Page 165 of The Rebel Billionaire

He pulls out a ready-made lasagne and places it on the side, then turns back to retrieve an enormous mixed salad.

He turns and grins.

“Greta’s lasagna, I can promise it’s delicious.”

“Perfect,” I say. I notice the Post-it stuck to the top.

40 minutes.

I move to the oven and switch it on. We wait while it heats up, then Alex places the lasagne inside.

“Wine?”

“Is that wise? We’ve only completed thirty-six out of two hundred in three hours.”

Alex groans. “Don’t remind me. I think I’ll need a glass so I don’t lose the will to live.”

“You could have had someone do it when you arrived in London,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I hate stepping into a situation unprepared and relying on strangers to get the job done, on time and to the required standard. I’d rather go knowing everything is perfect when I arrive. It’s why I take them with me rather than ship them.”

He takes in my smirk and returns it with one of his own.

“Meticulous, with a capital M,” I say.

“I can’t help the way I am.”

“We wouldn’t have you any other way,” I say, laughing as I take the glass he’s holding out. “To monotonous tasks that lead to sound minds,” I say as a toast.

He clinks his glass to mine.

“Thank you for giving up your evening. I could have left them as they were, but now we’ve started discussing the change. I’d rather…”

“It’s not a problem. I was only going to be staying in and washing my hair,” I say, taking a sip of the wine, watching him over the top of the glass.

We make our way back into the living room while we wait.

Alex asks me questions about my family. I stay as close to the truth as I can. I’ve kept my distance from most people, and those I have befriended have never really asked about my life in England, preferring to talk about the here and now.

The buzzer on the oven sounds, and we make our way back into the kitchen.

I refill our glasses while Alex serves.

“Here you go,” he says, placing a plate down on the table.

I help myself to salad, and we tuck in.

“How many do you think we’ll get through tonight?” he asks.

“We were getting faster. I got the time per booklet down from ten minutes to five. I think we can reduce it further… How many do you need?”

“Definitely a hundred. I carry spares as our clients often ask for extra copies, but if they aren’t updated before I leave, I can get someone in Enzo’s office to make the changes during the week.”

A long night awaits.

* * *

Three and a half hours later.