Page 7 of The Reluctant Billionaire

If they can work out how to build without access to Italian marble and Sub-Zero appliances, that is.

The outreach programme Venus has agreed with the council will be massive for this area. It’d be stupid not to piggyback on that, not to avail ourselves of what could be a long-term strategic partnership for the Avondale Park Community Centre.

Because having links with a corporation as impressive as Venus could mean all manner of future opportunities. If we can use this project to engage them, to make them understand the level of need here, just a few streets away from their newest and most high-profile development, it could make the world of difference for the priority they give to affordable housing and investment in local parks and all the other things I know they’ve promised but have yet to deliver on.

Having a shiny, new community centre could be the tip of the iceberg of what we could achieve with a partner like Venus.

It’s a timely reminder that I should play nicely and not piss these people off before they’ve done their first day’s work.

4

LOTTA

Igingerly take a sip of tea that tastes oddly like pencil sharpenings brewed in hot water and focus on trying not to look at Aide, who’s sitting opposite me and Frank, our head contractor, while he briefs us.

We’re sitting around a plastic table in the small, depressing outdoor area while Gaz shows the others around and gets them started on ripping more shit out. It may be July, but it’s fucking cold, and I wish I hadn’t left my jacket inside. My nipples are so cold I feel like they’re going to snap off.

From the discreet but frequent glances Aide’s giving my boobs, I’m not the only one concerned about my nipples.

For some reason, that pleases me immensely. Even so, needs must. I hunch forward and cross my arms over my chest as I hold my mug to my breastbone for heat. Holding it directly to my poor nipples is a step too far, even for an exhibitionist like me. And I’m the girl who had Cher’s barely-there Studio 54 costume copied for my birthday party last year.

This space seems to be a play area. Its tarmac has definitely seen better days. I don’t remember seeing anything in our initial proposal about the outdoor space, but I observe idly that the kids would be better off with a ground covering of soft rubber bark chips. I make a mental note to ask Khal if we can squeeze in some love for the outdoor area.

The tarmac bears the faintest outlines of hopscotch and noughts-and-crosses grids. There are some ancient Little Tyke pieces—a rocking horse thingy and a pedal car—as well as a basketball hoop with no net and a metal climbing frame whose yellow paint has almost entirely chipped off. To my eyes, it’s the bleakest possible spot for kids to hang out. The mere idea that this is a welcome space for some of them to frequent is something I can’t bear to contemplate right now.

The property’s perimeter is marked with a high chain-link fence through which are visible several hideous sixties’ tower blocks of council flats. Honestly, this place is more like juvie than a community centre. It’s frustrating, because, like my brother, I’m a perfectionist. Venus operates right at the top of its market precisely because we’re both anal as fuck. Only the best will do.

Obviously, I get that there’s a ceiling on how much we can improve this building and its meagre grounds, but I’m beginning to wonder why we’re not razing it to the ground and starting again from scratch with a construction that’d be more durable, more eco-friendly, and more cost-effective to fund. The current brief feels as inadequate as putting a plaster on a knife wound.

Speaking of which, I wouldn’t be surprised if this area gets its fair share of stabbings. It’s dodgy as hell and stinks of despair.

Quite frankly, the only sight that’s making my eyes happy right now, aside from the cuteness of my immaculate new Dior Air Jordans, is the man sitting across the table from me.

The man who’s one of the best-looking members of the male race I’ve ever seen, and in a way that’s far more masculine, moreraw, than I’m used to. Let me tell you, his rugged style of handsome is compelling.

I begrudgingly remove my right arm from my chest and rummage around in my handbag for my notepad, which I place on the table in front of me. When I put my mug down, the table jolts on its uneven legs, sending the liquid slopping over the sides.

Fuck’s sake. I swallow down a sigh. Today is going to be alongday. I risk a glance through my eyelashes at Aide. He’s grinding his jaw like he’s holding back, too. He probably thinks I’m some sort of rich, dizzy socialite. He has no clue what I’ve achieved, albeit from privileged beginnings. Gabe and I have worked our arses off.

In the Montefiore-Charlton household, there were no free handouts. Mamma may have come from wealth, but Dad is a self-made man, and he never let us forget it.

I bet Mr Sexy McJudgement across from me doesn’t know that, though. I bet he sees a spoilt princess who can’t hack real life. The thought of it has me sitting up straighter in my seat.

I’ll show him.

And also, I’ll ogle him as much as I can, because Jeeeesus Christ is this man hot. I ignore the spilt tea and pick up my pen to redirect his eye so I can look some more, trying to work out exactly what it is about him that has him getting under my skin already.

It’s a combination of looks and demeanour, I decide. Mainly those eyes that are currently melting my bra and pants off and are like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

The brawn helps too. The massive biceps and shoulders that sayI use my body to make a living. Not in aMagic Mikeway. Just in a good, honest physical labour kind of way, you know?

His appearance also gives clues to his personality. He can’t possibly doubt the power of his looks, but neither is there a suggestion of the slightest bit of grooming on his part. He clearly got out of bed looking like this. Though thinking about Aide in bed is a terrible idea if the shot of lust that’s just hit me deep inside is anything to go by. I press my thighs together tightly under the table.

Don’t think about him in bed.

Don’t think about waking up with six-foot-something of that hard body pressed up against you.

Before my treacherous mind has a chance to gothereand imagine what other hard things he might press up against me in bed, I focus on his bracelets, which are, on closer inspection, one length of thin black leather tied around his wrist a few times. It’s pointless, as all jewellery is, I suppose, but weirdly effective.

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