Page 50 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Gabe stares. ‘But you’ve been working with him all week, haven’t you? How the hell did it not come up?’

Exactly, mate. Because someone’s a devious little fucker.I shrug. ‘I have literally no idea.’

‘So?’ he asks. ‘He giving you grief?’

‘Not exactly.’Just a whole wedge of dick, actually.‘But we’ve been… flirting all week.’

He narrows his eyes. The man is right to be suspicious. ‘Right.’

‘And I fucked him. Last night.’ I flick my sleek curtain of hair over my shoulder. It’s blowdried dead straight tonight.

Gabe grins. ‘You dirty little wench.’

‘Helpful. Thanks.’

‘Good for you. He’s a catch, or so I’m told. So what’s the issue? He bang you and leave you?’

‘No, dickhead, he did not. I kicked him out, I’ll have you know, and he looked pretty gutted. The issue is I didn’t put two and two together until we were in the pub last night with the whole crew, and I went ahead and brought him back here anyway, but he doesn’t know I know who he is.’

Gabe edges away from me and refills the flute he’s already drained. ‘Fucking hell. Sounds like an Oscar Wilde play.’

‘It’s definitely farcical,’ I concede.

‘So what’s the bottom line?’

Such a Gabe question. He’s bored already.

‘Thebottom lineis that I’m really, really pissed off with him. I feel like he played me. But I also had a great time with him. And now I don’t know what’s real. Like, is the fact that he’s actually this billionaire and didn’t tell me the real part, or is it that I had the most amazing shower sex of my life with him—’

Gabe holds a hand out in front of his face as if I’m about to throw acid in it. ‘Fuck’s sake, Lotts. I don’t want to know.’

‘Sorry.’ I wait. ‘But I’m not sure what to do.’

‘It depends solely on what you want from him,’ he says with the characteristic clarity that explains why they pay him the big bucks. ‘Do you want a replay? If it was just one night, then it doesn’t really matter who’s played who. I mean, you won’t see him again after next week.’

That’s a chilling thought.

No more Aide.

It hits me right in the gut, and I’m not happy about it.

‘But if you’re interested in pursuing this, then you and he should try behaving like grownups and having an actual conversation,’ he continues.

I deflate, because I know he’s right.

‘You are aware we built his house, correct?’ he asks.

‘What?’ I stare at him in horror as my brain immediately flips through every standalone project we’ve done in living memory. Our focus is mainly on building blocks of super-exclusive flats with all manner of amenities. That’s where we excel. But we do the occasional house build for our highest net-worth clients.

‘Osterley,’ he says. ‘Two, three years ago? Mid century vibe. We had all that planning shit with his pool house.’

‘Holy crap. That’s his house?’ I remember it well. It’s a stunning showcase for what can be achieved without compromising on the ethics of materials or building techniques. A bright green poster child, if you like.

We built his fucking house.

Shit shit shit.

I’m feeling stupider by the second.

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