Page 21 of The Himbo and the Lord

How fucking pathetic is that?

And still, I pretend everything is fine with the guys. I smile and act like I’m having a great time.

They would for sure think I’d been abducted and was now a pod-person if I told them I’m hung up on a stuffylordI spent two nights with.

And who wants to deal with that kind of emotional talk?

Not me. And I know they don’t want to either.

So I keep the forced smile on my lips and I keep pretending that I’m having the time of my life.

It’s what needs to be done until thismoodgoes away.

CHAPTERELEVEN

Ru

“So how are you enjoying Sydney?”Clara asks me, passing a glass of wine.

“Well, I haven’t seen much of it outside of the office or my hotel room,” I reply, taking a sip of the crisp riesling, appreciating the taste. “But I like what I’ve experienced so far.”

Especially what I’ve done inside my hotel room andhis. I push down the memory of how perfectly Nate filled my arse. This event is no place to get a boner, and as I’ve tried to tell myself a thousand times over the last couple of days, it was a one time occurrence. I’ll never see him again, and he’s probably moved on by now.

If only I could do the same.

It’s Tuesday night and I appreciate the party Cieran and Clara have arranged for me, inviting the senior management and many of our wealthiest clients and portfolio holders, most of whom I’ve met this week in an endless cycle of meetings. Even though this is still work, I appreciate the distraction from spending another evening in my hotel room like last night.

I’ve never had trouble being alone before, but everything in my suite reminds me of him. I considered asking to swap to a different one, or even changing to an alternate hotel, but I don’t have the energy, and honestly, I don’t want to.

I might not like being reminded of him, but it’s all I have left and I’m clinging to it.

It’s pathetic, really. I need to pull myself together.

I’m impressed with how quickly after expressing my wish to meet Clara she’s put this together. Though for me, a small family dinner would have been just as lovely.

I spend far too much of my time as the “face” of Harringtons as it is, but from a young age, the art of socialisation has been ingrained in me. I can plaster on a smile, make small talk, and pretend I’m having a good time with Olympic-level skill.

“This is a magnificent party, though I hope you didn’t put it on just for my sake.” I know she’s an event organiser, and probably has the contacts to be able to arrange for this at short notice, so I don’t feeltoobad about it.

I’m sure Cieran is trying to reassure me that the business is in capable hands. That as well as managing the client’s wealth, he can also put on functions for them. I have no doubts on any of those points, but if he feels the need to prove it, I’m not going to argue.

“Of course not,” Clara says casually. “This is a usual Tuesday for us.” Her eyes dance as she takes a sip of her own wine. I like Clara a lot already.

“If this is a Tuesday, what do you do on Fridays?”

“On Fridays we dance round a bonfire and offer our firstborns as sacrifices,” she quips back quickly, and I turn to look at her, my brain taking a second longer to realise she’s joking. She bursts out laughing, no doubt at the expression on my face.

“Surely that would only work the one time.” I join in with her laughter.

“You got me there,” she says, mirth still evident on her face. “This Friday, my parents are visiting, which almost amounts to the same thing. I wouldn’t subject you to their company, but if you’d like to come to dinner on Thursday I promise it will be quieter.”

I reply that I’d like that very much, and thank her before beginning to mingle with the guests. I still have work to do. I know how this works. Never mind the stuffy board meetings, here in the social functions is where you really convince people your company is reputable enough to trust with their money.

My father calls me on Wednesday night. We spend some time catching up with the business, and I fill him in on who I’ve met with so far, who was at the party last night, and the meetings for the rest of the week. I listen to him. He might be a stuffy pain in the arse, but he has successfully created his business and I have a lot to learn from him, especially if I want to take it over when he retires, which I do.

“Don’t forget the Johnsons’ ball in two weeks,” my father says, and I inwardly groan. It’s a charity function. And I have nothing against raising money for charity, nothing at all, but the way it’s done—where the rich and famous pay to be seen at functions, and where there’s likely to be some kind of auction—seems vulgar to me.

We could all just quietly give money to a charity of our choosing whenever we want. Which in fact I do, very quietly, so even my father doesn’t know the causes I support. But for some, being seen to be charitable is more important than the actual act.

---