Page 29 of The Reluctant Billionaire

‘You head home,’ Sylvie says. ‘We’ve got this.’

‘If you’re sure.’ I back towards the door. I feel really drained, all of a sudden. An unexpectedly long evening in my luxurious, blood-free flat sounds amazing. ‘I’ll just go say bye to Aide.’

I pause for a second outside the closed door of the office, pulling out my hair tie and shaking out my hair before knocking. I hear an irritated-soundingCome in.

Yep, that’s definitely Aide in there.

He’s sitting on the desk, facing the door, his legs spread wide and his shoulders slumped. His fingers are curled around a glass, and there’s an open bottle of whisky beside it. He doesn’t smile, but neither does he tell me to get out.

‘I’m going to head off,’ I tell him.

He looks down at the glass. Tilts it in his hand.

‘Want some?’ he asks, raising his head to me. Despair is etched onto his gorgeous face. His blue eyes are reddened. Tired.

I nod and back up against the door, pushing it shut with my bum. ‘Why not?’ I’m not much of a whisky drinker, but I’ve developed a taste for it over years spent with my dad and my brother. Gabe has a stupendous collection at our flat. He favours scotch, obviously, but I’m more of a Bourbon girl. It’s kinder. Sweeter.

He picks up the bottle and sloshes, conservatively, three shots into the glass before holding it out to me. ‘Drink.’

I step forward and put it to my lips.

Wow.

Definitely scotch. It’s good stuff, smooth, but bloody hell does it burn.

‘Yikes,’ I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

He laughs gruffly. ‘Not your poison?’

‘I don’t mind it, but I’m more of a champagne girl.’

‘Course you are,’ he says, but it’s not unkind. He gestures towards my leg. ‘You’ve got blood on your thigh.’

I look down at my bare thigh. There is indeed a smear of Gaz’s blood across my skin. ‘Nice. At least I didn’t wear yoga pants today. Skin’s easier to wash.’

His gaze lingers on my thigh before he drags it upwards.

‘You okay?’ I ask hesitantly. He’s a grumpy bastard at the best of times, and I don’t want to poke the bear, but I also don’t want to go without making sure he’s not too shaken up. I know he and Gaz are close, and I’ve already learnt that Aide thinks everything and everyone are his responsibility.

‘I’m fucked off,’ he says. He accepts the glass I hold out and takes a swig before handing it back to me. There’s something about sharing a glass with him that feels intimate. Sensual. ‘Fucked off with him for not sticking to super fucking basic safety rules and fucked off with myself for not noticing.’

‘He’s not your responsibility,’ I say. ‘He’s a big boy. At the end of the day, it’s down to him to keep himself safe. But it was also an unfortunate accident. These things happen.’

I raise the now-almost-empty glass to my lips again and take a slow sip, allowing myself to enjoy the burn. To revel in the incredible, almost medicinal warmth of the liquid as it coats my throat. My oesophagus. Heating me, soothing me from the inside.

When I look back down, his eyes are on me. On my mouth, more precisely.

‘I know that in my head,’ he says to my mouth. ‘I mean, I know you’re right. But I still feel sick to my stomach. We’re here trying to do a bit of good, and now my mate is sitting in fucking A&E, waiting to have a bloody nail pulled out of his finger, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m just sitting here, drinking like a useless twat and spiralling. It’s stupid. But I can’t get out of my own head. I can’t stop obsessing about it.’

He raises those despairing blue eyes to meet mine, and we’re locked in place for a moment. I don’t know why, but Aide deigning to talk to me, to let me in, has me feeling more lightheaded than the whisky has.

‘I know,’ I say, and I step closer, between his legs, setting the glass down on the desk. I’m thinking this guy needs a good hug, so I act on instinct and put my arms around him, pulling him in towards me. Given he’s sitting and I’m standing, the hug ends up being more like suffocation by boobs. I hold his head against my chest and move one hand up so it’s cupping the back of his head through all that glorious, silky hair.

He stays frozen for a few seconds before his entire body slumps against me and he lets out the most enormous shuddery sigh.‘Fuck,’he groans, and I feel the heat of his breath through both my t-shirts.

We stay like that for what feels like an eternity until he lifts a big hand and places it right on the small of my back, pressing me in closer to him. I stagger forward half a step and allow myself to rake a hand through his hair as I lower my face to the top of his head.

To say it feelsgoodlike this is a gross understatement. It’s elemental. It’s two people who don’t particularly enjoy each other’s company coming together and offering each other comfort with parts of themselves that transcend personality.

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