, you say? Now that I’d like to see.”

I gave this weird bleaty little laugh because I hadn’t been properly prepared for flirting. But I rallied. Made what was probably an ill-advised attempt at sultry. “Come round, then. I’ll give you a private viewing.”

“You know I’d love to. But I’m waiting for a call from Tokyo, and I prefer to handle such things from my office.”

I sighed. “Soon, then?”

“I’ll insist on it.”

The growl in his voice sent happy little shivers racing down my spine. But it also made me miss him. Even more so when he hung up, and I was alone again in the flat: just me and my gorgeous coat. The last thing I needed was more complicated feelings centered on an item of clothing, but it highlighted the way he could reach into my world whenever he wanted while his remained utterly inaccessible to me.

Blah.

Leaving my Coat of Many Emotions draped over a chair back, I Kiked Nik to see if he wanted to binge-watch Supergirl with me, having forgotten it was something like one o’clock in Boston and he was out to lunch with friends. Typical, really, that Nik would travel across the world, without billionaire backing, and be right at home. While I was living only an hour away and still didn’t have a clue about anything. I mean, I was glad he was settled and had friends and stuff. But it reminded me that I needed to do the same. Instead of acting like my life was a ten-pound note I’d found in the gutter and couldn’t decide whether it was okay to keep.

I couldn’t help coming back to what Caspian had said to me on the plane. All that stuff about daring to want things. I’d made it about him at the time—partly because, well, I did want him, but also because I wasn’t ready to think about it too deeply. Y’know, in case he was right.

Which, to be honest, was looking increasingly likely.

It was extra strange because I’d been full of dreams as a teenager. Mainly big stupid unrealistic dreams, like becoming a world-famous novelist, when, y’know, I had no interest in actually writing novels. Except I’d also dreamed of going to Oxford, and I’d made that happen, and not—when I managed to see past my raging imposter syndrome—just by fluke or by accident. I’d wanted it and worked for it. And yet, having achieved it, all I’d done was fuck around and watch illegal streams of Pretty Little Liars with a mostly straight boy I’d half believed I was in love with.

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