Page 76 of The Reluctant Billionaire

AIDE

Today should be the easy day. The fun day.

We’ve done the hard, back-breaking work, and now we get to reap the benefits. To enjoy the part where we put all the new furniture and toys and games into the refreshed community centre and marvel at the transformation we’ve made. There’s even a new air hockey table which Venus has generously donated. It turned up yesterday out of the blue. The kids will lose their fucking lives over it.

The whole thing has Lotta’s fingerprints all over it.

The kids will see it tomorrow morning, when the sit-down breakfast service will recommence. God knows how Judy and Sylv will get the kids out the door in time for school. They won’t want to leave.

They’ll definitely have to keep the air hockey table turned off till the afternoon session.

So yeah. It should be a happy occasion. The team’s done a great job. We can be proud of ourselves. Between us, we’ve managed to keep a twice-a-day food service going from the play area while Lotta’s excellent team of professionals has turned out work of the highest calibre.

The room I’m standing in today is unrecognisable, frankly. The new paint job and doors and fixtures have worked wonders in elevating the atmosphere to one of playfulness. Optimism. Hope. Ian’s team installed massive cupboards which will now hide the majority of the necessary clutter, giving the kids more room to play.

Today, the clever new tables go in. They’re stowaway ones like primary schools use, with little round stools attached to them. Outside of mealtimes, they’ll flatten up against the wall of the hall like gym apparatus. They’re genius.

We’ve even got Gaz’s blood off the skirting board.

So I should be feeling less melancholy, less deflated, than I am.

Everything Lotta said in the car was right. I feel guilty, and I shouldn’t. I dislike the idea of Judy and Sylv and all our volunteers being left to manage things here while I swan off to run my multi-billion-pound empire.

I’ve been through this circular argument with myself a million times in my head.

Judy and Sylvie are both salaried. It’s not much, but they’re paid a respectable amount for the amazing work they do.

As Lotta said, they’re not measuring things by the same exhaustingly high standards that I am. They’re fucking thrilled, dizzy with excitement at the improvements in the centre. This, for them, is a huge win, and I need to remember that.

And I’m not bailing on them. I’ll still come and help out one afternoon a week, like I’ve always done. I’ll be here to kick a ball around with the kids and catch up on how things are going at home. At school. I’m still ploughing a lot of cash into this place, both personally and through Totum’s foundation.

It’s still a part of me. And I’m still a part of it.

Jesus. I should be glad to get out of here. Improved or not, it’s still fucking depressing. It’s still a reminder of what I endured as a kid. Of how far I’ve come. I should be putting as much distance as possible between me and this part of town.

But, as I told Lotta last night, roots are strong, stubborn fuckers, and it’s far harder to uproot yourself, reinvent yourself, than anyone ever gives you credit for.

It’s not—

I lose all track of what it’s not, because at that moment, Lotta sashays past me into the kitchen with a smile on her face that’s aimed squarely at me, turning my brain to instant mush. I follow her through to the kitchen, grabbing the pockets of her denim shorts as I catch her up and tugging that delectable little arse of hers firmly against my dick.

I couldn’t give a shit who sees us. I’m done playing games and hiding my infatuation with her.

Life is short. Today’s our last day working together. If I want to spend as much of it as possible with my hands on her, everyone’s going to have to deal with it.

She looks like a fucking supermodel. I was slightly concerned her morning routine would make us late, but she just ran a hairdryer through her hair for five minutes and dumped it all on top of her head in a big, messy pile. Huge gold hoop earrings dangle against her slim neck, and worst of all, she’s wearing a t-shirt that may well bring me to my knees. It almost led to round two when she put it on in my bedroom earlier.

It’s tight and white, withChanelwritten across her tits in the sparkliest, most look-at-me manner possible. It’s written in gold sequins, for fuck’s sake. Worse, it stops far too high, exposing inches of flat, soft stomach.

I thought Lotta’s tits were my favourite thing about her. Now there are too many to count, but her skin is right up there. If I was a poet, I’d write sonnets to her skin. It manages to be creamy and tanned and glossy and so fucking soft.

I. Cannot. Stop. Touching. It.

Earlier, I sat on my bed and pulled her to stand between my legs so I could kiss that smooth belly of hers. Her skin feels like heaven to me. Like home.

Now I’ve secured her against me, I press a palm to said stomach, my fingers splaying out so my thumb brushes the hem of her top and my little finger toys with the button on her shorts.

Skin on skin.

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