Page 4 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Lotta

I gingerly take a sip of tea that tastes oddly like pencil sharpenings brewed in hot water and focus on trying not to look at Aide, who’s sitting opposite me and Frank, our head contractor, while he briefs us.

We’re sitting around a plastic table in the small, depressing outdoor area while Gaz shows the others around and gets them started on ripping more shit out.

It may be July, but it’s fucking cold, and I wish I hadn’t left my jacket inside.

My nipples are so cold I feel like they’re going to snap off.

From the discreet but frequent glances Aide’s giving my boobs, I’m not the only one concerned about my nipples.

For some reason, that pleases me immensely.

Even so, needs must. I hunch forward and cross my arms over my chest as I hold my mug to my breastbone for heat.

Holding it directly to my poor nipples is a step too far, even for an exhibitionist like me.

And I’m the girl who had Cher’s barely-there Studio 54 costume copied for my birthday party last year.

This space seems to be a play area. Its tarmac has definitely seen better days.

I don’t remember seeing anything in our initial proposal about the outdoor space, but I observe idly that the kids would be better off with a ground covering of soft rubber bark chips.

I make a mental note to ask Khal if we can squeeze in some love for the outdoor area.

The tarmac bears the faintest outlines of hopscotch and noughts-and-crosses grids.

There are some ancient Little Tyke pieces—a rocking horse thingy and a pedal car—as well as a basketball hoop with no net and a metal climbing frame whose yellow paint has almost entirely chipped off.

To my eyes, it’s the bleakest possible spot for kids to hang out.

The mere idea that this is a welcome space for some of them to frequent is something I can’t bear to contemplate right now.

The property’s perimeter is marked with a high chain-link fence through which are visible several hideous sixties’ tower blocks of council flats.

Honestly, this place is more like juvie than a community centre.

It’s frustrating, because, like my brother, I’m a perfectionist. Venus operates right at the top of its market precisely because we’re both anal as fuck. Only the best will do.

Obviously, I get that there’s a ceiling on how much we can improve this building and its meagre grounds, but I’m beginning to wonder why we’re not razing it to the ground and starting again from scratch with a construction that’d be more durable, more eco-friendly, and more cost-effective to fund.

The current brief feels as inadequate as putting a plaster on a knife wound.

Speaking of which, I wouldn’t be surprised if this area gets its fair share of stabbings. It’s dodgy as hell and stinks of despair.

Quite frankly, the only sight that’s making my eyes happy right now, aside from the cuteness of my immaculate new Dior Air Jordans, is the man sitting across the table from me.

The man who’s one of the best-looking members of the male race I’ve ever seen, and in a way that’s far more masculine, more raw , than I’m used to. Let me tell you, his rugged style of handsome is compelling.

I begrudgingly remove my right arm from my chest and rummage around in my handbag for my notepad, which I place on the table in front of me. When I put my mug down, the table jolts on its uneven legs, sending the liquid slopping over the sides.

Fuck’s sake. I swallow down a sigh. Today is going to be a long day.

I risk a glance through my eyelashes at Aide.

He’s grinding his jaw like he’s holding back, too.

He probably thinks I’m some sort of rich, dizzy socialite.

He has no clue what I’ve achieved, albeit from privileged beginnings. Gabe and I have worked our arses off.

In the Montefiore-Charlton household, there were no free handouts. Mamma may have come from wealth, but Dad is a self-made man, and he never let us forget it.

I bet Mr Sexy McJudgement across from me doesn’t know that, though. I bet he sees a spoilt princess who can’t hack real life. The thought of it has me sitting up straighter in my seat.

I’ll show him.

And also, I’ll ogle him as much as I can, because Jeeeesus Christ is this man hot. I ignore the spilt tea and pick up my pen to redirect his eye so I can look some more, trying to work out exactly what it is about him that has him getting under my skin already.

It’s a combination of looks and demeanour, I decide. Mainly those eyes that are currently melting my bra and pants off and are like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

The brawn helps too. The massive biceps and shoulders that say I use my body to make a living . Not in a Magic Mike way. Just in a good, honest physical labour kind of way, you know?

His appearance also gives clues to his personality.

He can’t possibly doubt the power of his looks, but neither is there a suggestion of the slightest bit of grooming on his part.

He clearly got out of bed looking like this.

Though thinking about Aide in bed is a terrible idea if the shot of lust that’s just hit me deep inside is anything to go by.

I press my thighs together tightly under the table.

Don’t think about him in bed.

Don’t think about waking up with six-foot-something of that hard body pressed up against you.

Before my treacherous mind has a chance to go there and imagine what other hard things he might press up against me in bed, I focus on his bracelets, which are, on closer inspection, one length of thin black leather tied around his wrist a few times.

It’s pointless, as all jewellery is, I suppose, but weirdly effective.

I don’t get the impression that the leather bracelets, or the two chunky rings in dull silver that adorn his fingers, or the silver Celtic cross hanging around his neck are in any way vanity-driven.

Which means they could be sentiment-driven.

Which gives me a pang of something. I’m not sure what. Jealousy, maybe?

Can’t be. Because being jealous of the theoretical people who theoretically gave a man I’ve just met any of the things he holds dear is literally insane.

Like, stalker-level insane.

But, for some annoying reason, the next thing my brain leads me to wonder is what kind of women he goes for.

I’m sure they’re all stunners, but beyond that I have no clue.

I can’t see him putting up with anyone too high maintenance.

He probably goes for outdoorsy, girl-next-door types who look like Jennifer Lawrence but are a lot less feisty.

Sweet. I bet he goes for sweet blondes. Something tells me he likes being in charge.

And that sets off a whole host of highly inappropriate but utterly delicious ponderings on just how much he likes to take charge in bed, which come to an abrupt halt when I realise he’s speaking.

‘The kitchen needs to be turned around in two days,’ he’s telling Frank. I note he’s not telling me, even though I’m, theoretically, anyway, leading this project.

‘That seems ridiculous,’ I blurt out. The kitchen is a shocker. It needs to be completely overhauled. ‘You need to give us a week, at least. Right, Frank?’

I glance at Frank, who hasn’t spoken because, unlike me, he’s an under-reactor. A processor. He watches Aide, waiting for him to expound.

‘We can’t afford a week,’ Aide says, his tone clipped.

‘If it’s a matter of funding the extra labour,’ I say carefully, ‘I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Is that what you’re worried about?’

‘No.’ That one word makes it sound like he thinks I’m an imbecile, as does the filthy look he shoots me.

He probably does. ‘What I’m worried about is that every day the kitchen is closed, there will be kids going hungry.

This isn’t some nice-to-have place where people drop by if they feel like it and sing Kumbaya . ’

He presses his lips together and exhales, nostrils flaring, like he’s trying to rein in his temper.

Or stress. Or something. When he continues, his tone is more measured.

‘The centre’s really important. Especially the kitchen.

Kids come by before school and we sort them out—there are a lot of bare cupboards around here.

If we don’t feed them, they go to school hungry.

The food banks can’t begin to plug the gap.

‘Same after school. We feed them dinner.’ He shakes his head and looks me dead in the eye, and I see nothing but despair in those astonishing eyes of his.

‘Having the kitchen closed even for a couple of days is a fucking disaster. I can’t emphasise that enough.

If we’re closed, then a hundred or so kids get one meal a day instead of three, and that’s whatever shitty school lunch they’re served up, and that’s not fucking good enough. ’

I stare at him in horror, tears pricking at my eyes.

‘Oh,’ I say inadequately, because I didn’t see that coming.

Didn’t realise this grubby place fulfilled such a critical function.

It’s hard to believe the little kitchen can fill so many stomachs.

Make so many lives that tiny bit better.

I waltzed in here and judged it, but I look at this guy, Aide, and I see how filled he is with passion and despair and urgency on behalf of these children.

Right now, with his ice-blue eyes radiating righteous fury, he looks like an unlikely avenging angel. Thank God they have someone like him in their corner. Someone to advocate for them. Someone to feed them, for Christ’s sake.

One meal a day? I’m out of my depth here, and I’m less than half a mile from my and Gabe’s multi-million pound flat.

I put down the pen I’ve been fiddling with. ‘Then we’d better work out how quickly we can get the kitchen done and how best to feed them while it’s out of action, hadn’t we?’ I say.

He nods, his massive shoulders dropping a little, and I take that as a tiny win. A tiny sign that I’ve said something right.

‘Absolute best case is three days,’ Frank says. ‘One to disconnect everything and rip it all out. Another to lay the flooring and paint the walls. Day three, we install all the appliances and cupboards.’ He shakes his head. ‘But it’s a tall order, and we’ll need all hands on deck.’

I’m not the expert, but it sounds unrealistic to me. Aide, however, is still shaking his head and muttering to himself.

‘Can you work with three days?’ I ask him.

Wrong question. He bends his head in frustration and rakes his dirty hands through his thick black hair. I should be thinking about how unhygienic it would be to have such grubby hands anywhere near my skin.

Spoiler alert: I am not thinking that.

I try again.

‘What would it take,’ I ask his hands, ‘from all of us to make three days work? Like, is there another option? Can we feed them somewhere else?’

He drags his hands down his face and looks up at me.

He blows out a breath.

I wait.

‘We can do what we did this morning,’ he concedes.

‘And what was that?’

‘We gave them breakfast in a bag. It wasn’t ideal, but at least they got fed.’

‘Great!’ I say brightly. Apparently, my positivity is offensive, because it earns me a scowl.

‘As I said, it’s not ideal. The afternoons are more problematic because they won’t be able to hang out here after school and we can’t give them a hot meal.’

‘But we could give them a sandwich?’ I suggest. ‘For three days? Is that something you can get on board with so we can spend the time we need on the kitchen?’

He grimaces. ‘I suppose so.’

Well, fancy that. We have a compromise.