Page 57 of All the Forbidden Things

The ink on her shoulder, visible because of the way her top hangs off it.

The red, gold, and blonde hues to her hair.

Her collarbone and the curve of her neck.

The pink tinge that spreads across her cheeks whenever there’s attention on her, the freckles that cover those cheeks and her small button nose—seriously, how can she even smell through those tiny little nostrils—and the way it turns up slightly at the tip.

The blueness of her eyes, the arch of her perfect brows.

The citrus fragrance of her perfume. I’d never taken the time to smell a sunflower, I’m not even sure if they have a fragrance, but the way Billie smells, that is how a sunflowershouldsmell, exactly like a sunny day.

I’d noticed it all.

Every single, gorgeous part of her.

But it’s more than that, more than the way she looks. Billie is just a beautiful person, goodness personified. It radiates from her. Watching her with my daughter, it’s apparent. And that, amongst about a million other reasons, is why I have to stay the fuck away, because me and goodness? We don’t mix.

I knock back my brandy and make the somewhat conscious decision to take up Mel’s offer to look after Layla tonight so that I can get absolutely hammered.

And that right there is responsible parenting.

Billie

The boys are all drunkor well on their way to achieving that status.

Mel and I had a glass of wine with our dinner but then switched to water or coffee. Kenz, however, managed to knock back a couple of glasses of wine before Cal cut her off.

She’s currently lying on Max’s sofa, singing along to Rex Orange County’s “Loving Is Easy.” When I look up from my coffee mug, Max is watching me from across the table.

Jake is retelling a tale about a girl who straddled his lap while he was on stage during a gig in Berlin. She was topless and wearing no knickers under her short denim skirt.

I laugh when everyone else does, even though I’m not listening. His voice is just background noise to the myriad of thoughts rioting through my mind.

I’ve grown up surrounded by rock stars, actors, models, and all kinds of celebrities. I was probably around nine or ten years old when I began to realise not everyone’s family was famous, that most of my friends didn’t walk into their kitchen to see the person they’d watched on the telly the night before, sitting at the table, drinking a beer with their big brother.

It was justmynormal. I never got star-struck or tongue-tied around anyone, regardless of their celebrity status. Max was probably one of the more famous faces. He was also the one who’d been in my life the longest, regardless of how rarely we’d seen each other over the past few years. He’s changed a lot in that time. The cocky, self-assured and often arrogant man my young heart crushed on, is gone, and in front of me, is a still hot but very broken man. Maybe it’s that, I muse as I watch his eyes shift between the faces sat around the large kitchen table, or maybe it’s because he’s hurting, and I want to fix that for him. Perhaps that’s the reason for this pull, the attraction I’m feeling for him.

It’s Max, for fuck's sake. He dates and marries supermodels, he’s at least sixteen years older than I am, and I need to get a grip. I need to unpack my shit that’s sitting in the garage at home, find my vibrator, and get myself off.

That’s what it is. I’m horny. It’s been a while since I’ve even thought about sex, and I’m obviously frustrated.That’swhat it must be.

My phone vibrates from where it sits on the table in front of me. I see the name on the screen and don’t hesitate before answering. “Drew?”

Drew’s the Bosworth’s driver and security. At least he was, and I’m hoping he’s responding to the message I sent him earlier, asking if he knew how Ollie and Amelia were doing. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to contact Carmen, so I’d messaged him instead.

“Hey, Billie. How are you?” His lazy Southern Californian accent sounds down the line, bathing me in its warmth.

We had a bit of a thing last year, Drew and me. We went out a couple of times, got a bit hot and heavy on the sofa in my apartment, but never had full-on sex. He’s a good-looking bloke. A tall, tanned, blue-eyed, blond-haired ex-US-serviceman who, sadly, just wasn’t my type. I can’t pinpoint exactly what it was that was missing, but it simply wasn’t there.

I’d used the excuse of not shitting where you eat, sleep,andlive and told him that because we worked together, I thought it was a bad idea taking things further. He’d pushed to give things a go but, eventually and somewhat begrudgingly, settled for merely being friends.

“I’m good thanks. Did you get my message?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling, that and because I’ve missed that sexy accent of yours.”

I look up when he mentions the wordsexy, paranoid that our conversation can be heard by everyone at the table. I press the volume button on the side, hoping to quiet Drews voice, and note that it’s only Max paying attention to my call.

“I speak English, Drew. I’m from England, where the language was invented; therefore, I don’t have an accent. It's you lot across the pond who talk funny.”