Page 59 of Filthy Rich Temptation
But the silence?
I glance around the kitchen, registering the little things. Sadie’s lipstick-stained water glass. Lottie’s sequin-studded beaker. A half-finished doodle forgotten on the table. One of Lottie’s tiaras abandoned on the back of a chair. I pick it up and place it with the others on the fern, mouth twitching – part smile, part something I don’t know how to name.
Ishouldbe thrilled. Finally, a chance to work in peace. A whole afternoon to get ahead of tomorrow’s acquisition call. Time to tackle the logistics spreadsheet still mocking me from my inbox.
But instead, I’m listening.
For the stomp of tiny feet.
For Lottie’s excited squeal or Sadie’s exasperated shout, her quiet laugh, her storytelling lilt.
Even for that suspicious hush – the one that comes before all hell breaks loose.
Nothing.
And then I realise:
They’re not just in my space any more.
They’vebecomemy space.
And what kind of crazy talk is that?
I’m a billionaire bachelor with a business to run, not a billionaire babysitter on endless standby.
Time to start acting like it…
At least until they get home.
* * *
Sadie
Getting lost in unfamiliar streets, nerves ticking higher with every wrong turn, my anxiety is through the roof before we even get there.
Lottie babbles from the buggy, kicking at her steamed-up rain cover, begging to get out. But I don’t want her out until I know we’re there. It’s hard enough trying to use my phone as a sat nav without watching her wandering legs too.
I heave a sigh of relief when the building finally appears. A converted industrial unit with bold lettering in giant kid-block font standing out against the grey units all around, kind of like how Lottie’s things brighten up Theo’s.
The thought makes me smile past the nerves as I push through the door.
A perky teen with pigtails, looking very much like a grown-up Lottie, smiles at us from behind the vibrant welcome desk.
‘Hey!’ she chirps, her voice carrying over the wall of noise behind her. ‘Mum and toddler, yeah?’
‘Please,’ I say, peeling off my rain jacket and hooking it on the buggy handle as she rings us through the system and pops the gate.
‘You can park the stroller just over there…’ She gestures to a buggy bay off to one side.
‘Thanks.’
I steer Lottie in before unstrapping her, and she’s out before I’ve even straightened, one arm looped around my leg as she gawps at the seemingly endless space.
It’s a riot of colour and sound – neon mats, foam-covered frames, padded tunnels, gleaming ball pits, roleplay units, even a mini racetrack with toddler-sized cars zipping around. The air is thick with the tang of fresh paint, the sterile bite of disinfectant, and the bitter aroma of over-brewed coffee. Kids shriek, laugh, cry. One licks a window, several try to eat the balls, and whatever’s happening in the pretend supermarket looks less Tesco, more WWE – a showdown of plastic produce and toddler wrestling.
Fun.
I peel Lottie off my leg and take her hand, but she jams the other in her mouth, making no attempt to get closer. And neither do I.
