Page 2 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Lotta

I have three thoughts as soon as I walk into this godforsaken place.

One. I have arrived in actual, literal hell.

Two. Henry Cavill’s twin appears to have landed himself in hell with me.

Three. Hot Cavill Twin looks far less pleased to lay eyes on me than I am to see him.

And by see, I mean eye-fuck.

Because, come on. This is what I mean when I say I want a guy who’s all man.

This. Right here.

An all-man man wears the hell out of a vest like this. And there’s an impressive amount of dark chest hair coming out of the top of it that’s somehow not wiry or pube-y but instead looks soft and manly and inviting and snuggle-worthy.

And he does proper physical work that results in said vest being grimy and dirt-marked, and in his fucking ginormous arms being sweat-slicked, and all the things that should be a turn-off to someone as high maintenance as me but that are, in fact, a mahoosive turn-on.

An all-man man knows how to wield his power tools, both figuratively and literally, and this guy’s brandishing his huge drill in a way that screams casual competence.

Like, a literal drill.

In case you think I’ve already seen his penis.

You should know my competence kink is as real as my manual labourer kink.

I bet he drinks beer only in pint format and never out of bottles. I bet he goes to pubs instead of bars and washes that thick, dark hair with shower gel instead of shampoo and would have to shave twice a day if he wasn’t growing a beard and doesn’t believe in foreplay.

Because, you know, he doesn’t need to.

I bet no woman has ever left his bed unsatisfied.

If he even bothers to use a bed, that is. He strikes me as an up-against-the-wall guy. Or a bend-you-over-the-table guy, which, you know, also works well.

You'd think someone who runs a real, live property development company would be well used to seeing builders. And I am, of course.

But not builders who look like this.

I know what I don’t want in a man. Anymore, anyway. I don’t want a guy whose facial schedule is more gruelling than mine or who won’t fuck me because he ‘needs’ to spend time behind his LED mask like Hans, my most recent ex.

But I’m not sure I could have articulated exactly what I do want in a man until this second.

This.

This is what I want.

Not as an actual boyfriend, you understand. That would be ridiculous, because I suspect our Venn diagrams of acceptable date venues or attire will never meet in the middle.

But as a hot-as-fuck fuck.

With eyes that have already melted my panties, because I swear to God I have never seen eyes like his.

I’ve been told by several adoring suitors that my eyes are mesmerising, and I’ve always been happy to believe it, but even I can admit I have nothing on this guy.

Whereas my eyes are big and brown and usually heavily made up, his are the most unique colour I’ve ever, ever seen.

They’re icy blue, but with improbable golden flecks, which sounds like it should be weird and is in reality perfection.

He’s coming towards me, and I stand there like a total muppet and gape. His hair and beard are so dark I’d say he’s either Irish or Mediterranean. Probably Irish, if that silver Celtic cross around his neck is anything to go by.

Those crazy, hypnotic eyes are so heavily lashed it’s just plain rude . All his hair is lustrous. Chest hair. Head hair. Beard. Eyelashes, for God’s sake. Eyebrows. Forearms. What does one ingest for follicular health? Is it carrots? Or omega three? I can never remember.

Whatever it is, Neanderthal Drill Man must be mainlining it.

He transfers his enormous power tool easily to his left hand and wipes his right hand down the centre of his man-vest before holding it out to me.

Update: I’m gaping even harder now. Especially at the new, sweaty trail his hand has left between pecs that need zero extra definition.

‘Carlotta?’ he asks in a low, gruff voice that honestly has me hurtling towards orgasm.

‘That’s me,’ I squeak. I extend mine and take his hand, which is huge and warm, allowing it to close over mine. Every part of my nervous system goes crazy with safety cues and danger cues at the same time which I didn’t even know was a thing but, it turns out, definitely is.

His face falls as though I’ve just confirmed his worst fears. Rude bastard.

‘Aide,’ he admits, gun-to-his-head style. Begrudging, much?

But also: Aide.

Ahhh.

Aide is a person . Who knew? I have hazy memories of Khal briefing me in the car on the way to a site visit last week, but as he talked I was manically answering emails on my phone, trying to diffuse and delay and delegate my workload ahead of this unnecessary and time-sucking fortnight.

Also, Khal, bless him, is selfless to the core and super well-meaning and also way too earnest and too fond of using his MBA-speak and therefore boring as fuck. Which means I listened to approximately two percent of his briefing, and the Aide thing didn’t feature in that two percent.

Obviously, had Khal showed me a photo of this guy, I would have been all over him.

It, I mean. I would have been all over it.

The project.

As he shakes my hand, those blue eyes wander south. He’s definitely checking out my rack.

Good.

‘Meet the team,’ he says, releasing my hand and jerking his head to the motley gaggle of individuals behind him, because, much as I wish it was to the contrary, we are not alone in this shit hole. I’m suddenly extremely glad I’ve come armed with a fleet of professional workmen to aid us.

Aid. Haha.

Because this gang screams volunteers like I don’t know what.

I sigh inwardly and paste on my brightest smile.

First up is a big guy whose resemblance to James Cordon is equalled only by Aide’s resemblance to my husband Henry Cavill. He gets instant points for the sincerity of his grin. At least someone’s pleased the cavalry has arrived.

He buries my hand between two enormous paws and gives me a funny little bow. ‘Gary. Call me Gaz. At your service.’

I don’t miss Aide’s eye-roll as I bestow my most dazzling smile upon Gaz. I like him at once. He’s got a good energy, unlike Mr Hot But Hostile next to him. He’s wearing a grubby blue t-shirt that says Hays Long-Haul Logistics on the front.

Yep. I can totally see this guy being a lorry driver. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a rolled-up copy of today’s Daily Mirror wedged in the back pocket of his jeans when he turns around.

‘How do you do, Gaz?’ I ask.

‘All right, all right,’ he drawls good-naturedly. ‘Bit of a shit-tip, innit?’

My thoughts exactly, Gaz.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ I say blithely, jerking my thumb at the team behind me. ‘These guys have seen worse.’ I mean, I’m not sure that’s actually true, but I’m not someone to piss on a person’s morale in the first ten seconds of meeting them.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ he says. His eyes drift to my boobs and back to my face.

‘This is Judy,’ he tells me, stepping aside to reveal a tiny woman who’s been totally concealed by his bulk.

She can’t be more than five foot or less than seventy, and she’s wearing an actual housecoat that makes her look like an extra from Call the Midwife, but I can tell at a glance that I wouldn’t want to fuck with her.

‘Hi, Judy,’ I say brightly. I take on the biggest alphaholes with glee on a daily basis, but show me a stern older woman and I’m instantly desperate for her approval and having to stop myself from rubbing myself against her leg like a needy dog and whining like me, like me.

God knows why. I suspect my Italian genes ensure I never underestimate a strong matriarchal figure.

She gives Gaz a shove. ‘Stop staring at her tits,’ she snaps. Before my jaw has time to drop open she takes my hand in a grip stronger than either of the guys’. Bloody hell.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she barks. ‘Thank fuck you’re here. These village idiots don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Except Aide.’ She jerks her head. ‘He’s all right, that one.’

‘Thanks a lot, Judy,’ Gaz mutters, and I’m unclear whether he’s protesting being referred to as a village idiot or being called out for staring at my boobs.

‘Good to know,’ I say neutrally. I suspect it’s a major testament to Aide that Judy’s given him her ringing endorsement, but I’m not willing to acknowledge any positive attributes on his part quite yet.

Except for his undeniable, shocking hotness, that is.

I’m also still reeling from the language that’s just come from this pint-sized retiree’s mouth.

The last of the volunteers is an attractive Black woman with shoulder-length braids who I’d guess is in her fifties. She’s watching the interaction of the others with a smile that straddles the line between amused and resigned.

‘Sylvie,’ she says. She extends a hand and shakes mine firmly but without Judy’s death-grip, which I appreciate. ‘Welcome to the madhouse.’

I laugh nervously. ‘So… is it just the four of you?’

‘We’ve had a few more volunteers in over the weekend,’ Sylvie says. ‘There was a lot of crap to clear out.’ No shit. ‘But we’ll be here for the duration.’

‘Got it,’ I say with a confidence I don’t feel. ‘Well, we’ve got five contractors at our end.’

I introduce Khal, who’s here for today only, thank fuck, and is positively vibrating with self-righteous saviour energy, and the small team of Venus’ workmen.

They’re all volunteering for this project on the company’s dime.

Aside from Reggie, who’s an electrician, the others are all generalists, as capable of knocking down a wall as they are of crafting a wardrobe from scratch or inserting a window.

I hope to God that, between them, they’ve got enough expertise to carry the rest of us through this shit-show. They should. Khal worked on equipping the team for this project with exactly the right mix of skill-sets, and God knows they’re going to need it.

The space we’re in is grim and depressing and filthy and horrible. I’m used to building sites, but they’re usually palatial bare-bones spaces in swanky new-builds, not decrepit community centres that look like they could fail a building regs assessment before you can say asbestos.

This structure is shitty. The only thing it’s got going for it, as far as I can see, is its vaulted ceiling and large windows.

It looks like it was erected on the cheap, probably in the Seventies, with thin exterior walls and spectacularly crappy interior fittings.

The majority of it is one big room whose length I’d guesstimate at thirty-five or forty feet with a small stage at one end.

There’s a doorway at the other end that, at a guess, leads through to an office. Kitchen. Loo.

As far as I can tell, the volunteers have so far spent their time clearing the entire space of its fixtures and fittings so all that remains is a few of those stackable plastic moulded chairs and a crude table.

It makes sense. I wouldn’t want to see these guys, especially Judy, doing the heavy lifting without professional help.

What’s left over is a large cluster of the new plastic-wrapped appliances and kitchen units we’ve preordered, bag upon bag of rubbish in a big pile, grimy-as-fuck windows, and horrific wipe-clean glossy paint in a lurid pale yellow that turns my stomach and screams mental institution .

The floor has heavily lacquered wooden floorboards which don’t look too bad.

Along one entire side of the room runs orange-y pine panelling that’s retro in all the wrong ways.

At least it appears, from the drill in his hand and the fact that a few panels are missing from the wall at the near end and stacked in a neat pile on the floor, that Aide has made inroads into losing the wood.

It’s plain depressing.

The whole place smells of dust and industrial cleaner and hopelessness.

I make a mental note to look more closely at the scope of the refurb we’ve agreed to fund and see if there’s any wiggle-room to expand on that. And I need to do it as soon as possible.

But first, I definitely require espresso.