Page 15 of The Reluctant Billionaire

‘Bagels. You can cut them or butter them.’

‘Um, butter?’ I ask. I venture over to the table and peer into the paper bags. No wonder they haven’t blown away—they’re each weighed down with a bottle of smoothie.

‘What do they get?’ I ask, grabbing a board and taking the lid off one of the butter tubs as Aide reaches into one of the carriers and pulls out several packs of bagels. He disregards the sticky tie around the top of the first one and cuts the plastic open with a bread knife.

I treat myself to a little peek as he holds the first bagel between two fingers and slices it cleanly through. He’s in an unbranded navy hoodie this morning and a clean but otherwise identical version of the heavy-duty cargo pants he had on yesterday. His hood is down, his hair is slightly damp and deliciously tousled, and the neckline of his hoodie is low enough both to show off his cross, lying happily against that perfect smattering of dark hair, and to suggest another tank top underneath, because there’s no sign of a t-shirt.

Yep. That’ll do nicely, thank you.

The guy is so fucking hot it’s frankly ridiculous. He is hands-down the mostmaleman I’ve met in real life, while still being unfairly beautiful. In this stance, the insane thickness of his eyelashes is more obvious as he focuses on the lucky bagel. He’s tugging at his lower lip with his teeth while he finishes slicing.

The fingers holding the knife are long. Manly but shapely, covered in grazes. Obviously, he cuts the bagel with perfect precision and lays it on my board. If he touches his women with the same care and finesse that he touches his bagels, then they must be very happy.

Very happy indeed.

‘Butter it, then foil,’ he says, pointing at the enormous roll of Costco-branded foil next to me. ‘They get a smoothie, bagel and a mini box of Cornflakes.’

I must have made a face, because he says, ‘No, it’s not the most nutritious breakfast on the planet. In the centre we can usually give them some hot protein, but today we make do. And they’re fussy little shits. You’d be amazed how many of them refuse to eat the wholemeal bagels, so we’re stuck with white.’

‘Fair enough,’ I say. He’s been doing this longer than me, and I’m not about to second-guess him.

‘What’s in that box?’ he asks, nodding at the ground.

‘Nespresso machine. And a tonne of pods.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Course it is. Jesus Christ.’

‘Hey. Don’t knock it. I’m much more efficient when I’m caffeinated. And I saw you putting two tea bags in your mug yesterday, so you’re not exactly one to judge people’s beverage choices.’

I finish buttering the bagel and wrap it up. One down, ninety-nine to go.

Sylvie turns up a minute or two later and takes over the buttering from me, leaving me with the decidedly low-skilled task of wrapping the finished goods. Her silent and low-level grumpy demeanour suggests she’s not a morning person, so the three of us work in silence.

* * *

The first coupleof kids trickle in around seven-forty—a boy with who I assume is his younger sister. They both have pale, freckled faces and fiery red hair, and they wear a navy and grey uniform withAvondale Primaryprinted across the fronts of their sweatshirts.

‘Alright, mate?’ Aide asks the boy as I hand him and his sister a bag each.

‘Yeah,’ he whispers.

‘Good man. You gonna get some footie in at school today?’

‘I hope so, at lunch.’ His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him.

‘Keep practicing those keepy uppies, yeah? I wanna see what you’ve got next week, when we’re back up and running.’

The boy nods. ‘I’m up to fifty-two now.’ His voice is a little louder and filled with a pride that has the corners of my mouth turning up.

His sister already has her hand in her paper bag and is tugging off the foil so she can get stuck into her bagel. There’s an enormous gap where her two front teeth used to be, but she rips an impressive chunk off. She stares at me, wide-eyed, taking in my appearance, and I’m suddenly very glad I’m wearing the least desirable trainers known to man.

‘Fifty-two? That’s awesome, mate!’ Aide holds up his hand, and the boy high-fives him. They grin at each other. It’s definitely the most animated I’ve seen him so far. ‘Well, you’ll be wiping the floor with me next week for sure.’ He shakes his head in mock despair. ‘Fifty-two keepy uppies. Jesus. Will we see you for dinner?’

‘Mum wants us back home after school,’ the little girl pipes up, her mouth full.

Aide and Sylvie exchange a glance.

‘No probs. Sylv or I’ll drop something round, yeah?’ Aide says. ‘Here, take another bag in case that doesn’t touch the sides, okay? You need to keep that strength up if you’re going to be the next Marcus Rashford.’

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