Page 13 of Worth Every Moment (Hawkston Billionaires #4)

SEB

I ’m on my way to the opening of a new exhibition at the Tate Modern. Some fancy new artist. Nico owns a few of his pieces and we’re sponsoring the show, but I couldn’t give a fuck about it. There’s only one thing on my mind tonight, and it’s Erica Lefroy.

I haven’t heard from her for six weeks. Radio fucking silence since the night she kicked me out.

Not that I’ve tried to contact her—my stupid pride wouldn’t let me—but it still feels like I’m being ignored because the absence of contact is a noticeable void in my life.

I hadn’t realised just how often I reach for my phone to share something with her.

A joke. A stupid GIF. Something that someone said.

Something that happened to me. A random Good Night, Sleep Tight , or, if I’m feeling like I want to piss her off just a little, an unacceptably early Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey when I leave for the gym.

I’ve been emotionally dependent on Erica for longer than I want to admit.

Maybe a break is a good thing. Maybe this whole ‘being friends with a woman I find indescribably attractive’ is bullshit anyway, and I’m kidding myself that we could ever maintain a friendship long-term.

But it’s been five years, and we’ve somehow got this far. But I’m tired. Tired of pretending that I wouldn't prefer Erica to anyone else, and yet knowing I have no fucking chance. Tired of pretending that all I want is friendship.

Tired. Yeah. That’s what I am. Tired of seeing my brothers and my friends getting together with women who adore them. Finding something serious. Finding love.

I want something that isn’t completely meaningless. Something more than a vacuous physical connection with someone I hardly know.

But with Erica? I’m not foolish enough to think she’d really give me the time of day. If she can give me the silent treatment for six weeks, maybe this whole friendship doesn’t mean as much to her as it does to me.

But then again, she could be thinking the same thing about me, having no idea that I’ve been tormented by the silence.

Has it tormented her too? I have no way of knowing.

A dark part of me hopes it has. Hopes she’s fucking ached for me every day, but a more rational part knows she’s probably been too busy to spare me a second thought.

Tonight, there’s a chance I’ll see her and our stalemate might break. She’ll be at the event, and I’m as nervous as a teenager on a first date. Palms sweating, stomach rioting.

I have no fucking clue how to tell Erica that she’s the one I want, so here I am, on my way to the event with Harriet, my date for the night, who’s staring at me like I hung the goddamn moon.

As we get out of the car on the St Paul’s side (I wanted to walk over the bridge to clear my head), a hint of spring warmth lingers in the air.

It’s unusual to have warm evenings in London in April, but this year we’ve been blessed with an early heatwave that makes it feel like we’re in the Mediterranean.

It’s one of those blissful London nights where the air is full of the chatter of people out late, corporate suits spilling onto the pavement from the nearby bars.

It makes me happy in a way Harriet’s presence ought to, but doesn’t.

“I was so glad you called,” she says. “I’d been waiting to hear from you, you know, since we—”

Fucked . “Yeah. Sorry. Work was hectic.” God, I feel like a prick.

I’m not into this woman. I’m using her to soothe my bruised ego.

I should tell her I’m not looking for a relationship or even a hookup, but I don’t want to ruin the evening.

Yet here I am, staying quiet and thinking about someone else. I hate that I’m doing this to her.

I should definitely tell her I’m not interested.

“I thought you’d forgotten about me,” she adds, staring at me with those big, pitiful eyes, like I made her fucking year because I asked her out tonight.

Well, fuck. Could she have said anything worse?

I’m an arsehole . The worst type of man. But I’m fairly committed to the persona, and the flirtatious compliments are reflexive by this point in my life, so I flash a smile and watch her visibly melt. “Nope. Absolutely not. You’re unforgettable.” Harriet… whatever your name is.

“That’s such a lovely thing to say,” she responds as I offer her my arm and she takes it as we stride over the bridge.

I say nothing as we walk the rest of the way, the Thames churning, dull and dreary beneath us.

But I fucking love it. London. The river.

The Millennium Bridge. There’s a power to this city that I can feel through the soles of my shoes, making my skin tingle.

I ache with wishing it was Erica by my side.

She’s the one I want to share this moment with.

Fuck it; she’s the one I want to share every moment with.

The gallery looms into view, a great brick and glass building overlooking the river.

My family has been sponsoring exhibitions here for years, and it’s expected that I attend.

My brothers, Nico and Matt, will be here too, and perhaps even my father.

I know he’s in London at the moment, but I haven’t been to see him.

In fact, I haven’t seen him since Christmas, and that’s a fact I have no desire to change anytime soon.

Once we’re signed in, we enter the party. We’re a bit late, and the place is heaving with women in elegant evening wear and men in suits, a buzz filling the huge atrium. A waitress offers us both a glass of champagne, which we take.

“Shall we look around?” Harriet asks.

“Sure.” I follow her through the crowd, searching for my brothers. Or Kate. Or Aries, Matt’s fiancée. They should be here somewhere.

Harriet pauses before a huge nude of a woman sprawled on a bed, and I stand beside her sipping my drink.

“Do you buy art?” she asks.

“Sometimes.”

She tilts her head at the enormous nude. “Would you buy this?”

I snort. “No. I see enough naked women in my life without needing paintings of them too.”

Harriet frowns. “Oh.”

Fuck, that was a dumbass thing to say . I’m completely at odds tonight.

This is the first date I’ve been on since Erica threw me out.

The same day I had my hands on her ankle.

My dreams have been haunted by it. I wake in the morning trying to recover from the feel of Erica’s skin under my hands, the feel of her body in my arms. She never kisses me in the dreams. I always try, but she never concedes.

My subconscious is primed for rejection.

“Ladies and Gentlemen.” A voice booms through the loudspeaker, and I turn to see the head of the gallery at a podium at the far end.

“Welcome to our sponsors’ drinks evening.

We are so thankful to all of you, whose contribution to the running of this gallery cannot be overstated.

We, and our artists, are indebted to you all.

We wouldn’t be here without you.” Applause ripples through the building, and when it settles, he adds.

“I’m here all evening, should you wish to revise your level of support. ”

The man smiles broadly and laughter filters through the foyer as he steps down.

A ruckus by the door draws my attention, and every part of me surges with electricity before I even turn to look. It’s her. I know it. I concentrate on the champagne glass in my hand, the taste of the bubbles on my tongue, and Harriet at my side.

I can’t stop myself from glancing over; the way Erica draws my attention is like an addiction.

I need a fix. She’s walking in on the arm of that damn designer.

Dominic DeLacey. He’s all puffed up, chest swelling as he greets people either side of him, acknowledging everyone who’s making way for them to come inside.

The arsehole probably thinks they’re looking at him, but they aren’t. They’re looking at Erica.

Because, fuck me , if she isn’t the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.

An emerald green silk dress cascades down her body to the floor, and her long dark hair curls over one shoulder.

The dress leaves little to the imagination.

It clings in all the right places… places I’d very much like to put my hands.

“She’s so beautiful,” Harriet murmurs, eyeing Erica with almost as much appreciation as I am.

And that pisses me off because I don’t want to be in the same situation as Harriet.

I don’t want to be swooning over Erica from afar, with no chance of getting close.

I want to stake a claim on her. I’m not some random guy in a tux.

I’m something to her, aren’t I? I count, don’t I?

The emotions dancing through me are confusing and unpleasant. I’m not enjoying this version of myself at all. I’m not used to wanting things I can’t have. Other people might have to look on from afar, but not fucking me.

And yet here I am, an onlooker on Erica’s glamorous life. An outsider. When really all I want to be is inside.

Balls deep inside.

I tip back the rest of my champagne and slam the glass down on a passing waitress’s tray. Her eyes widen and she pauses to steady the glasses.

“Sorry,” I murmur. I grab Harriet’s hand and haul her away. “Let’s find the canapes.”

If I can’t have Erica, maybe not being able to see her is the next best thing.

The next couple of hours pass with Harriet commenting on art, and me pretending to pay attention to her.

I’ve introduced her to Nico and Kate, and Matt and Aries.

For a while, they were all waiting for me to tie the knot with someone so I could join the happy-couple club, but that’s not going to happen.

They’ve stopped asking ‘Is this the one?’ when I introduce them to anyone because it never lasts longer than milk left out of the fridge.

Harriet is definitely not the one . But that never felt like it mattered before because the only one I wanted was off-limits, and it was easier to date other people than face the fact that Erica was never going to be mine.