Truth was, it had been donkey years—over a decade, actually—since I’d encountered someone who had no clue who I was.
Didn’t travel that much outside of England unless it had something to do with footy matches. Every now and then, some brand would overlook my bad reputation and jet me off somewhere for an ad shoot as part of some endorsement deal. And here and there, I’d pop over to other countries to check in personally on some of my venture capital firm’s earliest investments. You know, like the robotics start-up GoNoTo in the States and that Scottish fintech firm AlgoFortune.
A fair few Atwater Ventures investments had paid off handsomely during the fourteen years I’d been “betting on the future” of tech. But those two were the ones that made the letter “M” turn into a “B” behind the number of my self-worth in pounds.
“Welcome to the Ruthless Magnates Club!” Max Benton, my best—really my only—friend had welcomed me to the billionaire life after I landed the cover ofThe New Entrepreneur.Then he’d convinced me to meet him at his club in Mallorca to celebrate my success off the pitch.
Even in his posh nightclub packed with A-list celebs, not a single bird I spoke to needed an introduction. Hell, most of them made the move on me.
I’d figured Eunice Baker was a one-off of my younger days. Since becoming a proper adult, I hadn’t been the kind of guy that had to hunt. Or even flirt.
Or so I thought.
This lass in 1A was proving me well wrong.
I might just be the only single straight bloke in history to wish I wasn’t sitting next to a cute, interesting girl on a bloody plane.
Her gaze was gentle as heather. But it hit me like a lorry when she finally stopped sobbing and looked up from the hand towel I gave her. And I found myself more than liking the way she looked.
She had creamy brown skin, just a few shades lighter than her pretty dark-brown eyes, and a hairstyle I couldn’t give a proper describe. Not braids, like the older woman at the FC Greenwich office’s front desk. Not quite dreads, like some of my teammates. She wore her hair in soft, shoulder-length twists, instead of the long extensions I’d become used to from women of all colors in my circle.
My hands itched with the urge to reach up and touch them. Touch her…
Gazing down at her that first time, I wondered how she would react if I grabbed those soft twists and gave them a right hard tug. While whispering in her ear about all the dirty things I had in store for that sweet body of hers.
I couldn’t help but wonder, couldn’t stop meself from gawping at her like a proper nutter.
Truth is, I quite enjoyed staring at her.
I liked the way her own eyes widened when she got a proper look at me and how her chin dipped with concern when I mentioned I wasn’t keen on planes. And don’t even get me started on the shite my chest did when she shyly told me I was good at fixing things.
She struck me as even lovelier now that I’d gotten to know her a bit. She was easy to watch, like a telly. This lass wasn’t like the hard silk birds who usually came my way, hoping for a shag as rough as I look. Every emotion she felt during our chat flashed across her face, bright as a neon sign.
So, when she shot me down, I could tell exactly what she was thinking about my proposal to continue our conversation horizontally in my hotel room.
Right, then. I took that as my cue to stop talking and go back to doing what I planned before her tears got to me. For a long, uncomfortable time, I sat there in silence, pretending like the woman in seat 1A didn’t exist.
But, to my surprise, she picked back up the conversation thread like we hadn’t both already said all there was to say.
“I mean, we only just met. Less than an hour ago, when I was crying like a fool.”
In an instant, I was back to staring at her. Gotta admit, I also liked her voice. It was warm as honey, and it became hushed and uncertain whenever she got a bit nervous. When’s the last time I got to talk with a quiet lass? Usually, they’d be as loud as possible, doing everything, including giving me a flash of their bits, just to grab my attention.
But Kayla wasn’t like that. She didn’t cover up her feelings. Didn’t get all grabby grabby with my attention. Didn’t try to make me believe she was someone other than exactly who she was. She was…
Honest.
The word rushed through my mind like a gust of spring wind.
Stop starin’ at her, the voice of reason chided inside my head.
I averted my eyes, only to have them snap right back to her. Yeah, she was an open book—a book with a cute cover that I couldn’t stop reading for some reason.
“You never done this, then? Never spent the night with someone you just met?”
I already knew the answer to that question. But I needed conversation cover to excuse how I was staring her down like a right creeper.
She fretted her bottom lip. “When I was in middle school, I had a spontaneous sleepover with a new girl who had just moved to our neighborhood. We watchedMean Girls.I really liked it, but I fell asleep halfway through.”
