Page 5 of The Reluctant Billionaire

The space we’re in is grim and depressing and filthy and horrible. I’m used to building sites, but they’re usually palatial bare-bones spaces in swanky new-builds, not decrepit community centres that look like they could fail a building regs assessment before you can sayasbestos.

This structure is shitty. The only thing it’s got going for it, as far as I can see, is its vaulted ceiling and large windows. It looks like it was erected on the cheap, probably in the Seventies, with thin exterior walls and spectacularly crappy interior fittings. The majority of it is one big room whose length I’d guesstimate at thirty-five or forty feet with a small stage at one end. There’s a doorway at the other end that, at a guess, leads through to an office. Kitchen. Loo.

As far as I can tell, the volunteers have so far spent their time clearing the entire space of its fixtures and fittings so all that remains is a few of those stackable plastic moulded chairs and a crude table. It makes sense. I wouldn’t want to see these guys, especially Judy, doing the heavy lifting without professional help.

What’s left over is a large cluster of the new plastic-wrapped appliances and kitchen units we’ve preordered, bag upon bag of rubbish in a big pile, grimy-as-fuck windows, and horrific wipe-clean glossy paint in a lurid pale yellow that turns my stomach and screamsmental institution. The floor has heavily lacquered wooden floorboards which don’t look too bad.

Along one entire side of the room runs orange-y pine panelling that’s retro in all the wrong ways. At least it appears, from the drill in his hand and the fact that a few panels are missing from the wall at the near end and stacked in a neat pile on the floor, that Aide has made inroads into losing the wood.

It’s plain depressing.

The whole place smells of dust and industrial cleaner and hopelessness.

I make a mental note to look more closely at the scope of the refurb we’ve agreed to fund and see if there’s any wiggle-room to expand on that. And I need to do it as soon as possible.

But first, I definitely require espresso.

3

AIDE

She doesn’t remember me.

And she doesn’t seem to have a clue who I am, either.

Well, well.

This should be interesting.

Judy’s already bollocked me for not immediately offering our new arrivals a brew, so I let her lead the way into the kitchen. She bustles through. She can come across as an interfering old bag, but she’s fucking gold. And she has a worse mouth on her than I do.

Unfortunately for me, Carlotta’s back view is as decent as her front view. And by decent, I mean knockout. Her outfit’s a fucking joke. She’s in spray-on jeans that showcase an incredible arse and what I’m pretty sure are the Dior Air Jordan high-tops. I’m also pretty sure they cost more than six grand. When you have a nephew who’s as much of a sneakerhead as mine is, you learn far more about Nike collabs than you’ve ever wished to know.

What I also know is that they’ll get fucked as soon as she lifts a finger in here, and it’s fucking stupid of her to be wearing them on a building site.

Unless, of course, she’s not planning on lifting a finger.

Nothing would surprise me less.

The biggest problem with her outfit isn’t the unsuitable footwear. Or the arse-hugging jeans. Or even her tight white t-shirt withGUCCIemblazoned across her chest in rhinestones. I’m not sure if the OTT branding is supposed to be ironic. I have a horrible feeling it’s not.

Nope. The biggest problem by far is that this woman’s bra is clearly as unsuitable as the rest of her attire, because it’s completely and utterly failing in its primary job.

Actually, not its primary job. I suppose its main role is to support her tits, and it’s doing a fucking spectacular job of that, from what I can see. I’m just thrilled Judy called Gaz out for staring at them and not me. That woman doesn’t miss a trick.

But on its secondary job? Its job of presumably forming a protective layer between her nipples and the rest of the world?

Epic fucking fail.

Because, either side ofGUCCIit’s clear that this woman is smuggling peanuts with the best of them. I know it’s chilly in here, but come on. Her porn star-level nipples are beacons, and, like a car crash, I cannot look away. I can’t seem to look anywhere else when they’re winking at me.

Her bra must be lace, or mesh, or something sheer and sexy and totally impractical because, while its vague outline is visible, it’s forming a non-existent barrier between nipples so perfect they’re proof there is a God and the poor bastards who have to look at them.

The woman is undeniably hot.

That’s unfair.

Hotdoesn’t come close to describing her. She’s astonishingly beautiful with those massive brown eyes and delicate bone structure. Above the eyes are thick, shapely brows. Below, a little snub nose dotted with the faintest smattering of freckles and a full, luscious mouth. And the backdrop for these features? Skin so creamy, so luminous, it’s glowing. It’s literally glowing.

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