Page 97 of The Reluctant Billionaire
I’ve felt torn in two since I spoke to her. I know what I did to her was seriously shitty, and I one hundred percent deserved forher to call me out and, to be honest, for her to put some distance between us. But it didn’t make it any easier.
I hated being apart from her last night, I hated hearing that hurt and disappointment in her voice, and I hate even more knowing she’s en route to France with her friends and I’m not there by her side.
I can’t even imagine how pissed off I’ll feel tomorrow night, knowing she’s ripping up that dance floor with proper movie stars. Davide de Luca’s going to be there, apparently. So’s Brad Burton. It’ll be like the Cannes fucking Film Festival over there.
And something tells me my girl won’t be short of attention.
I grit my teeth and set to work with the Nespresso machine.
‘Everything okay?’ Judy asks as I wearily usher her out the kitchen door and into the yard area in front of me.
‘Fine.’ I rub my eyes as I put my cup down on the shitty uneven table. ‘I’m just tired.’ I’m exhausted, actually, because doing what I thought was the right thing did not sit easily with me last night and upsetting Lotts sat even less easily. Ergo, sleep was not my friend.
‘I see.’ She sits down heavily and I observe, not for the first time, that she’s getting frail. Stiff. ‘And how’s Lotta?’
‘She’s fine.’
She purses her lips. ‘How excellent that everyone isfine. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing. Jesus Christ, you dimwit. You realise you two getting together is one of the most exciting and happy things that has ever happened in my life?’ She glares at me. ‘You’re the son I never had, and she’d damn well better be my daughter-in-law at some point, so don’t fuck this up. What. Is. Going. On? Where is she this weekend?’
I sigh but stop short of an eye roll because I value my safety. ‘She’s in France,’ I concede.
‘How nice. And what’s she doing there?’
‘She’s at a wedding.’
‘Delightful.’
This fucking woman.
‘Did you not get invited to the wedding?’ she asks with an innocent sip of her espresso. She’s even holding her pinky out. Honestly.
‘I did,’ I tell her, ‘but this is more important.’
‘I see. Is that the thing you said you had on when I texted you yesterday?’
I hesitate. ‘Yeah.’
She sets down her cup.
Uh-oh.
‘Let me get this straight,’ she says in a faux-pleasant voice that doesn’t fool me for a second. ‘You are supposed to be at some, presumably glamorous, wedding in France, but you pulled out to help me?’
‘To help everyone,’ I clarify. ‘I didn’t want it being a nightmare for you or a washout for the kids.’
‘And what does Lotta think about this?’
‘She’s really fucked off,’ I admit.
‘Shocker.’
‘Judy.’
‘Don’t youJudyme, young man.’
