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

Aide

W e can’t waste any time if we’re to get this kitchen turned around in three days.

I get the crew to work. In actual fact, having ten of us in the kitchen is impossible.

There’s just not enough room. I content myself with the compromise of having the five people from Venus who actually know what they’re doing—aka the contractors—working on dismantling the old kitchen while I put the waste-of-space one—aka Carlotta—in the main hall with Gaz, Sylv and Judy.

Khalid has bid us all a suave goodbye and gone back to the office under the apparent assumption that we’re in safe hands.

Good.

It’s better this way. Carlotta’s out of my hair, and she can focus on the less skilled task of taking down the wooden panels along the walls while Frank and I direct operations in here and Reggie, Venus’ electrician, gets to work disconnecting the appliances and the ancient plug sockets at a speed so impressive he’ll earn himself a slap on the back and possibly a pint this evening.

Best of all, I don’t have to see her. Don’t have to attempt not to do myself an injury because I’m distracted by her perfect fucking tits and not watching what I’m doing. And I don’t have to listen to her presumably inane chatter the whole time, either.

Instead, I can work at a fair clip alongside the Venus guys, who all seem genuinely decent.

Not that I’d expect an outfit like Venus to employ anyone sub-par, but they’re consummate professionals who keep their heads down and get on with the job.

We stick on the radio and work in relative silence to the soundtrack of Magic’s jaunty pop tunes and even jauntier DJs.

She’ll be in good hands next door. Gaz is already smitten, that much is clear.

She already has him calling her Lotta. Stupid bastard.

Judy will be charmed despite herself, and while Sylv doesn’t suffer fools, she’s generous-hearted, too.

I’m sure they’ll all get on just fine, and I’m hoping that by the time Carlotta’s listened to what they have to tell her about the incredible work they do here, she’ll be more sympathetic to our plight.

At twelve-thirty, I’m idly considering breaking for lunch and taking people’s orders for the sandwich bar down the road when a certain someone pops her glossy head around the door and smiles prettily at us.

‘Wow! You’ve made amazing progress in here!’

I grunt in acknowledgement. We really have.

Almost all the old cupboard units and appliances are now lying out in the street, ready for the skip, which should show up later.

The electrics have all been disconnected, and we’ve made quick work of chipping off the tiled backsplash with its filthy grouting.

In its place will be sheeted stainless steel—far more hygienic and easier to wipe down.

The replacement materials have been chosen not only for their ease of use but their ease of installation, given the time constraints we’re working under.

‘Anyway,’ she says blithely, ‘lunch is here.’

That gets my attention. I look up, allowing myself to take in the willowy silhouette of her body as she leans against the door frame. ‘How so?’

‘Oh, we always provide lunch on these jobs,’ she says. ‘It should have been in the brief.’

I won’t argue with that. ‘Lunchtime, folks,’ I say, downing tools and heading into the men’s loo to wash my hands.

Lunch would have been better described as a feast .

Fucking hell. There are huge cardboard trays on the table in the hall with far too much food from some fancy deli I’ve never heard of.

Bagels cut in half, their colourful fillings on display.

Same with the wraps. There’s chopped veg in little cartons.

Tubs of hummus. Slices of grilled halloumi.

Even some fucking sushi. Small bottles full of rainbow-coloured juices.

I check out the printed menu card propped up beside one of the trays.

Falafel wrap with slaw and chipotle dressing.

Hard greens juice.

Smoked hummus with paprika and pine nuts.

Jesus Christ. It’s far too extravagant, and I can’t imagine how much food we could have bought for the kids with what Venus spends on catering for a single lunch.

But I catch myself, because around me everyone is absolutely fucking delighted.

Sylvie is poring over the menu card and discussing whether to go for a smoked salmon or a beetroot and avocado bagel first.

Judy has already dismissed the juices as ‘wanky’ and has the kettle going in the hall, where the power is still on. Still, she’s putting away wraps at the speed of light.

So I let it go. They deserve a treat. God knows, they work bloody hard here, day after day. Well, Judy and Sylvie do. Gaz and I are just here to help with this overhaul. But a little fancy food won’t hurt anyone, I suspect. So I mumble a gruff thanks and get stuck in.

By the end of the day, the kitchen is a forlorn shell, a grubby, tired blank canvas, and we’re exhausted.

I have an early start tomorrow. Some of the volunteers will do a Costco run this evening and deliver the kids’ breakfasts here at six-forty-five in the morning.

That’ll give us an hour to assemble them and pack them up in paper bags before the first round of tired, scruffy little patrons hit us.

Sylvie will man the production line with me.

But before that, thank God, a cold beer and a hot shower and a soft bed await me at home. I’ll sleep like the dead tonight.

Carlotta seeks me out as I’m giving the kitchen floor one last brush.

The revolting lino tiles have gone, to be replaced with an easy-lay laminate that comes in rolls.

I’ve sent Frank and his guys off already, having promised them a few pints once the kitchen’s in on Wednesday.

Everyone’s too exhausted to socialise tonight.

Or maybe it’s just me. Those guys do this every day. My day job is definitely making me soft. It’s a good kind of exhaustion, though, that bone-tired feeling after an honest day’s work. So different from the eye-strain that gets you after a day of squinting at your monitors.

She stands in the middle of the empty space now, fiddling with her rings.

She has countless thin bands of gold on all her fingers.

Some are studded with tiny jewels. Others are plain.

Some don’t even go past her second knuckle.

They seem to float halfway up her beautiful, slender fingers.

I noticed them when she was cupping her mug outside earlier, in the same way I noticed how much they suited her.

Delicate.

Decorative.

Expensive.

And totally fucking impractical.

‘So,’ she begins, ’Sylvie was telling me the plan for tomorrow morning.’

I flick a glance at her as I sweep. Her white t-shirt has dirt smeared on it, her hair is a little dishevelled, and it’s oddly gratifying that this job has dirtied her up a little.

Marked that ridiculous, pristine look she’s going for.

Not sure how she’s kept those trainers so clean, though.

And her nipples are still forging ahead, trying to blaze a path through her inadequate layers.

What the fuck is up with that? Does the woman have no circulation?

While I wrestle with keeping my eyes on her face, I can’t fail to miss the way her gaze flickers over my body. I’m fucking filthy, but somehow it’s not repulsion I spot in those dark, feline eyes.

It’s interest.

‘Yep,’ I say, because that wasn’t a question.

‘I’d like to help, if that’s okay.’

I stop and give her my full attention, leaning my hands on the top of the sweeping brush.

My first instinct is a harsh no fucking way , but I tamp it down, because it’s going to be a massive stretch with just me and Sylv in the morning.

I’ve already told Judy we don’t require her help.

She’s seventy-five, for fuck’s sake. I don’t want her doing twelve-hour days here.

‘With breakfast?’ I say instead.

‘Yeah.’

I nod cautiously. ‘Okay. If you’re sure.’

‘I am.’ She twists her rings. ‘I’d like to help—I think it’d be good to see what you guys do here.’

‘You’re on,’ I tell her.

‘Great.’ She gives me a smile that’s objectively beautiful and seemingly genuine, and, for some reason, it pisses me off. ‘Well, have a good evening.’

‘Wait,’ I say as she makes to leave. I hold up two fingers. ‘Two things.’

She stops. ‘Sure.’

‘One. Lose the shoes.’

She looks down. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘What’s wrong with them is that they’re six grand trainers, which is fucking unethical in itself, if you ask me.

And the kids coming in tomorrow may be poor as fuck, but believe me, they all have the SNKRS app on their old, crapped-out phones and they pore over that stuff.

They know every Air Jordan collab under the sun, just like my twelve-year-old nephew does.

‘So if you’re going to stand there and tell me you think it’s okay to wear six grand trainers to hand out breakfast to kids whose parents are too broke or too high to buy them breakfast cereal, then I’m going to stand here and tell you to read. The. Fucking. Room. Got it?’

There’s anger pulsing through my bloodstream at the mere fact of having to explain this shit to her.

My ears are ringing, and it’s heady, and I don’t fucking know why.

Yeah, I have an entire fucking wardrobe of Air Jordans at home, mostly purchased under pressure from my sneakerhead nephew, Woody, but there’s no way I’d ever wear them here.

There’s also no way I’d ever spend more than two hundred quid on a pair, no matter how rare they are. Six grand on trainers is just wrong .

We stare at each other for a moment.

She blinks first.

‘You are one hundred percent right, and I apologise,’ she says with a grace and poise I’m not expecting. ‘I wasn’t thinking. Consider it done. What was the second thing?’

Well, that was easier than I expected. But I suspect she won’t let my second point land without a fight.

I clear my throat.

‘You need to wear a better bra tomorrow,’ I say, studiously training my eyes on her face.

Her jaw drops open. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me. You need to put those fucking nipples away. They’re distracting to the point of being a hazard.’

She glares as me. ‘You’re actually calling my nipples a hazard. Please tell me you’re not serious.’

I’m already deeply regretting bringing this up, but if it means I don’t have to spend the rest of this project expending every ounce of energy I have on avoiding the peanuts she’s smuggling, then it’ll be worth it.

‘Us looking at them could be a hazard,’ I say with less conviction.

She puts her hands on her hips, which doesn’t help at all, because the slender curves of this woman’s body are knockout. She’s a knockout, and she knows it . ‘How so? Pray, tell me why my nipples are a hazard.’

‘Don’t get fancy with me. They are fucking mesmerising, and I need to make sure I and all the guys here keep our focus on the job at hand and don’t do ourselves an injury because we can’t keep our eyes off your tits.’

Okay. That was definitely a step too far.

‘This is harassment,’ she says. ‘I suspect you don’t come from a corporate background, but you absolutely cannot say this to people in the workplace.’

She’s right. Obviously. I would never, ever dream of speaking to a colleague like this. Not only that, but Totum has a million HR policies in place to make sure a conversation like this could never happen. So what the fuck I’m doing right now, I do not know.

I throw up one hand. ‘This isn’t a workplace. It’s a fucking community project. If you don’t like it, walk. Or put on more fucking clothes. And preferably a padded bra. You’ll be more comfortable. You look like you’re freezing.’

‘I have poor circulation,’ she says through gritted teeth.

‘You need to work on your vascular system,’ I tell her. I know about this stuff. I’ve done a couple of Wim Hof weekends. ‘Ice baths are great. Or cold water swimming. You can start with cold showers.’

The look she’s giving me could fell a lesser man.

Or a fucking oak tree, probably. ‘It sounds like the only person who needs a cold shower around here is you,’ she grits out.

‘I suggest you take one. Maybe you can bang one out while you’re in there.

It might make you less fixated on the extremities of my circulatory system. Good night, Aide.’

I can’t help but smirk as I admire the spectacular view of her retreating arse.

If I’m ice, that woman is fire.