The Billionaire from Her Past (15 page)

‘Not
stupid
,' April said. ‘Impressively optimistic.'

Mila's lips quirked upwards. ‘I'm not being optimistic this time. I know Seb isn't desperately in love with me.'

She'd meant it to sound light, like a joke. But it hadn't really come out that way. Instead it had sounded like a statement of fact.

Which she supposed it was.

Oh.

Why
did that hurt? As if this was a stunning realisation?

‘If he doesn't, then he's the stupid one, Mila,' April said. ‘And—'

Ivy interrupted. ‘Does he know how you feel about him?'

Mila shook her head. How could he? She didn't really know either. She just knew she wanted more than he was willing to give. ‘It doesn't matter.'

‘I think it does,' Ivy said, all authoritative.

‘No,' Mila said, equally definitely. ‘He's made it clear. He doesn't want a relationship with me. It doesn't matter what I say.'

She didn't really want to focus too much on what she felt. It would only make everything that much harder.

And what were the options, anyway? For how she felt? They weren't in high school any more. She couldn't
like
him, like him.

But could she love him?

No
.

‘It doesn't matter anyway,' Mila said firmly. To herself as much as to her sisters. ‘I'm going to end it soon. Before it gets even more complicated.'

‘Good idea,' said Ivy.

‘What a shame,' April said at the same time. ‘It would've been kind of nice to end up with your first love.'

‘You
knew
?' Mila said, genuinely stunned. April and Ivy, to the thirteen-year-old Mila, had seemed so much older. It hadn't been until her late teens that she'd started to share her romantic dramas with them both.

‘Of course—' began Ivy, but then she was distracted by a thud.

Nate had crawled over to the couch and tugged Ivy's bag to the ground. He happily sat with the strap in his mouth, the detritus from within the bag spread around him—lip balm, tissues, a nappy, Ivy's purse, crumpled receipts...

‘Oh, whoops,' Ivy said, getting to her feet. ‘I'd better give this to you before I forget. I found it shoved down the side of Nate's pram this morning.'

Ivy came back to the table, handing Mila a slightly chewed package delivery card that Nate had presumably pilfered.

‘I'm sorry,' Ivy said. ‘It's a few weeks old. Hopefully whatever it is will still be at the post office.'

It was most likely supplies, so Mila wasn't too worried. Instead she focused on the still mostly uneaten doughnuts—and changed the subject. ‘So, April,' she said, ‘I saw you were making all your followers insanely jealous about a new watch today. New sponsor?'

* * *

Mila's phone rang as she was setting up a new window display. The shop was closed, although the sun hadn't quite set—the days were long now, as Christmas approached.

She fished her phone out of the front pocket of her apron, expecting it to be a customer who'd planned to call her back about a commission.

Instead, the number on the screen was international, and Mila's heart sank. She knew it was her father. She recognised the number she'd allowed to go to voicemail only a few weeks earlier. She hadn't listened to his message—only enough to verify that it was Blaine before promptly deleting it.

It had been easy to ignore Blaine then, amongst the drama of that first night with Seb. And it should be equally easy now—but then, he'd never called her this regularly before. And it had been unusual for him to attempt to contact her sisters...

She answered the call. She needed to let him know not to contact her again.

‘La-la!'

Of course this was the one time her father had called her without the unnecessary help of his assistant. Regardless, she had no qualms about telling him to go away.

‘I don't want to talk to you, Blaine.'

‘Blaine?'

‘Yes,' Mila said. ‘I don't want to talk to you, and I don't want you to contact me again.'

Her voice sounded strong, but the words were still so hard to say. She had to force them out, focusing on each word, one after the other.

‘But, Mila, I have some wonderful news!'

That didn't matter. She should hang up.

‘What, Dad?' she said on a sigh, not quite able to be the ice queen he deserved.

She immediately realised her mistake.
Blaine
—not Dad.
Blaine.
She gritted her teeth, furious.

She was so busy being annoyed with herself, Blaine's words didn't sink in at first.

‘Pardon me?' she said, certain she'd heard him wrong.
‘Wife?'

‘Didn't you get my message, La-la?' Blaine said, with a self-satisfied chuckle. ‘I got married! To the most amazing woman!'

So it would seem that since she'd last seen him he'd married a woman Mila had never heard of, let alone met. Mila rubbed her temple, just wanting this call to be over.

‘But that isn't why I called, of course—because the news is now even better! I wanted
you
to be the first to know, La-la—after my lovely wife and myself. Ha-ha!'

‘First to know what?' Mila asked slowly, as horrid realisation began to dawn.

‘Can't you guess? I'm going to be a daddy again, La-la! Isn't that amazing? A new brother or sister for you and the girls!'

Oh, God.

‘I'm just so excited. I can't—'

But Mila had hung up on him, unable to stomach another word. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to process the news somehow, to deal with it in a calm and rational manner. Because, really, why did she care what her deadbeat dad was doing on the other side of the world? Why should she care if he was having another child for whom he'd just shown more interest, excitement and affection than Mila had received in
twenty-five years
...?

She turned, needing a glass of water or something. But as she turned her hand clipped one of the tall, elegant vases she'd just put in the shop window. It tipped over, instantly creating a beautiful multi-coloured set of dominoes as each vase smashed its neighbour.

She could probably have saved most of them if she'd reached out and caught one of those subsequent vases. But she hadn't. Instead she'd just stood there, allowing weeks of her work to be destroyed, until she'd found herself sitting cross-legged on the floor, with the remnants of her vases surrounding her and tears streaming down her cheeks.

* * *

The shop was empty, new ceilings and fresh plaster now hiding the electrical and plumbing work of the past few weeks.

Seb stood upstairs, standing in the long rectangle of fading light thrown through the street side window. The floors were still raw wood, waiting to be polished. A new kitchen waited to be assembled in the corner, in a collection of beige cardboard boxes.

Seb really liked this part of the building process—when the wooden skeleton was dressed in plasterboard and the interior began to take shape. Although he wasn't really walking around his shop to admire the workmanship of his builders.

He was stalling.

Mila was expecting him in a few minutes. He hadn't seen her since his swim—and his decision—because she'd cancelled their plans for yesterday after being invited out for dinner with her sisters.

He hadn't minded. He didn't mind delaying the inevitable—and he certainly didn't mind delaying hurting Mila.

He still knew it was the right decision. Twenty four hours of over-thinking it hadn't changed a thing.

But still he stalled.

He ran his fingers along the wall. The surface was smooth, but—

A loud crash stopped Seb in his tracks.

The series of crashes that followed had him racing down the stairs, his boots a loud staccato on the bare boards.

Outside, it was now almost dark, but Seb could still make out Mila inside her shop, her pale apron a contrast to the dark wooden floor. He knocked on the shop window and her head jerked upwards, her eyes wide.

‘Are you okay?' he asked.

She nodded her head, but Seb was less than convinced.

Behind him, the street light came on, and for a moment—just before Mila glanced away—it revealed a river of tears on her cheeks.

Immediately Seb went to the door—of course it was locked.

‘Mila, please let me in.'

She didn't look at him through the glass as she unlocked the door, or as she opened it, or even as he stepped through the doorway. Nor as she turned her back to close the door, and to lock it in a series of clunks and clicks.

But she did when she turned around.

She looked right at him—and then threw herself into his arms.

Mila pressed herself tight against him, wrapping her hands behind his neck and burying her face in his chest. He hugged her tightly—as close as he could.

‘Mila, please tell me what's wrong.'

‘Would you believe,' she said against the fabric of his T-shirt, ‘that this is all because I broke a few vases?'

‘No,' Seb said.

‘Didn't think so,' she said, her words muffled.

‘Do you want to talk about it?'

She lifted her head to meet his gaze. Her tears had smudged her make-up, so she had dark patches beneath each eye.

‘No.' A beat. ‘Yes.' She half smiled, then sighed. ‘My dad,' she said. ‘He called. Let me down—spectacularly this time.'

She'd loosened her hold on Seb, but hadn't made any move to step away.

‘What did he do?' Seb asked, his words hard-edged.

‘Well!' she said, expansively. ‘It's quite a story. But the condensed version is this: my dad called me tonight to tell me he's married a woman I've never heard of and they're having a baby. Isn't that
great
?'

Seb swore harshly.

He hadn't thought it was possible to hate Mila's father more than he already did—but, yes, it clearly was.

‘I am
so
sorry, Mila.'

She nodded again—a short, sharp movement. ‘Me too,' she said.

She looked at him for a while, exploring his face, as if she was going to say more. Her tears had stopped, but her cheeks were shiny with their remnants.

Eventually, she just smiled. ‘I'm starving—should we order dinner?'

He hadn't planned to stay. He'd planned a different conversation entirely. But he couldn't have that conversation now—not after Blaine's phone call.

‘Sure,' he said, and followed her up the stairs.

And—while he would do anything to prevent Mila's dad hurting her ever again—he couldn't pretend he was anything but grateful to have more time with Mila.

* * *

Mila had fallen asleep on the couch. Her head rested just beside his shoulder, pillowed against the cushions.

He'd barely watched the movie; his concentration had been focused on Mila. Her tears had dried, and she'd laughed when she'd seen the mess of her make-up in her bathroom mirror. Her face was now scrubbed clean, and Seb could just see the tiniest of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He'd seen them before—he now knew every inch of Mila Molyneux's body—but tonight they seemed particularly beautiful. Particularly poignant. Mila always washed her face before bed. So those freckles spoke of early-morning kisses, of sleepy cuddles and of making love before work.

All things he would never get to experience with her again.

Mila blinked and her eyes fluttered open. She shifted, resting her weight on her hands and leaning, just slightly, towards him. She was exploring his face—her gaze like a touch against the length of his nose, his cheekbones, his jaw, his lips.

‘Kiss me,' she said, so softly.

A better man would've refused. It wasn't right, given his decision. But in the end the words he needed to say escaped him.

Her name fell from his lips just before they touched hers, his voice rough and jagged. He didn't kiss her politely. No—he kissed her as if all the reasons he shouldn't no longer existed. As if all that mattered was the part of him that
needed
Mila—needed her mouth and her hands and her freckles. That needed her smile and her wit and her drive.

Her mouth was equally desperate against his, as were her hands—tangled in his hair, shoved beneath his shirt. Hot and needy and frantic.

Now she was on top of him, sitting up to drag her T-shirt off over her head. She was so beautiful. So perfect.

Her skin was heaven beneath his hands and mouth, his skin hot beneath her touch. They both still wore too many clothes, but the narrow couch was making it almost impossible for Seb to move without tipping them both onto the floor.

So instead, in one movement, he stood, scooping Mila up into his arms. She laughed against his neck, then kissed his jaw as he strode towards her room.

‘I told you I'd always carry you to bed,' he said.

And with that everything stopped.

Mila went completely still—for a split second. And then she was struggling, pushing against his chest.

‘No,'
she said.

Immediately he let her go, standing her gently on the floor.

She practically ran from him, searching the small room for her shirt. She kept her back to him as she pulled it over her head—and the contrast of that gesture with its counterpart only minutes ago was as pointed as a blade to Seb's chest.

He had no idea what he'd done wrong. ‘What's going on, Mila?'

She shook her head. ‘I can't do this any more. You need to go.'

She was right. But... ‘I can't.'

‘Really?' she said, crossing her arms.

He'd never seen Mila like this before—with such nothingness in her gaze.

‘What does that mean? Because I don't have time for empty promises, or for romantic gestures without substance.' She glared at him. ‘
“I told you I'd always carry you to bed,”
' she mocked. ‘Right.'