Page 130 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

“T-try? How? What are you—”

“I love you, Caspian.”

“Oh.” He let out a shaky breath, followed by an almost inaudible “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I claimed his hand and was about to kiss it, when the dull shine of metal on his fourth finger made me recoil. “Um. I don’t mean to throw a wobbly or anything, but you’re still wearing your…Nathaniel’s…”

Caspian gave a sharp gasp. “I’m so sorry.”

“Take it off, please. Like, right now.”

He was tugging, but the ring had caught on the joint. “Can you help me?”

I didn’t want to touch it, but I also didn’t want him casually wearing the symbol of his commitment to another man, and between us we were able to slide it free. I’d had to disembark Caspian’s lap as we struggled, which left us sitting side by side again, the shadow of a ring between us like this was fucking Mordor. Caspian reached into his pocket and pulled out the platinum band that Nathaniel had given him earlier.

“Say what you like about him”—it came out slightly more grumpily than I’d intended—“but the man had good taste.”

Caspian said nothing. Just stared at the twin circles resting on his palm.

“Can you return them?” I asked. “Is that a thing you can do?”

With the decisive swiftness of a paper cut, he pressed the button that lowered the tinted window next to him, and tossed both rings into the night. It was impossible, of course, over the thrum of the engine, but I almost thought I heard them chink as they bounced away to roll into the gutter or catch in a pavement crack or line the nest of an unexpectedly glamorous pigeon.

I blinked. “Wow. That was…”

“I’m sorry.” He gave a little cough. “I may have overreacted. But I didn’t want to ever have to think about them again.”

“Perk of being incredibly fucking rich, I guess.”

He held out his newly naked hand, and after the slightest of hesitations, I took it. “Are you angry with me?”

“N-no. I’m trying to balance my middle-class dismay that you just, like,threw awayhowever many thousands and thousands of pounds’ worth of jewellery with…being glad you did it.”

“Perks of dating someone incredibly fucking rich.”

That made me laugh. “You are a bit of aget out of guilt freecard.”

“I should hope so.” His fingers pressed between mine, nothing but skin on skin. “Because I intend to spoil you quite terribly, and won’t have you feeling guilty about it.”

I was about to explain that I didn’t need spoiling, only him, when the car drew to a slightly unexpected halt. Caspian climbed out first, and came round to help me out, which wasn’t remotely necessary—me and Meghan Markle totally having car door–related manoeuvres sewn up—but what the hell. Besides, I was in a floor-length frock and would likely have nose-dived into the pavement without Caspian’s supporting arm. And so with surprising grace for, well, me, I succeeded in exiting the vehicle.

And found myself in a wholly unfamiliar part of London.

Chapter 43

Are you kidnapping me?” I asked. “Because if you are…that’s hot.”

He reached for my hand again. And, wow, I was adapting to touchy-feely Caspian incredibly fast. Almost as if remote, wary, locked-away Caspian was a piece of a dream I was already beginning to forget. I gave his fingers an anxious squeeze before I got all Zhuangzi and the butterfly, and started wondering if this was the dream.

Caspian returned my squeeze. “Is it still kidnapping if the subject is enthusiastically consenting?”

“Don’t ruin this for me.” I paused, glancing up and down the empty street, with its rows of painted, bow-windowed houses and the cheerfully graffiti-muralled off-licence right next door to a hipster bakery. It looked very much like my kind of place. Not at all like Caspian’s. “Where exactly are we?”

“Notting Hill.”

I gave a little skip. “Oh, I keep meaning to come here. Go to Portobello Market, and The Gate, and nose into all the weird little shops, and post endless Instas of myself eating biscotti and reading Sartre in quirky cafés.”

“That’s”—Caspian seemed to be struggling not to smile—“quite a specific vision.”