Page 18 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

“So you’ve said. Perhaps we should continue this conversation in the bedroom?”

“I’m game.” I jumped down from the table and winced as my arse remembered what it had gone through. And then winced again as I got a sudden whiff of myself. “Although I’m also kind of gross.”

“I don’t mind. Truthfully, I rather enjoy that”—George gave me a smirk that made me blush—“ridden hard, put up wetsmell. But you’re more than welcome to use the bathroom, if you’d rather?”

“I’d rather.”

George’s bathroom was charmingly normal—neither a marble palace better suited to a Roman emperor nor the concrete corridor I shared with Ellery. Wow, my sense of perspective was all over the place. I wasn’t sure if we were in a washing-sexily-together type space, but she just handed me a clean towel, told me to take my time, and left. Which I was actually sort of glad about. I mean, I wouldn’t have objected if she’d wanted to get soapy with me, but as the door clicked closed behind her, I realised the solitude was welcome. I had a lot to process.

Since we didn’t have one at the warehouse, I treated myself to a bath, although I had to lie in it really carefully because my bum wasn’t a huge fan of hot water right then. As I rested on my elbows amongst the bubbles, I found I was still a little floaty. Not in a bad way, exactly. But there was a lightness inside me that sometimes seemed perilously close to emptiness.

So. Caspian and Nathaniel. Should I have seen that coming? I really didn’t think I’d been expecting anything from him. Okay, maybe a little bit, at first. He’d come to get me back before, after all. But as the months had trudged past, I’d come to terms with the fact there weren’t going to be any car chases to the airport. No kissing in the rain. No boy dancing down the bleachers singing “Can’t Take My Eyes off You.” Except maybe some hidden part of me had still been clinging on.

It kind of got me thinking about Pandora’s box. Like, the version I vaguely remembered from when we did Greek myths in primary school is that Hope was the thing the gods put in there to protect us from all the other shit. But I was seriously starting to wonder if it hadn’t just been their final fuck-you to humanity. I mean, look at me, kidding myself I was being totally mature and moving on. While just a tiny sliver of that sly bastard hope had been dicking with my head this whole time. Which, I guess, meant I was free now? At least I assumed that was the faintly untethered feeling as I sploshed about. Or maybe it was just having come my brains out.

God, I owed George some serious orgasms for this afternoon. Probably jumping into bed—well, onto a table—with the nearest interested person two seconds after learning about Caspian’s engagement wasn’t the healthiest reaction. But fuck healthy. I was allowed to have nice things. Or fun not-nice things if I wanted them. I’d been braced for guilt, once the happy sex glow dissipated, but…well…maybe it had missed its bus or something. Because it was way late. And part of me, of course, felt guilty for not feeling guilty. But most of me was dead set against it.

We were over. I didn’t owe Caspian anything. And I liked George and she was into me, and Caspian was probably doing plenty of boring vanilla bonking with Nathan—

I was so not ready for that thought. It washorrible, like my brain was throwing up.

No no no no no no.

I stuck my head under the water, giving myself two options: Stop thinking about it or drown. It worked, because the images finally went away and I sat up, gasping, with a bitter taste somehow in my whole body.

This bath was rapidly losing its charm.

Scrambling out, I began drying off and then remembered I’d left all my clothes in the studio. Sigh. I wasn’t exactly opposed to scampering about in the buff or with a towel slung across my hips like Poldark inAnd Then There Were None—except without all the abs and a V-cut you could use to irrigate the Nile Valley. But I’d just been very,verynaked and so I wasn’t in the hugest rush for more exposure. At least, not straightaway.

Then I spotted the dressing gown hanging from a hook on the back of the door. It was big and fluffy, and I sure as hell deserved some big and fluffy. Also it had a hood, which, as far as I was concerned, was just the right amount of extra when it came to sleepwear. I pulled it on and, doing my best impression of a Jawa, went to find George.

She was in the kitchen, faffing with the kettle, and sporting a dressing gown of her own. Nobody should have been able to look hot in paisley, but she was pulling it off. I think it helped she was wearing it over black silk pyjama bottoms—the sexiest kind of pyjama bottoms—and a dark green bra edged in black lace.

“Well,” she said as I sidled in, “don’t you look adorable?”

I gave her a defiant look from beneath the shadow of my hood. “Yes. Yes I do.”

“Tea? Some other hospitality? Aloe vera?”

I’d been on the edge of self-conscious, but this made me laugh. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure? I could rub it lasciviously into you if you wanted.” She drifted over and gave my arse a yelp-inducing squeeze.

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to hurt me or comfort me.”

“Oh, poppet.Both.”

I went up on tiptoes and, proud of my own bravado, kissed her smirking mouth. “Thank you. Tea for now?”

“Of course.”

I sat down (carefully) at the kitchen table and George pulled open a cupboard to reveal not the dizzying array of artisanal loose-leaf blends I’d been expecting but a battered box of Yorkshire teabags and a jumble of mismatched mugs that made me abruptly homesick.

And then my stomach rumbled.

“Sorry.” I huddled further into the warmth of my dressing gown. “I forgot lunch, what with the emotional trauma and everything.”

“No apologies. I should have fed you. I don’t usually have overnight guests, so I’m out of practice.”

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