Page 5 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

“You may, however, be certain that I will continue to safeguard my client’s interests. And I recommend that you continue to ensure that yours align with his.”

“I already told you,” I muttered, “I won’t go to the papers.”

“Forgive me, but my profession does not reward the assumption that people will keep their word. Which is to say, if you find your morals wavering, you shouldn’t hesitate to contact me, and I will shore them up with material benefit.”

Boyle, with his sly glances and nasty insinuations, had made me feel pretty fucking dirty. But this waswayworse. “Right. Okay.”

“Was there anything else you wanted, Mr. St. Ives?”

I should probably have escaped with what remained of my dignity, but bitterness got the better of me. “No, thanks. You’ve more than satisfied my need to feel cheap and blackmaily.”

“That was not my intention.”

“Then I guess it’s just a bonus.” Finesilver started to say something else, and I cut him off. “But for the record, I only phoned because I wanted to get rid of Boyle.”

“I’m afraid I’m in no position to advise you.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that very clear.”

He sighed. “Start on the website for the Independent Press Standards Organisation. Clause three of the Code of Practice. Goodbye, Mr. St. Ives.”

With a click, he was gone. And I was left in a park, in silence. This was turning into an incredibly shitty morning and it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.

God, I wished I hadn’t called Finesilver. Not only because he’d treated me like shit—which, admittedly, was his job—but because it had reminded me how far away Caspian was. I mean, I knew he was. I’d long since stopped harbouring secret hopes he’d come for me again, the way he had once-upon-a-time as I sat on a swing in Kinlochbervie. But the gulf between us had grown so impossibly vast that I wasn’t a person to him anymore. I was a problem to be contained.

A mistake he’d made once.

And that hurt most of all.

Chapter 3

Ipulled myself together, put on my happy face, and bounced into the office. Said my hellos. Did a tea round. Then got sucked into a really intense conversation with Tabitha England-Plume (the features director) about her mum’s artisanal marmalade. It was made from fruit grown in the orangery of their stately home and named—in acknowledgement of the fact that Tabs came from legit aristocracy—Lady Marmalade.

Finally, though, I made it to what had become my workspace. As was theMilieuway, it was clutter free except for a copy ofDebrett’s, which I’m glad to say I’d never looked at. Not even when I was incredibly bored. That was the weird thing about living your dreams: Sometimes the living part was just kind of routine.

I logged into my email and got stuck in. And then began circling the issue of actual work. There was this piece on microbags I was supposed to be writing copy for. Except I couldn’t think of anything witty or interesting to say about them.These are very expensive and unfit for purpose.Hmm, wait. Maybe there was something about a lack of adequate storage being a status symbol. Too small for convenience. Too rich to care.

Hurrah. I was a genius.

Or, at least, adequate at my job.

“Smiling, poppet?” drawled a voice. “Thinking of me?”

I glanced up to find George Chase, photographer and self-identified rake, leaning in the doorway, watching me with her usual air of faint amusement. And in high-waisted, wide-leg satin trousers, a white shirt, and purple jacket thing with black velvet lapels that was practically a frockcoat, looking so fabulous it hurt.

“Teeny-tiny handbags actually.”

She laughed. “You need to get out more.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Oh, I can do far better than that.”

“Can you?”

“Always.” She twitched a wicked eyebrow at me. “Get your coat. We’re going on an adventure.”

A major component of my job was doing what people needed me to do—whether that was grabbing someone lunch, or finding a prop for the cover shoot, or compiling a top list of llamas who looked like the Duke of Edinburgh—and I’d played assistant to George a couple of times now. Much to the chagrin of some of the associate editors, since “gay for George” was pretty much an office meme. Not that anybody was mean to me about it—Milieuwasn’t that kind of place. Although I can’t say I was completely delighted when I discovered there was a sweepstake for when I’d sleep with her. I was semi-tempted to bet on myself fornever. Except George was ridiculously hot and never was a long time to wait for a pay-out.

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