Page 51 of The Reluctant Billionaire
Even if something tells me neither of them will stay single for long.
Tonight’s setting is picture-perfect. Santi’s roof terrace has a beautiful view of Notting Hill’s ice-cream-coloured streets, of verdant trees, shady gardens, and private parks aplenty. His guests are all equally beautiful. In one corner a DJ is providing chill-out vibes, and there’s a chic all-white bar in another. All that’s missing is his adorable Staff, Luke, who’s usually his faithful shadow but whom I assume is NFI this evening given his penchant for canapés.
I give Santi my most dazzling smile as he leans down to greet me with a kiss on both cheeks. A year ago, I would have been all over this gorgeous, eligible divorcé. He’s sheer perfection in a black shirt that skims his trim torso perfectly. His looks are as intoxicatingly dark and his bone structure as dangerously sharp as Tom Ellis, he has a voice that brings women to their knees, and he’s a majorly successful businessman who wields serious clout in the music industry.
What’s not to love?
For some unfathomable reason and by some cruel twist of fate, however, I’m pining over some lying Romeo who wears the hell out of a filthy vest and knows how to get his hands dirty by day and fuck me like a caveman by night.
Worse, rather than celebrating the fact that he’s secretly rich as sin, I’m actually bemoaning it.
What the utter fucking hell is wrong with me?
‘Hello, darling,’ Santi drawls in that entitled posh-boy accent that usually gets my juices flowing. Jesus, he smells amazing. He casts an approving eye over my short, frothy canary-yellow dress. ‘Looking ravishing, as always. Is that new season Giambattista?’
‘You’re good,’ I tell him with a saucy wink. Honestly, this man is perfection. A straight, hot male who can identify what labelandseason you’re wearing at first glanceandis on first-name terms with the designer?
The guy’s officially a unicorn, and I am officially swooning.
Just, unfortunately, not in a sexy way. More’s the pity.
He grimaces. ‘I’ve spent more time than I’d care to in his Paris showroom recently. Four hours of my life I’ll never get back.’
‘Is he kitting you out with some nice gowns for your next gig?’ I ask.
‘I stick to Chanel for the gowns,’ he deadpans. ‘Nope, but he’s kitting Ness out with many, many gowns for our next gig.’
I accept a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. ‘Cosy.’
He sighs. ‘Tell me about it, darling. Unfortunately, I still get eargasms every time that woman opens her mouth to sing. There’s no one better in the world to duet with. If only she stuck to singing and not whining.’
‘You’ll find someone,’ I tell him unsympathetically. ‘I can’t believe for a second women aren’t crawling all over you.’
‘They are.’ He lowers his voice. ‘They’re just… predictable as fuck.Youknow. Sometimes these social circles of ours feel endlessly samey.’
I lay a hand on his arm, feeling slightly more sympathetic to his plight. ‘I know exactly what you mean, believe me.’
‘Too many rich playboys?’ he asks, faking fatigue.
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe, or maybe the opposite—it’s kind of complicated. I haven’t worked him out yet.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ he tells me. ‘Go forth and report back with your salacious gossip from your little enigma.’
I’m not ashamed to admit I spend the rest of the weekend spiralling.
I go into our records and examine every photo Aide’s interior designer sent us of his house. You know, the onewebuilt, that I had no memory of. While it’s a little minimalist for my taste—I was raised by an Italian woman who favours Versace rugs, after all—it’s undeniably stunning. Even better, it has such structural and environmental integrity that I want to swoon.
It’s come back to me now, how much he dug his heels in over making the environmental footprint of his home as light as possible. How hard he pushed us to find innovative solutions to ensure it worked in harmony with, rather than against, nature. How impressed we were, and what a learning curve it was for the Venus team even while it became a pain in all our arses.
Next, I scroll through every single image Aidan Duffy Official (ugh) has ever posted on Instagram, which tells me that I am a pathetic stalker with a love-sick (and still marginally sore) vagina and that he is, unfortunately, a decent guy.
You can get such a good idea of a person by what they post. Aide’s Instagram is horrifyingly uncurated. On the one hand, there’s lots of random candid shit, like a fish he caught or a sunset he dug or his trashed, abandoned trainers after the London marathon.
No selfies.
No pics of him on his own, accepting awards or giving speeches or anything like that.
Nada.
