Page 8 of The Reluctant Billionaire

I don’t get the impression that the leather bracelets, or the two chunky rings in dull silver that adorn his fingers, or the silver Celtic cross hanging around his neck are in any way vanity-driven.

Which means they could be sentiment-driven.

Which gives me a pang of something. I’m not sure what. Jealousy, maybe?

Can’t be. Because being jealous of the theoretical people who theoretically gave a man I’ve just met any of the things he holds dear is literally insane.

Like, stalker-level insane.

But, for some annoying reason, the next thing my brain leads me to wonder is what kind of women he goes for. I’m sure they’re all stunners, but beyond that I have no clue. I can’t see him putting up with anyone too high maintenance. He probably goes for outdoorsy, girl-next-door types who look like Jennifer Lawrence but are a lot less feisty.

Sweet. I bet he goes for sweet blondes. Something tells me he likes being in charge.

Andthatsets off a whole host of highly inappropriate but utterly delicious ponderings on just how much he likes to take charge in bed, which come to an abrupt halt when I realise he’s speaking.

‘The kitchen needs to be turned around in two days,’ he’s telling Frank. I note he’s not telling me, even though I’m, theoretically, anyway, leading this project.

‘That seems ridiculous,’ I blurt out. The kitchen is a shocker. It needs to be completely overhauled. ‘You need to give us a week, at least. Right, Frank?’

I glance at Frank, who hasn’t spoken because, unlike me, he’s an under-reactor. A processor. He watches Aide, waiting for him to expound.

‘We can’t afford a week,’ Aide says, his tone clipped.

‘If it’s a matter of funding the extra labour,’ I say carefully, ‘I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Is that what you’re worried about?’

‘No.’ That one word makes it sound like he thinks I’m an imbecile, as does the filthy look he shoots me. He probably does. ‘What I’mworriedabout is that every day the kitchen is closed, there will be kids going hungry. This isn’t some nice-to-have place where people drop by if they feel like it and singKumbaya.’

He presses his lips together and exhales, nostrils flaring, like he’s trying to rein in his temper. Or stress. Orsomething.When he continues, his tone is more measured. ‘The centre’s really important. Especially the kitchen. Kids come by before school and we sort them out—there are a lot of bare cupboards around here. If we don’t feed them, they go to school hungry. The food banks can’t begin to plug the gap.

‘Same after school. We feed them dinner.’ He shakes his head and looks me dead in the eye, and I see nothing but despair in those astonishing eyes of his. ‘Having the kitchen closed even for a couple of days is a fucking disaster. I can’t emphasise that enough. If we’re closed, then a hundred or so kids get one meal a day instead of three, and that’s whatever shitty school lunch they’re served up, and that’s not fucking good enough.’

I stare at him in horror, tears pricking at my eyes. ‘Oh,’ I say inadequately, because I didn’t seethatcoming. Didn’t realise this grubby place fulfilled such a critical function. It’s hard to believe the little kitchen can fill so many stomachs. Make so many lives that tiny bit better. I waltzed in here and judged it, but I look at this guy, Aide, and I see how filled he is with passion and despair and urgency on behalf of these children.

Right now, with his ice-blue eyes radiating righteous fury, he looks like an unlikely avenging angel. Thank God they have someone like him in their corner. Someone to advocate for them. Someone tofeedthem, for Christ’s sake.

One meal a day?I’m out of my depth here, and I’m less than half a mile from my and Gabe’s multi-million pound flat.

I put down the pen I’ve been fiddling with. ‘Then we’d better work out how quickly we can get the kitchen done and how best to feed them while it’s out of action, hadn’t we?’ I say.

He nods, his massive shoulders dropping a little, and I take that as a tiny win. A tiny sign that I’ve said something right.

‘Absolute best case is three days,’ Frank says. ‘One to disconnect everything and rip it all out. Another to lay the flooring and paint the walls. Day three, we install all the appliances and cupboards.’ He shakes his head. ‘But it’s a tall order, and we’ll need all hands on deck.’

I’m not the expert, but it sounds unrealistic to me. Aide, however, is still shaking his head and muttering to himself.

‘Can you work with three days?’ I ask him.

Wrong question.He bends his head in frustration and rakes his dirty hands through his thick black hair. I should be thinking about how unhygienic it would be to have such grubby hands anywhere near my skin.

Spoiler alert: I am not thinking that.

I try again.

‘What would it take,’ I ask his hands, ‘from all of us to make three days work? Like, is there another option? Can we feed them somewhere else?’

He drags his hands down his face and looks up at me.

He blows out a breath.

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