Page 2 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Again.

Our newest development, Elgin, was a fucking nightmare to pull off, and I have to admit Gabe worked miracles to get it over the line. A futuristic, eco double block of purpose-built flats bang in the centre of the Georgian and Victorian ice-cream-coloured streets of Notting Hill was always going to ruffle some feathers. The good councillors of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, under whose remit Notting Hill falls, were hell-bent on turning us down.

The two main areas where we won out in the end were on the promises we made around environment and community outreach.

I have a horribly hazy memory of sitting in one of the endless meetings with pale, male and stale pen-pushers and blithely (or maybe even flirtatiously) agreeing to front the complete overhaul of some hall-slash-centre-thingy up near Avondale Park.

The park and its surrounding streets are squarely on the poorer side of an area where jaw-dropping wealth and equally shocking poverty sit cheek-by-jowl.

‘I did, didn’t I?’ I moan, slumping in my chair in defeat. I push my foot against the white marble floor so I can simultaneously swivel the chair and take a smidgeon of comfort in the gloriousness of my new baby-pink Prada heels.

Happily, my brother’s victorious smirk is interrupted by a cursory knock at the open door before his assistant, Charlie, steps in.

‘They’re ready for you,’ she tells him with an admiring smile.

I roll my eyes internally. Yet another secretary plotting how to put a ring on Gabriele Montefiore-Charlton’s finger. She needn’t bother. He’s made that mistake once before and he won’t make it again. I give her a month before he’s got sick of her suggestive glances and given her the boot.

‘How do I know what to do on this job?’ I demand as my brother pushes himself up to standing, clearly dismissing me. This kind of hands-on stuff is way outside my comfort zone. I’m far happier signing off on multi-million-pound media budgets and glossy brochures and exclusive influencer events. ‘How many of us do they need? I haven’t got the first clue what—’

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ he replies, flicking my hair as he walks past in a way that’s puerile and irritating in equal measure. ‘The foundation has it all sorted. Khalid will brief you—you just have to show up and try to be vaguely helpful. Aide’ll look after you.’

‘Aid?’ I ask his retreating back. ‘What kind of aid?’ Is that some new department I’m unaware of? I mean,Aidisn’t a bad name for our outreach efforts. It’s a bit on the nose, but it’s punchy, succinct.

Hmm.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ he mutters. ‘Just speak to Khal. And don’t wear heels like that. They’ll get trashed.’

I stare at him in horror as he disappears down the corridor, Charlie click-clacking adoringly behind him.

He’s not possibly suggesting I wear flats, is he?

2

LOTTA

Ihave three thoughts as soon as I walk into this godforsaken place.

One. I have arrived in actual, literal hell.

Two. Henry Cavill’s twin appears to have landed himself in hell with me.

Three. Hot Cavill Twin looks far less pleased to lay eyes on me than I am to see him.

And by see, I mean eye-fuck.

Because, come on. This is what I mean when I say I want a guy who’s all man.

This. Right here.

An all-man man wears the hell out of a vest like this. And there’s an impressive amount of dark chest hair coming out of the top of it that’s somehow not wiry or pube-y but instead looks soft and manly and inviting and snuggle-worthy.

And he does proper physical work that results in said vest being grimy and dirt-marked, and in his fucking ginormous arms being sweat-slicked, and all the things that should be a turn-off to someone as high maintenance as me but that are, in fact, a mahoosive turn-on.

An all-man man knows how to wield his power tools, both figuratively and literally, and this guy’s brandishing his huge drill in a way that screams casual competence.

Like, a literal drill.

In case you think I’ve already seen his penis.

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