Page 99 of One Night with the Billionaire Boss

I feel like I’m drinking lemonade, though. It’s not doing the job quickly enough. So after a while, sick of watching Mack and Sidnie and the other couples smooching on the dance floor, I go into the saloon, sit up at the bar, and order myself a whisky. I down it probably a little too quickly, but I don’t care, and order myself another one.

Outside, the music continues, entwining with the guests’ laughter and conversation, and spiraling up into the night sky. I should go back out there with my friends, but suddenly I don’t have the energy. Mack and Sidnie’s happiness is a brilliant light that has only served to show me how much my life is in shadow. And I’m angry with myself, because it’s my choice, and I have this wonderful opportunity to go to England, and I should be celebrating, but instead I just feel miserable and low. Not wanting to tarnish Mack’s beautiful day, I know the only answer is to keep to myself.

Quietly, I finish my drink, then make my way down to my cabin.

It’s empty and dark. It wouldn’t surprise me if Huxley doesn’t appear tonight. I expect he’ll just doze off on one of the sunbeds or something.

Sadly, I take off my makeup, change into a T-shirt nightie, and slip beneath the covers of the left-hand single bed. I lie on my side, looking at the smooth covers of the other bed, and then let my gaze drift out of the porthole to the stars of Orion’s belt, twinkling against the blackness of the sky.

Then I fall asleep, my pillow wet with tears.

*

Sometime later, I jerk awake. It’s still dark outside, but a small, dim light emanates from the other bed. Huxley is lying there, the duvet pulled up to his waist, bare-chested, one arm tucked under his head, reading on his Kindle. I hadn’t heard him come in. How long has he been there? I can’t hear any music, so the party has obviously come to an end.

For a while, I don’t move, afraid of breaking the spell. I let my gaze linger on him, on his muscular arms, and his handsome face, lit by the Kindle. An ache begins, deep in my heart. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

He glances over at me then, and sees I’m awake. “Hello,” he murmurs.

“Hey.” I don’t move. “What time is it?”

“Just after three a.m. but the clocks have just gone back, so it’s two a.m. again.”

My stomach flutters. I know it’s ridiculous, but my first thought is that someone’s given us an extra hour of time to put things right. It feels like the witching hour, magical and precious.

“How long have you been here?” I whisper.

“About half an hour. You didn’t even stir when I came in. Why did you disappear? We missed you.”

I don’t reply, unable to put my misery into words.

His gaze lingers on me for a while. Then he returns it to his Kindle.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

“The Life of Pi,” he says, surprising me. “I’m wondering whether there’s a tiger like Richard Parker on board here somewhere.”

I try to smile, but I feel too sad. I want to ask him if he’ll kiss me, if he’ll make love to me. But I can’t, because that wouldn’t be fair, and it would only make things worse. Or would it? I don’t think I can feel worse than this. A tear runs down over my nose and drops onto my pillow. I know it’s just tiredness and alcohol, but my heart still aches.

He glances at me again briefly. Can he see my tears? It’s very dark in here. He doesn’t say anything, and returns his gaze to his Kindle. A minute passes. Then, without looking at me, he lifts his arm. “Come over here, and I’ll read to you,” he says.

My heart bangs against my ribs. Is he serious? He doesn’t lower his arm, still reading. I mustn’t. I shouldn’t.

“Ka pao te torea,” he says. It’s his motto, of a sort, at his business club; it means ‘as the tide recedes, the oystercatcher strikes.’ We might say ‘strike while the iron is hot.’

I pull back the covers, get up, go over to his bed, and slide in next to him. There’s not a lot of room as it’s a single bed, but I find no reason to complain as I nestle close. He’s only wearing his boxers, and his skin is warm. Mmm, he smells good, of his musky evening aftershave and the scent of healthy male. He’s so young, strong, and alive.

He tucks the duvet around me, then lowers his arm and pulls me close.

“He’s just escaped in the lifeboat,” he says, and starts reading, telling me the story of the Indian boy whose ship sinks and who ends up in a boat with a hyena, a zebra, an orangutan, and the tiger, Richard Parker.

He reads for about fifteen minutes, and I rest a hand on his chest, feeling his voice rumble there as he murmurs the words, finding it oddly comforting. We could be any normal couple, resting after a busy day. Tears prick my eyes. This isn’t sexual; he’s comforting me the only way he knows how. He knows I’m hurting, because I’m pretty sure he’s feeling the same way. He’s trying to reconnect, and it makes me so incredibly sad.

Eventually, when he gets to the end of the chapter, he stops reading, turns off his Kindle, and puts it on the bedside table. It’s dark now, the only light coming from the stars outside.

He puts his arms around me, and I slide my arm around his waist beneath the covers and hug him.

“I miss you,” I whisper.

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