Page 26 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

A smile, softer than any I’d seen on her face before, tugged her lips. “Then it’s settled.”

I nodded.

“You know”—she nudged my legs open with hers and pressed our hips together—“I was about to say something sensible about how late it was getting and sleep being generally considered beneficial, but I’m rather too horny to care. Think you can get hard again?”

“I can try.”

And for the record, I succeeded.Admirably.

Chapter 8

True to her word, George dropped me off atMilieuthe next morning. Of course, I was wearing the same clothes and moving rather gingerly, which led to Tabs greeting me with: “Oh, you dirty stop-out.”

So I shot her my best and sassiest look. “Verydirty.”

And then limped sassily to my desk. I could already tell sitting down and me were not going to be friends today, but I booted up my computer and got stuck into polishing up a feature about the best diamonds to wear with leather. Mainly because I didn’t want to deal with the fact I’d accidentally volunteered for or been tasked with a piece on beard gadgets.

I was on my third Diet Coke (which I had hidden in my top drawer because it probably counted as clutter) when my phone rang. This usually meant the caller had dialled my number by accident while trying to get someone more important.

“Arden St. Ives.”

“Hello,” came a voice I sort of recognised but couldn’t place, “this is Nathaniel.”

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God.

“Nathaniel who?” Okay, so that was cheap. But the bastard had called me Aidan at least twice.

He made this soft sound, like a laugh with extra condescension—as if to say,I am aware you’re being incredibly and potentially self-destructively petty right now, but being the better person, I shall rise above it.Then he actually said, “Nathaniel Priest.”

“Sorry. Yes. Of course.”

The office had gone night-before-Christmas still around me. When something significant was happening atMilieu, everyone just kind of sensed it. Probably you only got such finely honed gossip antennae from years of exposure. At least, I hoped that was the case, because I was seriously not there yet. I’d even managed to miss Donna Karan’s chocolate Labrador getting briefly but dramatically stuck in the revolving door because I’d been scoffing a cheese sandwich.

“So,” I asked, “can I help you?”

There was a moment of silence across the line. Shit—I could see the dark shadow behind the far wall, which meant Mara was lurking.

Then, “Caspian and I have discussed it. And we would like to do the interview.”

“Oh. Wow.” No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t getanythinginto my tone. Not a single flicker of human-ness. It was like I’d been replaced by Alexa. “That’s so terrific.”

“Excellent. I’ll have our assistants coordinate our schedules and send you some dates.”

The rest of the call, brief though it was, went by in a blur of logistics and email addresses. It was all totally civil, but by the time I put the phone down, my palms were sweaty and my face felt as red as my arse had been last night.

“That better be the interview George promised me,” said Mara, swooping in.

The first time I metMilieu’s editor-in-chief, I’d been expecting Miranda Priestly because, frankly, who wouldn’t. But Mara was very much opposite of that. She was lively and vigorous—even warm when she chose to be—with a passion for horses and the English countryside. Which was helpful because her husband apparently owned a lot of both. And while there was definitely a glamour to her, the vibe was much morematriarch in a Jilly Cooper novelthan bulletproof fashionista.

I nodded. Tried to think of something unbothered and audacious to say. Came up empty. Settled on “Yes.”

“Good.” She began prowling thoughtfully between the cubbies and I hastily closed my drawer on my Diet Coke. “You know, I’m thinking we should run with this. Go full rainbow for February.”