Page 71 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Right now, I’m thinking with my dick. With my monkey brain that’s so orgasm-addled it can’t think straight. Lotta has dazzled me and the others from the get-go.

That’s what she does.

She waltzes in and blinds us all with the force of her beauty, and glamour, and fucking relentless good-naturedness, and her seeming and, honestly, irritating ability to see only the positives in life. It’s an ability that’s only possible for someone who’s never been disappointed. She is a wonderful, impressive, successful product of the privileged bubble she’s been raised in, and none of us stands a chance against it.

Against her.

If Gaz and the guys knew about me and her they’d have a field day. Sure, Gaz is smitten in a boyish-crush kind of way. He’d be tickled as fuck if he knew I was messing around with Lotts.

But come on.

I’ve already done enough. Moved on while trying to keep everything that makes me me intact. Tried to always remember my roots. And for the most part, I’ve been semi-successful, except that I’ll never again know financial worries. Even that feels like a betrayal of my family and friends. Of the community and culture and values and moral codes I was brought up with. That form the backbone of who I am.

Lotta’s hand twists between my pecs, her fingertips running higher until she’s holding my crucifix.

‘Tell me about the cross,’ she whispers. Her eyelashes cast shadows across her cheekbones, and for a moment I’m transfixed.

‘It’s a Celtic cross. Mum bought it for me when I was christened. They’d been on a pilgrimage up to Holy Island—Lindisfarne, up in Northumberland—just before they conceived me, and Mum’s always been convinced that’s why I came along. They were having problems getting pregnant before that. Anyway, they named me after St Aidan and St Cuthbert, who were the two early Christian saints who made the island famous.’

Her face opens up like she’s just had a revelation. ‘Ahh. I wondered why your middle name was Cuthbert?’

‘How’d you know that?’ I ask, and she looks shifty.

‘Wikipedia, I think.’

I laugh and slide my hand up the smooth arc of her spine. ‘Stalker.’

‘When people lie to you about who they are,Aidan,’ she retorts, ‘you have to take matters into your own hands.’

We lie there, grinning at each other like idiots.

‘So, all this roots stuff is important to you.’ It’s not a question.

‘Suppose so.’ I pause. I’ve over-thought this topic so much in the past decade, as I’ve been on my crazy journey, but it’s hard, and sometimes painful, to articulate it. ‘I think roots areimportant for all of us as human beings—we latch onto them. But I also think when you have very little, maybe you make them a bit too important.’

‘How do you mean?’ she asks, shifting closer and releasing my cross. Her hand drifts over my shoulder and down my arm, and I like how good her easy touch makes me feel. How safe.

‘Well, take our family. We had no fucking money. Nor did any of our neighbours. So you cling onto other stuff. Tradition. Cultural identity—Mum was second generation Irish and Dad was first generation. He moved over as soon as they let him leave school. I dunno. Religion. That played far too big a part in our lives for our liking.

‘Also things like… reputation. Shame. Pride. Dignity. Values. Codes of conduct. When you don’t have much, you live and die by how you act. Poverty can make people strong and resilient, but often it brings out the worst in humanity, too. That neighbourhood I grew up in was just petty. No one wanted to see anyone else doing better than them. Getting out. It wasn’t fair. It was resented.’

She purses her lips. ‘So you’re saying you had nothing but your roots, and who you were and who your family was informed your whole identity, and tough shit if you didn’t like that identity because you didn’t feel you had the right—or maybe even the currency—to change any of it? Nor did you feel you could leave?’

I laugh, but there’s no mirth in it. ‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘Fuck, that’s depressing. It’s like the songCommon People.’

That makes me grin properly. ‘If I’m Jarvis Cocker, you know who you are in that song, right?’

‘Fuck off. But also,obviously.’ Her fingers run up and down my arm. ‘Where’s your dad now? I haven’t heard you mention him.’

‘He died a few years ago.’

She really does have the most expressive eyes. Face. The way she’s looking at me almost undoes me.

‘It’s okay. He was sick for a long time. Got sick after my brother, Pete, was born. MS. He couldn’t work. Not really.’ I let out a heavy sigh. ‘Mum was a nurse, but she also took care of Dad until I was old enough to help.’

Her beautiful dark eyes narrow. ‘Wait. You were your dad’s carer?’