Page 22 of The Reluctant Billionaire

I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast when I was their age, but I do remember Mamma accompanying Gabe and me to school every morning in the back of a chauffeur-driven Mercedes.

I make a mental note to grab Sylvie as soon as this is over and discreetly request that pair’s address. I’ll call my local deli and see if they can’t send over something homemade and microwavable—lasagne, maybe. Or shepherd’s pie.

It’s the very least I can do, and it’s so far from enough it’s not funny.

10

LOTTA

Aide slips back in through the front gate as I’m ruminating. He’s taken off his hoody and is holding it in front of him like a weird bundle. It’s a bit odd, but I don’t think much about it because I’m far too busy ogling the fine, fine view that is him in his vest top and work pants. He looks even hotter when he has his tool belt on, but I can handle him without it, too.

There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. It glistens on his arms, enhancing the sculptural beauty of his delts and biceps and making it hard for me to think about anything except licking a trail through it. He turns to look at me, and the cross so perfectly nestled against that dusting of chest hair glints in the sunlight.

Maybe God’s reminding me not to have carnal thoughts about this poor man. Mynonnawould definitely say so.

Now might be a good time to confess I’ve been taking as many photos as I can for Venus’ social media, mainly fly-on-the-wall shots, and would you know, a lot of them have turned out to be of Aide?

Aide wielding a power drill.

Aide handing out breakfast bags. (I didn’t snap the kids. I’m not that awful.)

Aide’s muscles flexing as he helps carry the enormous old industrial oven out of the kitchen.

I may or may not have spent over an hour studying the Aide-porn at home last night, a glass of chilled and well-earned Gavi in hand.

‘We were just telling Lotta about our escapades at school, mate,’ Gaz informs him now.

Aide raises an eyebrow. ‘None of it’s true,’ he tells me with a straight face.

‘Shame,’ I say, ‘because you’ve definitely gone up in my estimation in the last ten minutes.’

He rakes his sweat-dampened hair off his face, and I swoon a little. ‘How so?’

‘It sounds like you were a lot more fun in those days,’ I say archly.

‘I was a lot more fucked up, that’s what I was.’ There’s an ominous undercurrent to his tone.

‘That’s what I said,’ Judy says. ‘And look at you now. We’re all so proud of you.’

‘Thanks, Jude,’ he says, shooting her a small smile. He makes as if to leave us to it, but Gaz stops him.

‘Mate. Remember when we stuck the plastic forks all over Mr Hell’s pitch?’

Aide’s smile turns real in an instant, and his entire face lights up. ‘Fuck, yeah. That was the highlight of my academic career. Jesus, he was such a wanker.’

‘He didn’t have an issue with you,’ Judy reminds him.

‘He treated Gaz like shit, though, so that’s all that counts,’ Aide says.

‘Because I was fat as fuck and crap at sports,’ Gaz says.

‘Doesn’t matter. He made your life a living hell, and he needed some of his own medicine. Oh my God—remember the Rice Krispies?’

He claps his free hand to his mouth, still clutching his bundled hoodie like it’s a newborn baby with the other. Gaz gasps and shakes out his wrist.

‘Fucking hell, mate. That wasmagic.’

‘I lied about the forks,’ Aide says. ‘The Rice Krispies were the best moment of my life.’ He turns to me, his expression animated. ‘So Mr Hell used to make us play sports in all weather, yeah? Even when it was pissing it down. He was such a twat. But he’d always bring this massive golf umbrella along to keep himself nice and dry.’

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