Page 16 of The Reluctant Billionaire

The boy’s face lights up again, and I’m unclear if it’s the mention of a football hero or the prospect of more food that’s done it. ‘Thanks a lot, bro. See ya,’ he says.

As they leave, Aide and Sylvie exchange another glance before Aide trails them slowly to the gate. He leans against the post and watches as they walk down the street.

‘Are they okay?’ I ask Sylvie tentatively. Something about their pale little faces doesn’t sit well with me.

She sniffs. ‘Not really. They’re always first up. Always starving.’

‘Did they miss dinner, do you think?’

‘Almost certainly. They’re their mum’s carers, basically. It’s been enough of a struggle getting them to do a full day of school without them being able to sneak out for dinner, too.’

‘Fucking hell,’ I mutter. ‘So, will Aide bring them food?’

‘Yeah.’ She smiles fondly in his direction. ‘He takes it so personally—he’s on a mission to keep the tummies of every child in this neighbourhood full. And to make sure they get to school okay.’ She nods at the gate.

‘They look far too young to go on their own,’ I say worriedly. ‘Are they allowed?’

She laughs, but there’s no humour in it. ‘Forget aboutallowed.Their mum’s housebound. Their dad’s long gone. If they don’t take themselves, they won’t ever go.’

I look at Aide. His body is slumped against the gatepost, all the joviality he showed the boy gone from his demeanour. He rubs his forehead with his thumb, his gaze still fixed in the same spot.

‘Is he watching them?’

‘He’s keeping an eye out for as long as he can. Don’t worry—it’s not far, and there’s a lollipop man down the street.’

Oh, Aide. Aide. Don’t do this. Don’t be a rude, inappropriate, grumpy prick and then tear that heart of yours out and let it bleed on your sleeve for some kids you can’t save.

I don’t think I can handle it if you do.

8

AIDE

Whatever grudging tolerance that’s grown in me for Carlotta as she’s mucked in the past couple of mornings disappears as soon we get inside each day and she takes off that coat, because under its blessed shapelessness is lycra for days andno fucking bra.

I didn’t think the situation could get worse than it was on Monday.

I was wrong.

Today, for example, she’s serving us up spray-on leggings in dark grey. They’re so tight they could pass for body paint, and Jesus Christ, do they hug every perfect curve.

Her arse.

Thatarse.

It’s so smooth, so pert, I could get to my knees behind her right now and press my nose to the seam running between her cheeks and die a happy man.

The leggings hint at toned, athletic thighs and finish halfway down her calves, showing off trim, tanned ankles.

And the front view is even worse.

She has one of those ultra-lightweight, zip-up yogi jackets on. It’s practically a second skin. The zip is only closed to just below her tits, offering a peek of bronzed skin and, so help me God, a shot of cleavage above the hot-pink sliver of whatever top she’s got on underneath.

But that’s not the worst part.

Oh, no.

Theworstpart is that the thin layer of jacket and the thin layer of top and the fucking useless layer of what’s presumably a zero-coverage sports bra is totally bloody inadequate in the fight against her pneumatic nipples, and their outline is poking through her clothes clear as day, perky as you like, once a-fucking-gain.

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