Page 35 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Sylv comes up behind me and slides her arms around my waist. Her head rests against my back. ‘And you’re our favourite secret softie, isn’t he, Jude?’

‘I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,’ Judy pronounces. ‘He’s a keeper.’

Sylv sighs into my back. ‘Marry me.’

‘Let’s do it,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got expensive lawyers. I’m sure we can get around the bigamy thing.’

‘I’ll take Ray if he’s going spare,’ Judy says.

Ray is Sylvie’s husband of, I dunno, twenty-five, thirty years. He has a few inches on me and he’s built like a brick shithouse.

Sylv laughs. ‘I couldn’t do that to him. You’d eat him for breakfast.’

‘Don’t joke,’ Judy warns. ‘You know I’d eat that man for breakfasteverymorning. He’s delicious.’

I groan, but Judy’s words trigger something I’ve been meaning to ask Sylv.

‘Connor and Kate thanked me for their shepherd’s pie this morning,’ I say over my shoulder. ‘They said it was yum. I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. Ring any bells?’

Connor and Kate Jones are basically carers for their mum, and I know they’re not eating anywhere near as regularly as they should. I sent them over some pizzas the other day, after they told me they couldn’t get here for dinner, but I haven’t sent them anything since.

She releases me, and I turn to face her. She’s eyeing me up thoughtfully, as if weighing her words.

‘What?’

‘I have a feeling I know where that shepherd’s pie came from,’ she says.

‘You?’

‘Nope.’ She shakes her head and purses her lips together. ‘I’d ask Carlotta.’

Carlotta?

What the hell does she have to do with it?

15

AIDE

Icorner her after our now usual lunch feast of ginger and turmeric juices and chicken-pesto-avocado wraps. And by corner, I mean I drag her into the office with me and shut the door behind us.

Just like yesterday.

She swapped out her lurid sweatshirt earlier for her black Venus painting t-shirt, and now she’s standing in front of me in that and those fucking cutoffs, arms crossed. I lick my lips as I look down and take her in.

It would be a lie to say I’ve stopped thinking about her since we were in here yesterday. Don’t get me wrong; I am far from celibate. I do alright for myself. But it’s not every day I allow myself to get into any of the situations I’ve already found myself in with her.

And byfound myself, I mean thrown myself into headfirst.

Except for yesterday, actually. That one I didn’t see coming. Didn’t expect her to strip for me from the waist up and challenge me to feast on her and forget my troubles among her spectacular curves.

I certainly didn’t expect to have the fucking nipples I’ve tormented myself over all weekin my mouth.

It’s pretty clear we have little in common. Our bank balances may be more similar than she realises, but our outlooks on life, our lived experiences, are worlds apart.

Even in a paint-splattered t-shirt, she still screamshigh maintenance.The fine gold bands still adorn her slender fingers. Her ponytail is long and sleek and perfect. Her makeup is light but perfectly applied, to my eyes, anyway. It enhances her huge, dark eyes and kisses her high cheekbones with a rosy blush.

She was beautiful aged sixteen, when her dad invited me to join his family for dinner at their Holland Park mansion. Such an honour—such amilestone—for a piss-poor twenty-year-old from a London council house, but, it would seem, not remotely memorable for her. Obviously, I wasn’t going to repay Paul Montefiore-Charlton’s mentorship, his faith in me, by hitting on his barely legal daughter and the apple of his eye.

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