Page 39 of Worth Every Moment (Hawkston Billionaires #4)

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Dad sent a message mocking my attempts to hide my cash from him. I deleted it and let the anger filter through my blood. A succession of thoughts followed, the loudest of which was whether I should find myself a gun and kill the bastard myself.

Previously, I’d have numbed out with alcohol and a nameless blonde in a hotel room. Maybe two of them.

But not anymore. Now, I focus on Erica. The way she makes me feel, and the fact that every fucking second of being in her presence is worth any shit my father wants to put me through.

We’ve been living together for weeks, and I guess you could say it’s going well. I’m not getting laid, but she’s in my house. Just down the corridor. I feel like a kid who’s been granted their one wish, and while I’m delighted, I know I don’t have long to enjoy it.

She’s busy. I’m busy. We don’t see each other that often, but when we do, it’s like the apartment is having an electrical surge. I don’t know if she can feel it too, but her essence sparks at my skin. It’s a circuit running right through me the moment I walk in the door.

I don’t want to fuck it up, so I’ve been putting a little distance between us. After that moment on the day she moved in, where I swear she wanted to kiss me, I haven’t really touched her at all.

I don’t know if it’s making it better or worse. For me, it’s amplifying the longing. But I’m an expert at playing it cool. Being casual. Making it all into a joke.

It’s what I do best.

You ready to kiss me again, Lefroy? I’ve wanted to ask. Make light of it. But for some reason, I can’t make light of that . It’s a treasure of a question that I don’t want to ask, in case her response confirms it’s nothing more than fool’s gold.

I’m fucking torturing myself and I’m enjoying the torment.

Tonight, I’m late home from work, and the flat is quiet. I don’t know if Erica is here or not, but I settle myself at the island and start checking emails.

Another message comes in from Dad.

This time, the message is a link to Diana Marchetti’s social media account.

I’ve never looked her up, even after she told me she was an influencer.

No inclination, to be honest. But now, I click the link and start to scroll.

There are thousands of photos of her looking young, beautiful, and happy.

Most of them are book-related, and she’s wearing a selection of floaty dresses and heels, posing in tourist spots in London in each.

She’s cute. It’s cute. I don’t know why Dad sent it to me.

Maybe he thinks pictures of Diana rubbing up against a red letter box or an old school phone booth full of second-hand books will win me over.

“Who’s that?” Erica’s voice pops in my ear and I nearly drop the phone. How did I not hear her come in?

“Erm… I don’t—”

“She’s wearing my shoes.”

“What?”

Erica leans over, pointing at the shoes Diana is wearing in the photo. “Those silver heels. The Erica Lefroys . They’re limited edition.”

“I knew that,” I say, scrabbling for an explanation as to why I’m looking at photos of another woman.

Erica frowns. “You did?”

“Yeah.” Thankfully, the word rings true, because it is. Now that she’s mentioned it, I do recognise the shoes. “That’s why I’m looking at it.” And that’s the lie.

Her features soften. “That’s so sweet.” She ruffles my hair and moves off to grab food from the fridge. “I’m making a salad. You want some?”

Thank God we’ve moved off the topic of Diana Marchetti. If guilt doesn’t tear through my stomach lining by the time our arrangement is over, I’ll have to start going to church because it will be a fucking miracle, and I’ll be a believer.

Erica grabs a chopping board and a knife and starts taking cherry tomatoes from a paper bag.

“You don’t need to do that,” I say. “I can get the chef to prepare it, or we can get something delivered.”

“But then I can’t count them.”

I frown . “Count what?”

“The tomatoes. I’m allowed twelve half cherry tomatoes.”

What the fuck? “You’re allowed six full cherry tomatoes?” She nods, continuing to cut without meeting my eye. “Per day or per meal?”

“Per meal.” She gestures to the chopping board, where she’s made two piles of halved cherry tomatoes. “These are yours, and these are mine.”

I wait for her to laugh because she surely can’t be fucking serious.

I start filtering my memories for times I’ve eaten with her and come up short.

Never in a restaurant. But at drinks parties…

did she eat the canapes? Surely when we had snacks on the sofa, she ate them.

Wait… was it just me that ate them? Did she actually eat them?

I rifle through more memories, sure I’ve seen her lick her fingers.

My dick twitches. Definitely seen her lick her fingers.

“Who said you’re allowed that many?” I ask.

“My mother.”

“She makes the rules?”

“All the rules.”

Now, that’s some fucked up shit I didn’t know . “What else is on the list?”

She lays down the knife and places both hands flat on the counter, defiance glimmering in her gaze. “No chocolate. No dairy. No milk in my tea. No artificial sugar. No sugar at all really. No crisps. No snacks. No alcohol.” Her chest puffs up with a lengthy inhalation. “And no Seb Hawkston.”

“Ah. So I’m the seventh tomato?”

Her response comes late and quiet. “Something like that.” She picks up the knife again and continues to cut, this time counting out slices of cucumber.

“I’ve seen you put milk in your tea,” I say.

She pauses to push a strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist. “I’m rebelling.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She nods at me, but it’s a lengthy nod, all the way up and down, as if to say, ‘ You, over there. You’re my rebellion’.

I really fucking wish I was.

My heart bangs against my ribs. Sometimes, it feels like she’s giving me an opening, offering me something more, and I don’t know whether I’m imagining it or if it’s really there and she’s waiting for me to grab it with both hands.

I’ve done a good job of ignoring it, siphoning off those lingering looks and the sparks that I’m starting to suspect aren’t one-sided.

But when it comes down to it, I have no idea if Erica feels anywhere near what I feel.

Maybe this is just business for her. The PR.

The movie. The career. And so far, it’s working.

The articles in the press and on social media are shifting.

And the fans want her to play Vanessa in Taming the Beast . They’re clamoring for it.

She keeps chopping, and something inside me snaps. I need to push this. I need something from her that’s more than pleasantries. I shift off the bar stool, coming to stand next to her. I pick a cherry tomato from the paper bag, plucking it right off the vine.

She watches me do it, not moving as I do, the knife hovering over the board. I’m standing far too close. She knows it. I know it. Heat prickles all over me as she turns to me. “What?”

I lean my hip against the counter and raise the tomato so it’s at her eye-line, rolling it between my thumb and index finger. Dark eyes focus on the tomato, then me, and back again like she’s calculating something. “What?” she says again, although I know she knows exactly what .

I nod at her mouth. “The seventh tomato.”

“What about it?”

The prickling sensation in my body intensifies in my groin. My dick . “I want to see you eat it.”

She stares at the tomato for a little too long before she says, “You want to put that in my mouth?”

“Yes. And then I want you to swallow.”

Tension ignites, sending the whole place up in burning flames. Erica’s throat bobs as though she’s actually swallowing.

“Nuh-uh.” It comes out all breathy.

“Come on, Lefroy.” The command is a deep rasp. “This is what rebellion tastes like.”

Her breaths come in gentle pants that I can hear over my own breathing. “I’m not hungry,” she whispers, but everything else tells me she is; her body tilting towards me; her pupils blown wide; her pink lips slightly parted.

“Scared?” I ask.

“No.”

“Eat it, then.” I roll it between my fingers, and she follows the movement. “It’s just a tomato.”

She leans even closer. “Is it?”

Her voice wavers, and there’s a desperation in her eyes, as though she doesn’t know what I want, what I mean, or what she’s supposed to do.

It hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m being an arsehole, taunting her this way.

Maybe eating one last tomato is going to send her toppling over the edge, tumbling into the abyss of the unknown.

Maybe she really can’t eat it. Maybe her mother fucked her up that much.

I snatch it in a full fist and shove it in my own mouth, crunching down on it, letting it pop against my teeth.

I chew and swallow. “Yeah,” I say, so casual that the tension recedes to the shadows. “It’s just a tomato.”

Her body slumps against the island and I feel like the biggest wanker on the planet. I need to get away from her, clear my head before I make even more of a prick of myself. I push off the counter and head towards my room.

“I’m going to have a shower,” I call over my shoulder.

I’m about to turn into the hallway when she calls my name, and I spin to find her pointing the knife at me.

“I’ll eat it because I want to eat it,” she says.

“ When I want to eat it. Not because you want to shove it down my throat.” She lowers the knife and picks a tomato quite deliberately from the paper bag and sucks it into her mouth, chewing it slowly.

Her eyes glimmer with the taunt, the double entendre, acknowledging that we’re playing a game, but still skirting the edge of the board.

She swallows, then flashes me a smile so beautiful that it sets my own free.

I rub a hand over my jaw to conceal it, shaking my head at her.

“Fuck. I’m an arse,” I say, my hand sliding round to rub the back of my neck. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re not the first guy who’s asked me to suck his dick.”

I nearly choke on my next breath. “What?”

“You are the first to try it with a tomato metaphor though. A plus for effort. Gold star.” She bites her lip to hold back her grin. “The celibacy getting to you that bad, huh? It’s been a few weeks of fake dating and you’re ready to crack.”

I splutter a laugh. “I’m not—”

“You are.” She rests a hand on her hip. “I know you.” The intimacy of the phrase and the softness of her tone, utterly devoid of judgment, snakes its way around my heart and squeezes.

I’m a total prick . “Go wash that one-track mind down the drain. Dinner in fifteen minutes. I’m expecting my friend to join me, not the guy who wants me to suck his dick under the table. ”

I roll my eyes, pretending to dismiss her as though she’s talking shit, although she’s absolutely bang on.

I want her mouth on me. I’d love her lips around my dick, but to be honest, I’d take them anywhere she wanted to put them.

And it’s not the celibacy. It’s her . Seven years of her .

Seven years of wanting and pretending I don’t.

Pretending every woman I’ve ever fucked is her.

No wonder I don’t remember their names, because there’s only one name that’s ever fucking mattered to me.

Erica Lefroy.

Christ . I’m sick in the head. I must be.

I blow out a breath as I turn away from her, determined to be a better friend. To cool the fuck down, thankful she’s got so low an opinion of me, that she’s chalking this episode up to nothing more than me being me .

But even as I walk away, her words replay in my mind. Under the table.

What a fucking dream that would be.