Page 3 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Aide

S he doesn’t remember me.

And she doesn’t seem to have a clue who I am, either.

Well, well.

This should be interesting.

Judy’s already bollocked me for not immediately offering our new arrivals a brew, so I let her lead the way into the kitchen. She bustles through. She can come across as an interfering old bag, but she’s fucking gold. And she has a worse mouth on her than I do.

Unfortunately for me, Carlotta’s back view is as decent as her front view.

And by decent, I mean knockout. Her outfit’s a fucking joke.

She’s in spray-on jeans that showcase an incredible arse and what I’m pretty sure are the Dior Air Jordan high-tops.

I’m also pretty sure they cost more than six grand.

When you have a nephew who’s as much of a sneakerhead as mine is, you learn far more about Nike collabs than you’ve ever wished to know.

What I also know is that they’ll get fucked as soon as she lifts a finger in here, and it’s fucking stupid of her to be wearing them on a building site.

Unless, of course, she’s not planning on lifting a finger.

Nothing would surprise me less.

The biggest problem with her outfit isn’t the unsuitable footwear. Or the arse-hugging jeans. Or even her tight white t-shirt with GUCCI emblazoned across her chest in rhinestones. I’m not sure if the OTT branding is supposed to be ironic. I have a horrible feeling it’s not.

Nope. The biggest problem by far is that this woman’s bra is clearly as unsuitable as the rest of her attire, because it’s completely and utterly failing in its primary job.

Actually, not its primary job. I suppose its main role is to support her tits, and it’s doing a fucking spectacular job of that, from what I can see. I’m just thrilled Judy called Gaz out for staring at them and not me. That woman doesn’t miss a trick.

But on its secondary job? Its job of presumably forming a protective layer between her nipples and the rest of the world?

Epic fucking fail.

Because, either side of GUCCI it’s clear that this woman is smuggling peanuts with the best of them. I know it’s chilly in here, but come on. Her porn star-level nipples are beacons, and, like a car crash, I cannot look away. I can’t seem to look anywhere else when they’re winking at me.

Her bra must be lace, or mesh, or something sheer and sexy and totally impractical because, while its vague outline is visible, it’s forming a non-existent barrier between nipples so perfect they’re proof there is a God and the poor bastards who have to look at them.

The woman is undeniably hot.

That’s unfair.

Hot doesn’t come close to describing her.

She’s astonishingly beautiful with those massive brown eyes and delicate bone structure.

Above the eyes are thick, shapely brows.

Below, a little snub nose dotted with the faintest smattering of freckles and a full, luscious mouth.

And the backdrop for these features? Skin so creamy, so luminous, it’s glowing. It’s literally glowing.

I can see more than a bit of her mother in her, though it’s been a couple of years since I bumped into Paul and Chiara in person.

But whereas Chiara is an attractive woman, her daughter is mesmerising.

All that thick, dark hair cascading down her back in bouncy curls that I’m guessing are the result of a professional blow-dry.

I just wish she’d pull some of those curls forward so they cover her tits, because having the outline of her taut, puckered nipples on display like that is not fucking helpful.

It’s unhelpful because Gaz or I are highly likely to do ourselves an injury while operating power tools and sneaking glances at them, and it’s equally unhelpful because the merest thought of how glorious it would feel to strum my thumbs over them, or to tug up that stupid, flashy t-shirt and suck one deeply into my mouth, has my dick threatening to harden.

It’s frustration at my uncharacteristic lack of self-discipline that has me snapping at her more harshly than I mean to when she asks, with a totally straight face, if we have a Nespresso machine.

‘Does this place look like it has a fucking Nespresso machine?’ I snarl.

Eyes on her face, mate. Eyes on her face.

She visibly recoils at my tone, and I feel like a twat.

‘It’s tea or Nescafé,’ I say more kindly and watch as she attempts to conceal a shudder of distaste at the idea of instant coffee. I get it—she is half-Italian, after all.

‘Black tea would be lovely, thanks,’ she says in a small voice to Judy, who shoots me a behave yourself death stare as she busies herself with filling the kettle.

To distract myself from Carlotta’s epic porn star nipples, I discreetly check out the rest of her team.

That guy Khalid in the blue button-down shirt has Stanford written all over him.

I’ve met a million mid-level bankers who look like him, and I have a few Khalids of my own in our Finance and Strategy departments.

That said, he’s been nothing but helpful and generous in all our email and phone dealings so far, and I’m grateful to him for hooking us up with Venus. I’m funding the new kitchen equipment on this project, but they’re the ones with the expertise and the trade relationships for materials.

The rest of the crew look alright, too. They’re quiet and polite, dressed in immaculate, identikit cargo pants and black polo shirts bearing the iconic V logo on the chest. I have no reason to believe they won’t epitomise efficiency, and that’s exactly what we need here.

We need this job executed properly and wrapped up so the people of this community can get their centre back and I can give my not insignificant day job my full attention once again.

Judy’s taken over the tea service. The rest of Carlotta’s team seems lower-maintenance than her, thankfully.

The five guys she’s brought are all enthusiastically tucking into their cuppas and helping themselves to the shortbread biscuits Judy’s laid out.

She may appear as though she doesn’t give a flying fuck, but I can tell she wants to impress these people.

Or, if not impress them, then at least give them zero reason to look down on us.

On what we’re doing here. I mean, she’s put the biscuits on a plate with an actual paper doily, for fuck’s sake.

Who the fuck has doilies these days? She must have brought it in with her. My heart twinges at the thought.

The thing to know about Judy is that she is a fucking trooper. Heart of gold, that woman. She has a vicious tongue on her but there’s no one I’d rather have in my corner. Her body may be shrinking, but that heart of hers is still massive, and there’s no mistaking when Judy Jones is in the room.

I was scared to death of her twenty years ago when she was in charge of the after-school care in this very centre, and I still have what can politely be called a healthy respect for her.

To Judy, I’m still the same twelve-year-old pest she knew twenty years ago.

No one is less impressed by the wealth I’ve accumulated, though I suspect no one is more proud of how far I’ve come.

These four walls are forgettable, but it’s people like Judy and Sylvie who’ve given the place a beating heart. I just hope we can get posh gits like Carlotta and Khalid to see that. To see how important this place is in our community. How established. What a gift it is to our neighbours.

Not that I care what they think.

Carlotta’s valiantly dunking her PG Tips tea bag into her Good Vibes Hospice mug. I don’t miss the furtive looks she’s giving the kitchen.

It’s a shit hole.

I know.

But anyone who measures the value of this cramped, twelve-by-twelve space based on the shoddiness of the ancient formica worktops or the peeling paint in the damp upper corners is missing the point.

Thanks to this room, kids who would otherwise go without breakfast have, for the past two or three decades, been stuffed full of toast and Weetabix and orange juice every weekday morning before going off to school with a full stomach and a functioning brain. Just ask Gaz.

Parents for whom childcare is as big a headache as paying the bills can hold down their daytime shifts in the knowledge that their kids are here after school, snacking and doing their homework under Judy’s watchful eye.

Kids who qualify for free school meals during term time because there’s no money at home don’t go hungry in the school holidays.

Because they come here, ostensibly for activities, but in reality so they can fill themselves up on the spag bol or curry or chicken nuggets that Sylvie cooks for them with whoever she can commandeer to help her, and they live to play another day.

This old, damp, smelly kitchen is fucking everything . And I’ll make sure it makes it through another thirty years in fine shape if it’s the last thing I do.

I could fund it all myself, obviously. And that was the plan. But when one of the overzealous grads in our Executive Office applied to be a part of the Venus Holdings Corporate Charity Programme, I saw the advantage of having Venus on board.

They have resources. And construction expertise. And reach. The latter two I can’t help with. I have influence, yeah, and a massive network. But my connections are concentrated in the tech world, and having a world-class construction company on board could be a game-changer for us.

If they can work out how to build without access to Italian marble and Sub-Zero appliances, that is.

The outreach programme Venus has agreed with the council will be massive for this area. It’d be stupid not to piggyback on that, not to avail ourselves of what could be a long-term strategic partnership for the Avondale Park Community Centre.

Because having links with a corporation as impressive as Venus could mean all manner of future opportunities.

If we can use this project to engage them, to make them understand the level of need here, just a few streets away from their newest and most high-profile development, it could make the world of difference for the priority they give to affordable housing and investment in local parks and all the other things I know they’ve promised but have yet to deliver on.

Having a shiny, new community centre could be the tip of the iceberg of what we could achieve with a partner like Venus.

It’s a timely reminder that I should play nicely and not piss these people off before they’ve done their first day’s work.