Page 38 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

“I’m an alcoholic.”

“Water it is then. Unless,” I added quickly, “you’d rather go somewhere else. Coffee? Juice bar? Bubble tea? I think there’s a bubble tea place round the corner. Except I don’t really get bubble tea because there’s the whole liquid thing but also the bubble element and that makes my throat confused, so I keep thinking I’m going to choke. And once I was so confused I sneezed and that was bad. That wassobad.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okie-dokie.”

Trying not to dwell on the fact I’d just said “okie-dokie” in cold blood, I slunk over to the bar and ordered a mineral water for Bellerose and, after dithering for about six years over whether it would come across as patronizing or supportive if I had water too, a bottle of Blandford Fly for me. I’d never been a huge beer drinker, but I’d learned real quick when I discovered how expensive wine and cocktails were in London.

“So”—I made it all the way back to the booth without spilling anything—“what are you knitting?”

“A shawl.”

“Is it for you?”

Oh yay. Another Bellerose Look TM. Just what I wanted. “Under what circumstances would I wear a shawl?”

“For your Elinor Dashwood cosplay?” When he didn’t respond—not even a smile—I had to go on. “Who is it for?”

“It’s not for anyone.”

“Then why are you knitting it?”

“Because I like knitting.”

I suddenly had this vision of Bellerose living in a house full of unwanted shawls. “Couldn’t you make something for you?”

“I like shawls.”

“What’s so good about shawls?”

He paused for a moment, apparently seriously thinking about it. “The construction is interesting, they’re fairly quick to knit, and I find there are many opportunities for colour.”

“It’s really pretty,” I offered. “Like a sunset.”

“Thank you.”

“Doesn’t it make you sad, though? Creating something that won’t get used?”

“I’ve never really thought about it.” His hands stilled and I noticed they weren’t quite steady, the nails bitten almost to nothing. “Knitting is the thing I do for myself.”

Oh God, I was out of my depth already. I’d never really interacted with Bellerose outside of a context that wasn’t defined by Caspian, so I had no idea who he was the rest of the time. And the thing was, I was sort of getting the sense he didn’t either.

“Look”—I took a huge gulp of beer, and immediately regretted it because the sharp ginger aftertaste gave me hiccoughs—“is it (hic) okay if I ask what happened with (hic) Caspian?”

“There’s not much to tell. I asked him if he believed Nathaniel could truly make him happy.”

This gave me a bunch of awkfeels because, on the one hand, I was the tiniest bit thrilled Bellerose thought that way—not least because it validated my own relationship with Caspian—but this was supposed to be about him, not about me. “And he (hic) fired you? What the fuck?”

“It’s not my place to question him.”

“What? Ever? Like (hic) you’ve never said, would you like a cup of coffee or can you fit in an extra (hic) meeting on the (hic) twenty-third?”

“Arden, the next time you hiccough, I will give you fifty pounds.”

I stared at him wide-eyed and absolutely unable to hiccough. “How…how did you do that?”

“I’m magic.”