Page 37 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Lotta

W hen your jaw-droppingly beautiful boyfriend asks you to be his date at a ‘boring black-tie thing’—his words—and you find out it’s a super-important event for the tech industry in London, and that said boyfriend will be the keynote speaker , and it’s your first official engagement together, you make an effort.

And when you set the bar pretty high with your daily sartorial choices, you know it’s time to pull out the big guns.

So you do.

It’s weird, because I’ve dated a lot of guys who are successful at what they do—even if that success has been handed to them on a plate. And, obviously, I attend a tonne of these sorts of things already in my capacity as a C-suite-level representative of a large company.

But Aide and I got together in an environment completely outside of all that corporate schmoozing and incestuous London networking, and neither of us were trying to impress each other with our professional credentials.

Which is code for he was entranced by my tits and I was entranced by his biceps and—at the time confusing—Big Dick Energy.

Which makes tonight’s little outing on his arm feel like a step-change for us. We’re doing something formal, work-related, as a professional couple.

That feels very grownup.

Happily, I look very grownup, thanks to my sweet and insanely talented fashion designer friend, Astrid Carmichael.

I only gave her a couple of weeks’ notice, but she’s worked her usual magic.

The dress is emerald green super weight crèpe de Chine, which is her signature fabric.

It hits the floor, but there’s plenty of skin on display thanks to an epic thigh slit, plunging keyhole neckline and cutaway waistline.

It’s sensational, if I do say so myself, even if it’s not the most practical choice for a sit-down dinner.

The makeup artist I use for such occasions has excelled herself, giving me a fabulous smoky eye and applying highlighter to every inch of visible skin on my body.

My hair’s in a sleek, low ponytail to one side, and the extensions my stylist added in have it falling in a silky snake almost to my hip.

Green satin Louboutins, chunky gold hoop earrings and a pair of gold Chanel cuffs complete the look.

I hope the good people of London’s tech industry appreciate my efforts. I bet they won’t. I’m sure most of them have had to be dragged kicking and screaming out of their hoodies for the occasion.

Actually, forget the tech industry.

Because when I walk—okay, maybe I sashay—through the double doors of my bedroom to where Aide’s waiting in my living room, the expression on his face is everything. Everything. It goes from gobsmacked to feral in a second flat.

‘Fucking hell,’ he growls, standing and coming for me like he plans to throw me over his shoulder and take me back to his cave. ‘You are magnificent.’

Yes please.

‘Don’t touch her!’ Amanda, my makeup artist squeaks from behind me. Aide stops like a kid who’s been caught red-handed.

‘You can touch me.’ I slink towards him, loving the hunger in those blue, blue eyes. ‘You can always touch me. Just don’t mess up my makeup.’

He closes the gap between us, sliding his hands around my bare waist with an appreciative hum before tilting his head to the side of my neck not sprouting a ponytail and pressing his lips to my skin.

There’s a hint of tongue, and I sag into him, clutching at those biceps through his impeccable Tom Ford tailoring.

Jesus Christ, this man gets me horny. How can he be just as hot in a custom tux as he is in a grimy, Die-Hard-style vest?

How can that be fair?

He looks like Henry fucking Cavill on the red carpet at Cannes. Actually, forget Henry, because it’s Aide who has true star quality.

It’s Aide no one will be able to take their eyes off tonight.

I’m just the candy on his arm, and I couldn’t be prouder.

The shallow steps leading up to the Natural History Museum’s gothic entrance are covered in a wide strip of red carpet and lined with paparazzi.

It turns out the guest list tonight goes way beyond the tech industry to politicians, lobbyists and celebrities, all of whom are invested in enhancing London’s reputation as a hospitable base for high-growth global tech companies—not easy when Dublin has cornered the market thanks to the low Irish corporation tax rate.

As our driver drops us off and we walk along the scarlet runway to the steps, I spot the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Stella McCartney, the sexy tycoon Anton Wolff, and even Sheryl Sandberg.

Holy crap.

‘Sheryl Sandberg’s here and you’re the keynote speaker?’ I mutter in the direction of my hot date. ‘No offence,’ I add.

He laughs. ‘None taken. It’s ridiculous, I agree. She’s speaking later, but they’ve asked me to open up the speeches on behalf of London-based tech companies. I’m the warm-up act.’

‘No you’re not,’ I say. ‘It makes sense, putting you on first. Also, you’re hotter.’

For someone who likes to make out that he’s some poor little imposter in this field, my date is every inch the suave billionaire entrepreneur this evening.

He seems relaxed, jovial, and he looks a million fucking dollars.

When I asked him in the car if he’d like to run through his speech with me, he shrugged the offer off.

‘Nah. I don’t usually overthink these things. I’ll just see how it goes,’ he said.

Okay then. That’s impressive.

‘I’d much rather spend the journey imagining finger-fucking that pussy of yours under the table later,’ he added huskily in my ear. ‘I cannot fucking wait to get inside you tonight.’

I quickly crossed my legs at that comment, to minimise the chances of turning up here with a wet spot on the back of my crèpe de Chine.

It’s totally out of character for me, but for once I’m happy to be in someone else’s shadow. I just want to sit back and bask in the reflected glory of my hot, clever boyfriend’s speech.

And maybe enjoy his attentions when it’s done and dusted.

We’re sitting beneath the vaulted ceilings of The Natural History Museum’s stupendous Hintze Hall.

As darkness falls, the white and pink uplighting around the space grows more dramatic.

Hundreds of tea lights in glass votives flicker on the iconic Beauty-and-the-Beast-style staircase at the far end of the space.

We’ve drunk excellent champagne, nibbled on the prettiest canapés, and, of course, mingled.

When Aide isn’t being a grumpy bastard, he’s effortlessly charming.

No one talking to him would ever, ever be able to tell he wasn’t a social animal.

That he’d rather be in his quiet garden in a pair of football shorts, nursing a cold beer.

What’s unsurprising is how popular he is. How many people make a beeline for him—both men and women. How many bro-hugs and back-slaps and hearty handshakes (from the men) and lecherous kisses (from the women) he gets.

What’s a little more surprising, but maybe shouldn’t be, because he’s a sweetheart, is how intent he is on showing me off. Introducing me. Tonight’s his night, but he ensures I’m involved in every situation. That my glass is always filled. That he never leaves my side.

I adore the property sector, but tonight I’m envious, because the energy in this vast room is palpable.

Obviously, the numbers at stake in the tech industry are dizzying, but it’s an industry I have surprisingly little exposure to, despite my dad’s background.

I can instantly feel the power, the money, the excitement, the ambition here.

Everyone is smart.

Hungry.

Scarily young, considering what they’ve achieved (Exhibit A: Aidan Duffy).

Everyone makes ‘thinking big’ sound like a four-year-old’s imaginary play.

Sure, there are lots of nerds here, but there are also lots of folks from the commercial side, and I can smell their ambition a mile off. These people have Big Hairy Audacious Goals—BHAGs—and they are not afraid to put them out there into the universe.

I fucking love it. It’s intoxicating. And I’m lightheaded with pride that my man plays such a central part in driving such a critical part of the economy.

Not just driving. Nurturing. Because surely, having role models like Aide, who are driven by their heart and soul, is everything when it comes to attracting the next generation of engineers? Data scientists?

My parents are here, obviously. Dad looks quietly, politely pained—he’s a lot like Aide, but a lot worse at hiding it—while Mamma’s wearing a couture dress from Dolce and Gabbana’s last Alta Moda collection and loving every minute of this shindig.

They are loving Aide and me being together, and I can’t deny it’s a kick to have them see us here like we’re a proper couple.

Which we are.

Obviously.

My man’s speech is electric. Fuck, he’s amazing.

He’s amazing because he doesn’t give a shit about any of the optics but he gives far too many shits about the real stuff, and that authenticity, that fervour, just radiates out of him.

Also because he’s scarily smart and fluent and articulate and passionate.

He makes it sound like he’s just coming up with his beautiful, thought-provoking speech in the moment.

All that, and his movie star looks, mean every person in this room is in his thrall.

He talks about the friend he lost and why he started Totum. He doesn’t over-egg it; he tells the story and connects it to the wonder of technology.

Technology is hope and possibility and limitlessness.

It is working with the very best of humanity and leveraging that.

It is here not to replace us, but to offer us transparency.

Liberty. Dignity. He talks about the awe he felt as a young teen when he discovered that the most elevated concepts in the world—love and wellbeing and community—could be transcribed in ones and zeroes.

Could be captured. Quantified. Made real.

His words are poetic, and inspiring, and achingly beautiful, but they’re not pompous or exclusive.

Maybe that’s his greatest gift—that he can speak to everyone’s hearts.

He’s Aidan Duffy, but he’s also Aide, and whatever he says about his inner conflict, about his discomfort at straddling both sides of him, I know they’re one and the same.

Ladies and gentlemen. I give you Aide Fucking Duffy.

There isn’t a person off their feet when he finishes. The soaring ceilings of the museum echo the resounding applause and cheers of what must be close to five hundred bastions of industry, politics and education. Because my Aide has touched everyone in this room tonight.

When he gets back to the table, which is a tougher journey than it sounds given the number of people who stop him for back slaps and handshakes en route, he’s smiling and bashful and emotional, but I can tell he’s proud of himself.

And so he fucking should be.

As for me? I’m a shaking, teary mess as I sit there with his Totum colleagues (Aide turned down the top table, apparently. Course he did). I feel shallow and inadequate and star-struck. I make a great living in a very frothy part of the market, catering to people richer than God.

My boyfriend changes lives and pools knowledge and transforms industries.

I give back and pay forward in a perfunctory, efficient and duty-fuelled way, because I know it’s the right thing to do, and I know how lucky I am, and I low-key believe in karma.

My boyfriend gives back and pays forward because he has a fire in his belly, and that fire is altruism. It’s a desperate desire to do better by the people who have less than him.

It’s almost laughable to me now that I saw his attraction as skin-deep at first. Sure, I came for his pecs.

But I stayed for his heart.

And I’m falling for him.

When he gets back to the table, I jump up before any of his colleagues can get to him and throw myself smack against his chest. ‘You were amazing,’ I breathe against his neck. I’m sobbing. I’m totally bowled over. I hug him tighter. ‘So, so bloody amazing. I’m so proud of you.’

‘Hey,’ he whispers, his hands moving over my bare back. ‘Thank you. And I’m proud of you, too. Every day. But there’s a problem.’

‘What’s that?’ I ask with an unsexy gulp. I am in real danger of ruining my eye makeup like this. Aidan Duffy and his panda-eyed girlfriend.

He moves his mouth closer to my ear and slides a hand down over my bum. ‘It’s a glass-topped table,’ he says, and I burst out laughing.