Page 8 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

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W hatever grudging tolerance that’s grown in me for Carlotta as she’s mucked in the past couple of mornings disappears as soon we get inside each day and she takes off that coat, because under its blessed shapelessness is lycra for days and no fucking bra.

I didn’t think the situation could get worse than it was on Monday.

I was wrong.

Today, for example, she’s serving us up spray-on leggings in dark grey. They’re so tight they could pass for body paint, and Jesus Christ, do they hug every perfect curve.

Her arse.

That arse .

It’s so smooth, so pert, I could get to my knees behind her right now and press my nose to the seam running between her cheeks and die a happy man.

The leggings hint at toned, athletic thighs and finish halfway down her calves, showing off trim, tanned ankles.

And the front view is even worse.

She has one of those ultra-lightweight, zip-up yogi jackets on. It’s practically a second skin. The zip is only closed to just below her tits, offering a peek of bronzed skin and, so help me God, a shot of cleavage above the hot-pink sliver of whatever top she’s got on underneath.

But that’s not the worst part.

Oh, no.

The worst part is that the thin layer of jacket and the thin layer of top and the fucking useless layer of what’s presumably a zero-coverage sports bra is totally bloody inadequate in the fight against her pneumatic nipples, and their outline is poking through her clothes clear as day, perky as you like, once a-fucking-gain.

I stand corrected.

Turns out, that’s not the worst part. When I take a break from the kitchen an hour later, I find Carlotta, Gaz, Judy and Sylv having a grand old time together, laughing away behind their face masks as they sand the glue remnants off the parts of the wall where the panelling was previously.

It seems Carlotta’s worked up a heat, because her flimsy jacket is nowhere to be seen. Instead, she looks like she’s on the brink of leading an aerobics class.

Her irritatingly jaunty ponytail hides nothing.

Her front and back view are now even more affronting.

Killer figure in a skimpy, strappy vest and yoga pants? Check.

Nipples that look likely to tear through the fabric of said vest any moment now? Fucking check .

Nightmare sports-yogi-whatever-bra peeking out with zero protection in the front and a zillion of the most alluring, impractical teeny straps criss-crossed over the tanned skin of her upper back in a way that would make anyone want to go full caveman?

Check.

Check.

Check.

I can’t do this. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but I can’t be in the same building as her when she looks like that. I can barely even think straight.

See straight.

Mum would say I’m going blind from too much wanking.

She may not be wrong.

My dick is chafed from wanking in the shower. In bed. Even my outdoor ice bath hasn’t helped alleviate my frustration.

I turn on my heel and stomp back to the kitchen for my phone.

‘I need to run out for an hour,’ I growl at the guys. We’re on the clock here, but needs must. Besides, we’re nearly done in here. The Venus team works hard .

Twenty minutes and one hired Boris bike later, I’m dumping the bike in front of Harrods and running inside.

‘Women’s underwear?’ I ask the doorman, trying to catch my breath. He looks me up and down in a way that’s more confused than snotty.

‘First floor, sir,’ he says.

‘Ta.’ I take off at a peg and climb the escalator two steps at a time.

Once I’ve navigated the warren of seemingly endless rooms of women’s clothing, I find myself in the bowels of the store, surrounded by lingerie.

A cursory glance tells me Carlotta would look fucking amazing in all of it, and none of it is what I need in my life, and I will be requiring some serious help.

I look around again and spot a sturdy-looking older woman wearing a tape measure around her neck and a name badge that reads Audrey . She’ll do nicely. I already have a feeling Audrey will take me in hand. Help me through my misery.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ she asks, graciously ignoring my dusty trousers. I’m sweating in my hoodie after that frantic bike ride, but I suspect grimy vests aren’t welcome in Harrods so I’ll keep it on till I get out of here.

‘I’m looking for a bra,’ I blurt out.

‘Ah.’

We stare at each other.

She presses her lips together then, when I’m not forthcoming with further detail, says, ‘And will that be for yourself, sir?’

‘Jesus, no!’ I practically shout.

She raises her eyebrows at me in a schoolmarmish manner.

‘No,’ I repeat, more quietly this time. ‘For a… friend.’

For a gorgeous prick-tease non -friend with fantastic tits and porn-star nipples who’s quickly becoming the bane of my—and my cock’s—existence.

‘Right you are. Any particular style you’re after?’

I swallow. This is excruciating. I’ve bought lingerie for women before, but that usually involves me giving their vitals to Tish and having her order from Matches or Net à Porter.

I should totally have called Tish for this.

I’m way out of my depth here.

‘I’m after something…’

Ugly.

Asexual.

Man-repelling.

Dick-shrivelling.

‘…full coverage. Something really plain, so you can’t see anything through clothes. Like no patterns, or outlines, or…’

I shoot her a long, pleading, and hopefully telepathic look.

‘Nipples?’ she suggests.

I give her a curt nod of relief. ‘Exactly.’

‘Ah. So a t-shirt bra, then? Something that won’t show any lines?’

‘That sounds great. Yes.’

‘Well,’ she says, ‘we have plenty of those. What colour?’

I think. ‘White?’

‘That’s fine. Just be aware that white can show up under thinner light-coloured fabric.’

The panic rises up in me again. ‘Oh, no. Don’t want that. What else is there?’

‘How about nude?’

Nude? No, that sounds terrible. A sudden vision of Carlotta in some fucking see-through, mesh, nude bra, everything on full display, has me light-headed.

I shake my head frantically. ‘No, you don’t understand. She—my friend—has nipples that need serious reining in. Like, remember that Sofia Vergara movie where she shoots bullets from her t—breasts? They’re like that. Nude won’t cut it. She needs serious buffering.’

She’s staring at me, and I realise belatedly that Machete Kills may not have been the under-rated gem for her that it was for me.

Thankfully, she takes pity on me and pats me on the arm.

‘Nude’s a colour, dear, not an opacity descriptor.

It sounds like you might be after a skin-coloured bra, is that right? That way you’ll get minimal outline.’

‘Yeah,’ I breathe. ‘That sounds perfect, thanks.’

‘Well, let’s take a look then, shall we?’ She bustles off and calls, ‘What size?’

What size?

What size?

Oh, Jesus. I attempt to mentally measure Carlotta’s tits with my fail-safe ‘handful’ methodology while not actually lifting my hands in the middle of Harrods and forming them into actual cup shapes.

‘Thirty-two D,’ I say. ‘No, wait. C. No, D.’ She’s definitely a D cup, especially with that slight frame of hers.

The salesperson wisely waits.

I nod with a confidence I do not feel. ‘Thirty-two D.’

Five minutes later, I’m emerging into the July sunshine, a staggering one-hundred-and-twenty pounds poorer and in possession of the ugliest bra I’ve ever seen. It’s the colour of granny tights and about a hundred times thicker.

If Carlotta’s nipples are bullets, this is a bulletproof vest.

Perfect.