Page 11 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Aide

S he is not wearing the fucking bra.

She turns up at lunchtime—apparently she had some work calls this morning that she couldn’t get out of—and shimmies out of that trench coat to reveal denim cutoffs, a tight white t-shirt, and absolutely none of the ‘clean lines’ or ‘full coverage’ Audrey at Harrods assured me the overpriced bra would deliver.

Instead, I’m treated to the faint, tantalising outline of lace and the not remotely faint but even more tantalising outline of her nipples, which are standing to attention like they’re on duty at fucking Buckingham Palace.

I shoot her what I intend as a withering look of disapproval, and she shoots me a sunny smile that’s nowhere near as innocent as it pretends.

She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

And it’s all my fault.

I shouldn’t have said or done any of that yesterday. Shouldn’t have bought her a bra. And definitely shouldn’t have given her a pornographic blow-by-blow of what I was in danger of doing to her if my years of carefully constructed willpower failed me.

She had a hell of a comeback for me.

One I thoroughly deserved.

And one that had me shooting my load in the shower again as soon as I got home.

I’m the only one who has an issue with her.

Gaz is smitten. Being the jovial bastard that he is, he seems to enjoy gawping at her physical perfection while bantering away with her as if their lives depend on it.

Sylvie referred to her this morning as a very kind-hearted young woman , and Judy actually pulled me aside before Carlotta came in and told me to make more of an effort with her.

Unbelievable.

They’re all dropping like flies.

It was quiet without her around this morning; I’ll admit that much.

Still, things are progressing around here. We got the kitchen finished off last night. By the skin of our teeth, but still. The Venus guys ended up staying late. So late, I didn’t get to buy them a pint to say thank you.

I have to say, it looks great. There are vast stretches of shiny, easy-clean stainless steel between the splash backs, the work surfaces and the appliances themselves.

The industrial ovens run floor to ceiling, and Sylvie is ecstatic.

She and some of the usual volunteers got in at six-thirty this morning, I believe, so we could offer the kids a full breakfast. They couldn’t wait to get their hands on their shiny new toys.

Because the main hall’s still out of action, we’ve stuck to the takeaway breakfast service we’ve run this week, but at least we were able to offer the kids some hot food—sausage baps and banana porridge in cardboard pots which went down a treat.

With the main structural work out of the way, Reggie, Venus’ electrician, has taken his leave, along with another guy, Ian.

The bulk of the labour now is cosmetic. Sanding down the remainder of the walls where the panelling was.

Washing all the ancient paintwork down. Replastering or caulking the millions of little spots where the cheap plaster has come off.

And, finally, painting the whole fucking building before setting up the new furniture.

I’m stood at one end, watching the progress and the chaos from a slight distance as I mitre the edges of the new skirting boards we’re putting in.

I don’t get to do this kind of thing very often, but I enjoy the precision of it.

The total focus it requires. The reward of the end product.

Gaz, who trained as a joiner before he gave it up to sit behind the wheel of heavy goods lorries, brought his old mitre box in this morning and is humouring me by letting me do the mitring while he nails the skirting boards to the walls.

He’s got Magic FM blasting from our digital radio. One of the Venus guys, Jack, is patching up the plasterwork while Frank and their other colleague, Marv, install brand-new, cheap but far superior, toilets, urinals and washbasins in the poky loos.

Sylv is back in the kitchen with Charmaine, another of our regular volunteers on the catering side, chopping and prepping for the big pasta bake we’ll be handing out to the kids outside later for their dinner. That leaves Judy and Carlotta, who look thick as thieves.

We’ve replaced a couple of the old internal doors.

One of them in particular had the shit kicked out of it by a kid with anger issues years ago and never got replaced.

Carlotta and Judy are applying a base coat of primer to the bare wood.

As far as I can see, they’re doing a half-decent job of it, though they’d be a lot quicker if they shut the fuck up and focused on the task at hand.

Carlotta looks beautiful. Someone’s given her a black Venus-branded t-shirt, which is already splattered with primer, but thank fuck it’s covering her up.

Pity we couldn’t find some full-length painting overalls for her, because those legs of hers are every bit as long and tanned and glossy as I imagined they’d be, and they are not helping my libido one bit.

It feels like every time she covers up one body part, she puts another on show for me.

I’m saved by a sharp rapping on the open internal door.

I look up to see Noah Thierry standing there, wearing a bright orange Good Vibes Hospice t-shirt and a wide grin.

He holds up a foil-covered oblong that I have good reason to hope is a homemade cake.

‘Thought you might need sustenance,’ he says. ‘Brought you a loaf of lemon drizzle.’

I down tools and walk towards the doorway so I can shake the man by the hand.

He’s one of the most genuinely decent people I’ve met.

He runs a progressive and incredibly inspiring hospice on the other side of the square, and he happens to have a chef to hand who’s a dangerously good baker.

All visitors to the Good Vibes hospice know you want to visit at three o’clock. Afternoon tea-time.

‘My hero,’ I say, and we bro-hug around the cake. ‘Your timing is fucking perfect.’

‘It’s looking good in here,’ he says charitably, because in reality it’s still a total mess. The sunlight pouring through the huge window is lighting up every single speck of dust, and there’s shit everywhere.

‘Not yet,’ I tell him, ‘but we’re getting there. Kitchen’s done.’

‘Sylv must be thrilled,’ he says. ‘It’s been a long time coming.’

I nod. ‘She’s a patient woman.’

Noah is one of the good ones—a doctor who’s found his vocation in helping the dying pass in peace and with grace. Though I think he’s even more valuable to the loved ones they leave behind. The man’s a saint and a plugged-in member of the local community.

He’s also married to one of the most beautiful women on the planet—Honor Chapman, a massive celebrity who left her even more famous action hero husband for Noah here.

Sometimes, the good guy really does win.

We’ve built up a quiet, easy friendship over the past couple of years.

We met at a few local community events and hit it off.

As a former NHS doctor, he can appreciate the value Totum adds, and we’ve sponsored a few fundraisers for the hospice here and the one they’re opening in North London.

We also may or may not have discovered a fondness for drinking excellent whisky in companionable silence in the square together from time to time.

I’m just about to piss him off by asking him how his beautiful wife is when I hear a jaunty Noah!

What the actual fuck?

I spin around. Carlotta’s coming towards us, all bronze-limbed and sparkly-eyed and perky.

‘I thought that was you!’ she cries. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

What on earth are you doing? I think.

‘My hospice is across the square,’ he tells her, leaning in for a double kiss. Charming French bastard. Seriously. Not content with bagging Honor bloody Chapman, he has to be pally with Carlotta, too? My warmth towards him is cooling by the second.

‘This is a new look for you,’ he tells her warmly.

‘Right?’ She looks down and laughs. ‘So attractive.’

She means it sarcastically. Self-deprecatingly. But the oversized, paint-splattered t-shirt and the cutoffs are, in my view, fucking perfection. They make her look girl-next-door in a way her usual get-ups don’t, even if the result is more accurately girl-next-door-I’d-like-to-bang.

‘How come you’re here?’ he asks.

‘Venus is doing an outreach programme with Aide here. We’re sprucing this place up.’

I can’t last another second. ‘How come you two know each other?’ I grunt.

Carlotta beams at him adoringly. ‘I know Noah’s wife, Honor. We have mutual friends.’

Of course they do. Of course Carlotta hangs out with the rich and famous. I employ every fibre of my willpower not to roll my eyes.

‘Lotta’s friends, Elle and Nora, know Honor.’ He wrinkles his nose as if summoning a memory. He’s on Lotta terms with her too, then. ‘You were at uni with those two, right?’

‘Well remembered. You going to Elle’s wedding?’

‘I hope so, given she’s having it my family’s chateau,’ he says.

Her eyes widen and she pats him on the arm. ‘Of course! Duh. Oh my God, I can’t wait.’

‘Cosy,’ I say. I aim for light snark, but it comes out heavier than that. Noah’s family owns Chateau des Anges, a vineyard near St Tropez that produces a great rosé. Even so, all this socialite stuff is way out of my comfort zone.

He grins at me. ‘Seriously, mate. I’m still getting used to the high life. Elle Hart and Josh Lander’s wedding—should be fucking amazing. I’m not complaining.’

‘Oh Jesus. That wedding? Good luck to you,’ I say, to hide the inexplicable fact that I’m jealous.

Not that these two are off to the wedding of two of the biggest movie stars on the planet.

More that Noah’s getting to do something like that with Carlotta.

Something exotic and decadent and glamorous, where she’ll look like an angel.

And dance like a she-devil on steroids, no doubt.

I stand there like a muppet, holding the loaf of lemon drizzle that Noah’s passed to me, and listening to the two of them prattle on about people I’ve never met, when the screams of pain and terror start.