Page 93 of The Reluctant Billionaire

I’d say I’m in trouble, but it’s the best I’ve ever, ever felt. The happiest I’ve ever been. And, while we haven’t talked about our feelings outright, I’m growing quietly confident that he’s not immune, either. He doesn’t strike me as an emotionally slutty guy or someone who’d lead me on. On the contrary, he’s straight as a die. And he’s been doing an admirable job of not letting my shallow, extravagant lifestyle freak him out too much.

In fact, I bit the bullet and asked what I’ve been wanting to ask him for days now. The thing I was afraid would have him running for the hills, because it really, really could.

I asked him to be my date to Elle Hart and Josh Lander’s fabulous, star-studded wedding at Noah’s parents’ chateau in a couple of weeks.

Basically, I was asking him to do everything he hated. Put on a tux (again), hang out with wealthy, entitled people in their wealthy, entitled bubble, make small talk, deal with unwanted attention, and not freak out over the—in his eyes—excess he’ll bear witness to for the entire weekend, even if I know Elle and Josh will put on a classy and gorgeous and dreamy few days for us all.

I was also, it turns out, asking him to miss the kids’ party the community centre is throwing to celebrate the start of the summer holidays, which I feel awful about. The irony of asking my gorgeous and deserving, if reluctant, billionaire, to forgo an event that close to his heart to party with the rich and famous isn’t lost on me.

But you know what?

He said yes.

35

AIDE

‘There was an article about us in thePosttoday,’ Lotta says. ‘Did you see it?’

‘Nope.’ I put my finger in my cold war thriller and close the book over, twisting onto my side so I can give her my full attention. We’re sprawled next to each other on the huge sofa on my terrace, our stomachs full of Maggie’s excellent barbecued chicken and salad. I’ve been lying on my back, a few scatter cushions stuffed behind my head.

Lotts is on her front in a t-shirt and those obligatory cutoffs, bare feet up and waving in the air as she devours some mafia romance with a terrifying-looking guy on the cover. She told me the plot. It sounds fucking awful, except for the bit where she mentioned I’d make a brilliant mafia boss and that maybe we could do some role-play where I kidnap her and fuck her brains out.

I’m not sure what fucked-up part of me really likes the sound of that, but it does, and I’m game if she is. Shouldn’t be much of a hardship.

It’s a low-key Wednesday evening. We’ve had a quiet week socially so far, but we fly to Toulon on Friday for this bloody wedding, so I’ll take my quiet, intimate evenings while I can. Lotta is more excited than I’ve ever seen her about the wedding, and that’s saying something for a woman as naturally effusive as her.

Between the couture dress she’s had made for the ceremony, and the uni friends she’s looking forward to seeing, and the A-list celebrities who may or may not show up, she hasn’t stopped talking about it. While I love seeing her like this, I certainly can’t muster up much excitement about a celebrity wedding. It’s bound to be a total fucking circus. I just hope babysitting my sorry arse won’t be too much of a shag for Lotts.

I am, however, very much looking forward to escaping the circus on Sunday and absconding to an idyllic boutique hotel near St Maxime with my stunning girlfriend for twenty-four hours of, hopefully, nudity.

‘What was the article about?’ I ask now. I slide my hand onto the small of her back, tugging up the hem of her t-shirt, and splay my fingers over her bare skin.

Everything is better when I’m touching Lotta.

‘Well, it was about you, really. I’m just in it as the glamorous love interest.’ She smiles like she knows she’s a lot more than that but like it’s kind of tickled, her too. ‘They called itAidan Duffy’s Charmed Life.’

‘What the actual fuck? That’s a fucking joke. Did they erase the first twenty years, or something?’

‘That’s just it. They said your story is like some Jeffrey Archer rags-to-riches novel, like you’re the plucky hero who’s full of ambition but has never lost sight of his roots, you know?’ She tosses her hair jokingly. ‘And meeting the beautiful heiress is the icing on the cake. You’ll be glad to know you’ve officially arrived, according to thePost, at least.’

‘What a bunch of horseshit,’ I say. I hold her more tightly and flip her onto her side, pulling her in flush against me. ‘Except for the bit about the beautiful heiress,’ I murmur as I lower my mouth to capture hers.

* * *

The article is,as I suspected, total fucking horseshit. It also has a tone I don’t appreciate, like I’m supposed to be in this smug, self-congratulatory bubble of knowing I’ve got the money, the trappings, and the girl.

None of it sits quite right with me.

None of it feels accurate. I suppose it’s easy for them to judge, easy for them to see some clear story arc, a hero’s journey of such linear upward momentum that it looks like a fucking hockey stick, when really, the wealth is uncomfortable, and the trappings are as limited as I’ve been able to keep them.

Thegirlpart’s true, though. The odious journos at thePostare right—she’s the ultimate prize. But not because she’s some gorgeous, lithe, impeccably stylish trophy like they’ve insinuated.

No fucking way.

Because women don’t come much more impressive than Carlotta Montefiore-Charlton. It’s occurred to me gradually over the past few weeks that historically I’ve had a type: the shy, wholesome girl next door who tends to lean on me. I don’t need Freud to tell me I feel validated when I’m needed.

Lotta definitely doesn’t need me, and it’s refreshing. It’s good for me. She’s a professional powerhouse with a seemingly endless appetite for work. For fun. Forlife.Her energy is infectious.She’sgood for me. And while she seems to appreciate me and my company, she’s not needy. We’re not co-dependent. For all our differences, this closeness, this intimacy that we’re building, is born out of each of us finding our equal in the other.

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