Page 10 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Judy has already dismissed the juices as ‘wanky’ and has the kettle going in the hall, where the power is still on. Still, she’s putting away wraps at the speed of light.

So I let it go. They deserve a treat. God knows, they work bloody hard here, day after day. Well, Judy and Sylvie do. Gaz and I are just here to help with this overhaul. But a little fancy food won’t hurt anyone, I suspect. So I mumble a gruffthanksand get stuck in.

* * *

By the endof the day, the kitchen is a forlorn shell, a grubby, tired blank canvas, and we’re exhausted. I have an early start tomorrow. Some of the volunteers will do a Costco run this evening and deliver the kids’ breakfasts here at six-forty-five in the morning. That’ll give us an hour to assemble them and pack them up in paper bags before the first round of tired, scruffy little patrons hit us. Sylvie will man the production line with me.

But before that, thank God, a cold beer and a hot shower and a soft bed await me at home. I’ll sleep like the dead tonight.

Carlotta seeks me out as I’m giving the kitchen floor one last brush. The revolting lino tiles have gone, to be replaced with an easy-lay laminate that comes in rolls. I’ve sent Frank and his guys off already, having promised them a few pints once the kitchen’s in on Wednesday. Everyone’s too exhausted to socialise tonight.

Or maybe it’s just me. Those guys do this every day. My day job is definitely making me soft. It’s a good kind of exhaustion, though, that bone-tired feeling after an honest day’s work. So different from the eye-strain that gets you after a day of squinting at your monitors.

She stands in the middle of the empty space now, fiddling with her rings. She has countless thin bands of gold on all her fingers. Some are studded with tiny jewels. Others are plain. Some don’t even go past her second knuckle. They seem to float halfway up her beautiful, slender fingers. I noticed them when she was cupping her mug outside earlier, in the same way I noticed how much they suited her.

Delicate.

Decorative.

Expensive.

And totally fucking impractical.

‘So,’ she begins, ’Sylvie was telling me the plan for tomorrow morning.’

I flick a glance at her as I sweep. Her white t-shirt has dirt smeared on it, her hair is a little dishevelled, and it’s oddly gratifying that this job has dirtied her up a little. Marked that ridiculous, pristine look she’s going for. Not sure how she’s kept those trainers so clean, though. And her nipples are still forging ahead, trying to blaze a path through her inadequate layers.

What the fuck is up with that? Does the woman have no circulation?

While I wrestle with keeping my eyes on her face, I can’t fail to miss the way her gaze flickers over my body. I’m fucking filthy, but somehow it’s not repulsion I spot in those dark, feline eyes.

It’s interest.

‘Yep,’ I say, because that wasn’t a question.

‘I’d like to help, if that’s okay.’

I stop and give her my full attention, leaning my hands on the top of the sweeping brush. My first instinct is a harshno fucking way, but I tamp it down, because it’s going to be a massive stretch with just me and Sylv in the morning. I’ve already told Judy we don’t require her help. She’s seventy-five, for fuck’s sake. I don’t want her doing twelve-hour days here.

‘With breakfast?’ I say instead.

‘Yeah.’

I nod cautiously. ‘Okay. If you’re sure.’

‘I am.’ She twists her rings. ‘I’d like to help—I think it’d be good to see what you guys do here.’

‘You’re on,’ I tell her.

‘Great.’ She gives me a smile that’s objectively beautiful and seemingly genuine, and, for some reason, it pisses me off. ‘Well, have a good evening.’

‘Wait,’ I say as she makes to leave. I hold up two fingers. ‘Two things.’

She stops. ‘Sure.’

‘One. Lose the shoes.’

She looks down. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

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