Page 82 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad
His face lights up. He reaches for the pack of cigarettes, tears off the foil and lights up. "Thanks." His lips curl. “He’s lucky to have you, you know?”
I blink, processing his words. His accent... Shit, it’s definitely not that of a street bum. In fact, it’s posh. Not that he couldn’t have gone to a private school then dropped out, but still. What are the odds, huh?
"Who are you?" I ask.
"A friend." He grins back, then nods to the side, "Speaking of, isn’t that someone you know?"
I glance up the street to find a familiar motorcycle turning onto the road and heading toward me. My heart begins to pound, my pulse thuds, and my throat goes dry. The last thing I want is to be spotted here as if I’ve been waiting for him. Hold on. I turn to the homeless guy, to find he’s not there. Huh? I glance the other way to see him walking up the road, with his sign over his shoulder. His gait is steady, his long legs eating up the distance as he puts more space between us.
"How odd."
The double barrels of the approaching bike cut through my thoughts. I pivot and race toward The Shard.
27
Damian
By the time I park and take the elevator to the apartment, she’s nowhere in sight. Not that I’d expected to see her. In fact, I’d been on my way to her apartment, but as I’d turned the corner at the top of road and spotted her outside The Shard, my heart had stuttered. It had bloody stuttered. What the fuck is wrong with me? For that matter, what am I doing here?
I had fully intended not to come, but after hearing her cry out on the phone and knowing that she was in danger... And then, unable to do anything about it. I'd felt so helpless... Fucking helpless. For only the third time in my life—three times too many—this is it!
I am never going to put myself in that position again. I am going to find a way out of this.
I am going to fuck her out of my life, once and for all. I am going to make her orgasm over and over again, create a stockpile of her beautiful climaxes so I have enough inspiration to write all the lyrics I need. Then, I am going to leave her.
I use the keycard to let myself in. The place is quiet; the only light is from a floor lamp at the far end of the room. She stands with her back to me, her back pack on the floor at her side, her jacket placed over it. She’s wearing her usual jeans and plaid shirt, dark hair in a cloud around her shoulders, as she stares ahead.
I walk to her. "Julia?"
She doesn’t reply.
I reach her, touch her shoulder, and she trembles.
"Why?" she asks. "Why did you do that?"
I follow the direction of her gaze to the potter’s wheel, and next to it, a counter that has been set up, complete with all of the tools she’d need for molding clay.
"You said you didn’t have a studio."
"So, you set one up for me?"
Her voice is low. I walk past her, switch on the spotlight. The glow bathes both of us.
"How dare you?" She turns on me. "How dare you do this?"
"Hold on." I scowl, "I’m confused. I thought you wanted to work again, that you wanted to sculpt me?"
"I did, but not like this."
"What do you mean?"
"The one thing I want to do on my own, the one thing that’s sacred to me, you had to go and spoil it with your money."
"Wait," I hold up hand. "My money’s good enough for you to accept in return for sex, but not good enough for me to buy you something to help you pursue your passion?"
"That’s exactly right." She curls her fingers into fists at her sides. "This is important to me. It’s what makes my life worth living. All this time, people have come and gone from my life, people like you—"
I wince.
