Page 73 of Worth Every Moment
After Erica’s cosmetics launch, my father drained another one of my accounts. Seventeen million pounds, gone. After he took the £28 million, I spent a small fortune ringfencing the rest, splitting it up, hiding it, and moving it into other accounts, but it made no difference. I’d just moved that £17 million offshore and Dad still found it. When I realised it was gone, I didn’t even call my accountant, because I knew exactly where it went.
Dad sent a message mocking my attempts to hide my cash from him. I deleted it and let the anger filter through my blood. A succession of thoughts followed, the loudest of which was whether I should find myself a gun and kill the bastard myself.
Previously, I’d have numbed out with alcohol and a nameless blonde in a hotel room. Maybe two of them.
But not anymore. Now, I focus on Erica. The way she makes me feel, and the fact that every fucking second of being in her presence is worth any shit my father wants to put me through.
We’ve been living together for weeks, and I guess you could say it’s going well. I’m not getting laid, but she’s in my house.Just down the corridor. I feel like a kid who’s been granted their one wish, and while I’m delighted, I know I don’t have long to enjoy it.
She’s busy. I’m busy. We don’t see each other that often, but when we do, it’s like the apartment is having an electrical surge. I don’t know if she can feel it too, but her essence sparks at my skin. It’s a circuit running right through me the moment I walk in the door.
I don’t want to fuck it up, so I’ve been putting a little distance between us. After that moment on the day she moved in, where I swear she wanted to kiss me, I haven’t really touched her at all.
I don’t know if it’s making it better or worse. For me, it’s amplifying the longing. But I’m an expert at playing it cool. Being casual. Making it all into a joke.
It’s what I do best.
You ready to kiss me again, Lefroy?I’ve wanted to ask. Make light of it. But for some reason, I can’t make light ofthat. It’s a treasure of a question that I don’t want to ask, in case her response confirms it’s nothing more than fool’s gold.
I’m fucking torturing myself and I’m enjoying the torment.
Tonight, I’m late home from work, and the flat is quiet. I don’t know if Erica is here or not, but I settle myself at the island and start checking emails.
Another message comes in from Dad.
This time, the message is a link to Diana Marchetti’s social media account. I’ve never looked her up, even after she told me she was an influencer. No inclination, to be honest. But now, I click the link and start to scroll. There are thousands of photos of her looking young, beautiful, and happy. Most of them are book-related, and she’s wearing a selection of floaty dresses and heels, posing in tourist spots in London in each. She’s cute. It’s cute. I don’t know why Dad sent it to me. Maybe he thinks pictures ofDiana rubbing up against a red letter box or an old school phone booth full of second-hand books will win me over.
“Who’s that?” Erica’s voice pops in my ear and I nearly drop the phone. How did I not hear her come in?
“Erm… I don’t—”
“She’s wearing my shoes.”
“What?”
Erica leans over, pointing at the shoes Diana is wearing in the photo. “Those silver heels. TheErica Lefroys. They’re limited edition.”
“I knew that,” I say, scrabbling for an explanation as to why I’m looking at photos of another woman.
Erica frowns. “You did?”
“Yeah.” Thankfully, the word rings true, because it is. Now that she’s mentioned it, I do recognise the shoes. “That’s why I’m looking at it.”And that’s the lie.
Her features soften. “That’s so sweet.” She ruffles my hair and moves off to grab food from the fridge. “I’m making a salad. You want some?”
Thank God we’ve moved off the topic of Diana Marchetti. If guilt doesn’t tear through my stomach lining by the time our arrangement is over, I’ll have to start going to church because it will be a fucking miracle, and I’ll be a believer.
Erica grabs a chopping board and a knife and starts taking cherry tomatoes from a paper bag.
“You don’t need to do that,” I say. “I can get the chef to prepare it, or we can get something delivered.”
“But then I can’t count them.”
I frown.“Count what?”
“The tomatoes. I’m allowed twelve half cherry tomatoes.”
What the fuck?“You’re allowed six full cherry tomatoes?” She nods, continuing to cut without meeting my eye. “Per day or per meal?”
