The Billionaire from Her Past (16 page)

‘I meant that,' he said.

And he had.

None of this was anywhere close to what he'd planned. But he couldn't lie to Mila.

Maybe he could no longer lie to himself.

Mila laughed. ‘Save your smooth moves for a woman you actually want to have a relationship with, Seb.'

‘But I
do
want to have a relationship with you,' he said, the realisation hitting him as forcefully as a semi-trailer. ‘Very much.'

This silenced her. For a moment he thought that maybe it would be okay. That he'd seen a flicker in the flatness of her expression.

‘No,'
she said. ‘Not today, Seb. You are
not
going to pretend that you want me—not today.'

‘I'm not pretending anything.'

He was standing near the hallway and he stepped towards her, hating being so far away. But she held up her hand, stopping him in his tracks.

‘It doesn't matter, anyway,' Mila said. ‘I've changed my mind. I don't want to be “not just friends”, or your girlfriend, or your
anything
any more.'

‘I don't believe you,' he said.

She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Don't be so arrogant.'

But he wasn't going to let her do this. Not now.

‘I think I've worked it out,' Seb said. ‘What happened down in the workshop the other day...why I hated it that you wanted to hide us from Ivy.'

Mila was doing her best to look bored. ‘I don't care,' she said.

‘When it was you hiding us from Ivy it was all about what
I
wanted—I wanted those close to us to know about us, so I was hurt. But then—when you made it clear that you wanted more than what we had, that you were invested in us...' Mila was determinedly not looking at him, but he couldn't stop. ‘Well, then it wasn't just me who could get hurt. And that was the problem—suddenly I held the potential to hurt you in my hands, and I couldn't deal with it.'

His
pain didn't matter—he was used to oceans of it—but Mila's? He'd do anything to protect her.

‘So you didn't want a relationship with me for my own good?' she said, raising an eyebrow.

‘It seemed more noble in my head,' he said.

‘And not as condescending?'

‘Yes, that too,' he agreed, attempting a small smile.

Mila just narrowed her eyes. But she did move—striding towards him. She stopped just out of reach, her body radiating emotion.

‘So you've decided that you
can
deal with the concept of us going out? Of us telling the world we're together?'

He nodded.

She nodded too, with the slightest of smiles. ‘Fine,' she said. ‘That's all fine. And I probably would've been happy with that any other day than today. But today that's not enough for me.'

After what had happened with her dad.

‘Mila—'

She wasn't listening.

‘I shouldn't let him hurt me so much,' she said. ‘But I keep on doing it. I've been allowing it for years. Decades. I just keep leaving myself wide open.'

‘Mila, it's not your fault—'

‘It's taken me too long, but I've finally learned something from all Dad's years of crappy behaviour: I deserve better than that. I deserve to be prioritised and appreciated and
loved
. And I'm not going to accept anything else. From
anyone
.'

Finally Seb began to work out where Mila was headed with this. He met her determined gaze, painfully aware of the beat of his heart in his chest.

‘Tell me if I'm going out on a limb, here, but my guess is that even though you say you want to be my boyfriend, you haven't thought all that far ahead. You're just thinking about the fun stuff: about messing about on the couch, nice dinners, barbecues with friends where you introduce me as your girlfriend. Right?'

Seb didn't move, but Mila knew.

‘What about the other stuff? What about in three months' time? In twelve? Are we going to move in together?'

‘Mila, I just thought we'd see how things go first—'

‘And if we move in together, then what? Are we going to get engaged? Married? Get a dog? Have a kid?'

He shook his head. ‘I don't know. You don't know either. We can't know—not yet.'

Seb felt as if he teetered on the edge of a watery abyss, helpless to step anywhere but over the edge.

‘Of course not,' Mila said, almost kindly. ‘But we
can
know if any of those things are on the agenda. Or even the vaguest possibility.' She paused. ‘So—just to be perfectly clear—
are
they on your agenda? With me?'

‘This isn't fair, Mila. I lost Steph less than two years ago. The last thing I'm thinking about is getting married again.'

He didn't understand why Mila was doing this.

‘I get that—I do,' she said. ‘Of course I do. And I'm not expecting a proposal any time soon. But how about the other bits? The house, the dog—you know. The stuff people do when things get serious. When they're committed to each other.'

He hadn't thought about this—about
any
of this. Fifteen minutes ago he'd been working out how he was going to walk away from Mila for ever.

‘I don't know what you want me to say.' It was all he could manage, and he knew exactly how pathetic those words were.

‘I just need a yes or a no, Seb. It's not difficult.'

But it was. For him and for her. He could see it in her face—could see that slight wobble to her gaze.

There was nowhere else to go—the abyss beckoned. Mila deserved the truth.

‘No,' he said. ‘No. None of that is on my agenda.'

He just couldn't do it. Ever again. To Mila or to himself.

‘With me,' Mila clarified.

‘With anyone.'

She shook her head. ‘No. With
me
. I'm the only one asking you.'

She wasn't meeting his gaze now. Instead she studied the wall over his shoulder, and the light fittings. The floor.

‘You don't understand, Mila, it's not about you—'

‘Oh,
God
, Seb—do you hear yourself? Of
course
it's about me. It's
always
about me.'

Her voice cracked, and that just about killed him. But she didn't want to hear anything he said. And he didn't think he could even explain. How could she possibly know the emptiness he was trying to shield her from? Why couldn't she see how great what they already had was? Why ruin it with complications? With plans for the future?

‘Why are you doing this, Mila? We've been together for no time at all. How can you possibly know that all those things are what
you
want? After just a few weeks?'

Now she finally came closer. She stood right in front of him, tilting her chin upwards to meet his gaze, her lovely eyes framed with her long naked eyelashes.

‘It's not been weeks, Seb. It's been years.'

‘Years?'

‘Since before you kissed me behind the surf club.'

She closed her eyes and he watched her take a long, deep, breath.

‘I've loved you since I was thirteen.' She laughed. ‘Just to clarify—then it was hormonal, teenage infatuation. Then later it was platonic—with some effort. But now...'

‘Love?' he repeated, shocked to his core.

‘Yes,' Mila said. ‘Love. It's taken me a while to work it out, but I knew the moment I looked out through my shop window tonight to see you standing outside...I
knew
. I wanted you with me in that moment more than anyone else in the world. I want you with me in most of my moments, actually. And I guess that's love, isn't it?'

Seb had absolutely nothing to say. His brain was desperately attempting to compute what she'd just told him.

‘And if I love you then I'm not going to go through the charade of having fun and saying meaningless things about
not being good at relationships
. All that armour is ineffective, anyway—no matter how hard I try. I'm not going to be with you if the only possible outcome is you hurting me. I've had enough of that. I've had enough of allowing that. My dad, Ben. You. I'm done.'

Seb supposed this was the point when he could deny everything that Mila had said. When he could reach across the small distance between them and drag her into his arms—when he could tell her that she was being ridiculous and that he loved her too, that he'd never, ever hurt her...

But none of that would be true.

He loved Mila. He'd loved her for ever. But had it changed from the love of childhood friends? Was he
in
love with her?

It didn't matter, anyway, did it?

Because he knew the second part wasn't true. He knew he couldn't tell her he wouldn't hurt her. He couldn't even tell her that he'd do his best to try not to... Because even that would be a lie.

He
would
hurt her. It was inevitable.

Once he'd loved Steph with all his heart, but he'd still driven her away. To drugs. To her death.

When it came to relationships he was unfixable. And Mila deserved so much more.

‘I'm so sorry, Mila,' he said.

Then he left—because he had to.

And deep in his abyss Seb was drowning.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

S
TEPH
'
S
BIRTHDAY
WAS
only a couple of weeks before Christmas.

Mila's pottery classes had finished up a week earlier, but the shop was still incredibly busy, with Sheri and Mila often both needed to manage the constant stream of customers.

With so much demand, and no time to escape to her workshop during the day, Mila had started working late into the night. She'd managed to replace her window display of vases, but she still needed more to maintain a reasonable amount of stock. It was a really good problem to have—although that didn't make Mila any less exhausted.

If she was honest, though, Mila wasn't sure how much sleeping she would've been doing, anyway. Because—unless she was so tired she collapsed into her bed and into oblivion—it was in the darkness that her thoughts would drift to Sebastian.

It made her angry that they did that. It had been a week now, and she was still wasting her precious time on Seb. Which was pointless.

She'd done the right thing—she knew that. She'd already known she'd needed to walk away, but now she knew exactly why.

It wasn't about avoiding hurt, or rejection.

It was about love.

She deserved love. Nothing less was acceptable.

‘Mila?'

Mila had been staring out of the window, her gaze unfocused on the passing traffic.

Sheri grinned. ‘You look off with the fairies.'

Mila shook her head, trying to refocus. She'd been leaning against the counter, and now took a step back, running her hands through her curls. ‘No, I'm fine.'

‘Take the rest of the afternoon off,' Sheri said. ‘
I'll
be fine.'

The shop was currently empty, but Mila knew it wouldn't last. ‘No, I can't do that. It's not fair on you.'

‘Staying here isn't fair on
you
,' Sheri said, more softly. ‘I know what day it is,' she added. ‘I haven't forgotten.'

Mila chewed on her bottom lip, willing the sudden tightness in her throat away.

‘If you need an excuse,' Sheri prompted, ‘go and pick up that mystery package. A new delivery card arrived today. It's under the counter.'

By the time Mila had made it to the post office a few days ago, Nate's chewed delivery card in hand, her package had been sent back to the depot to be returned to the sender. Fortunately that hadn't yet happened, and the package had been directed back to Mila.

So she did have a reason to head out.

And, more importantly, Sheri was right. The shop wasn't where she needed to be.

Mila drove to the post office, only a few blocks away. The queue was short inside, and she was handed her package within a few minutes of arriving.

She flipped the large flat box over, curious to note the sender. She and Sheri hadn't been able to work it out—all their outstanding orders had already arrived.

But the handwritten name on the back made Mila go completely still.

‘Can I help you with anything else today, miss?' the young man behind the counter prompted politely.

Mila just shook her head furiously and walked briskly to her car. And then she drove to the park. To the park near the street where she'd grown up, with that giant ancient fig.

Car parked, and the package carefully cradled in her arms, Mila walked towards the towering tree.

The fig's canopy was incredibly dense, stretching out so far that the grass ended some distance from its trunk, unable to grow in the heavy shade. The trunk was huge, with ropey root tentacles that stretched from its centre, large enough to sit upon and stare out across the park.

She chose a spot where she could lean against the base of the fig, and kicked off her flip flops so she could drag her toes in the dirt. She traced the sharp cardboard edges of her package, but didn't move to open it.

She hadn't recognised the sender's writing, but she'd certainly recognised the name. Steph's mum. With a new address from the most southern point of Western Australia, a day's drive from Perth.

Still, she didn't open it.

She'd come here so often with Steph. Exactly here, beneath this tree. This had been
their
place—a place where they'd met without Seb. They'd dreamed up elaborate stories for the fairies they'd imagined lived in the tree, they'd swapped homework answers, and they'd giggled about boys. They'd made plans for the future: envisaging horse-drawn carriages at their weddings to British princes—one each—the dresses they'd wear to their Year Twelve ball, and which boy they'd like to be the first to kiss them.

They'd been so close. Picture-book best friends.

And then Seb had kissed her.

She'd been thirteen, and the three of them had headed to the beach during the summer holidays. Mila didn't remember many of the details of the day—but she did remember her surprise when she'd realised
Seb was
actually going to kiss her
. She'd had a crush on him for ever, but had never done anything about it. She hadn't known what to read into those times when Seb's gaze had tangled with hers, or what to do with the way she'd felt if they as much as bumped shoulders.

She also hadn't really known what to do when his lips had touched hers that first time. Maybe he hadn't either. Either way, it had been a little awkward—and she'd been so embarrassed that she wasn't better at this whole kissing thing. As soon as she'd been able to she'd scampered away—desperate to tell Steph and for her advice. After all, Steph had kissed
two
boys. She had experience.

Steph had been excited for Mila, and even a little jealous—she'd had a bit of a crush on Seb, too. They'd giggled, and planned Mila's next move—but in the end there hadn't been one. Seb had seemed to lose his nerve, and Mila had been so busy trying to play it cool that she'd ended up being snarky and stand-offish.

Mila remembered the day Steph had told her that Seb had kissed
her
. Steph had felt terrible, promising that it would never, ever happen again. Mila had been shattered. But she'd given her blessing. Maybe she'd always thought that Seb falling for her more flirtatious, more vivacious friend was inevitable. Maybe she'd never really believed that Seb could actually want to be with Mila.

And there it was—perfectly encapsulated. The impact she'd allowed her father to have on her self-worth. At thirteen, at almost thirty, and a million times in between.

How could she not have seen it before now?

Mila looked at her toes, her fire-engine-red toenails now dusted with dirt. A short distance away two small boys had appeared, tossing a Frisbee between them. A breeze ruffled the old fig's many leaves.

Mila
knew
. She knew why nothing had been clear until that night when her dad had called her with news of her future half-sibling. Up until that night Mila had held on to a skerrick of faith that somewhere deep down her father
did
love her. But he didn't. He didn't love her. He didn't care about her. He didn't even know her.

And in amongst the devastation of that realisation, there was freedom. No longer would she waste her love on those who didn't deserve it. And no longer would she wait so patiently for love that would never come her way.

She loved Seb. She knew that now. She'd loved him for ever. In different ways, but unwaveringly. She couldn't just switch that off, and—unlike her thirteen-year-old self—she couldn't pretend it wasn't happening.

But at least this time she'd told him about it.

How might her life have been different if she hadn't run away when Seb had kissed her? Although to suggest it would've been different was a disservice to Steph, and to Seb.

For all the problems that Seb had said they'd had towards the end of their marriage, Mila couldn't wish away Steph and Seb's relationship. For a long time they had been incredibly happy together. Mila knew that—she'd been best friend to them
both
.

Steph and Seb had fitted together perfectly—for a long time. They'd had silly inside jokes, and Seb had used to have a really sweet way of tucking Steph's long, wild hair behind her ears. It had been almost reverent, as if he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to touch such beauty.

As a threesome, they'd just
worked
, too. They'd laughed and partied and travelled—it had been fantastic. Maybe she'd been envious of their happiness, but she'd never coveted Seb. Seb and Steph had just gone together. They'd been
meant
to be together.

Mila wondered—just a little—what would've happened if that night in her flat had ended differently. If Seb had said he loved her too. Would she still have wondered, somewhere deep inside, if she was some sort of consolation prize? If she could ever match up to Steph's memory?

A clattering noise grabbed Mila's attention. A bright yellow Frisbee lay only a few metres from Mila's feet, on top of one of the fig's huge roots. One of the small boys had run up to retrieve it, but had stopped dead on seeing Mila in the shadows, suddenly shy.

‘It's okay,' Mila said, getting to her feet, placing her package carefully on a wide, shelf-like root ‘I'll get it.'

She picked up the Frisbee and tossed it, reasonably impressed with her rusty Frisbee-throwing technique. The boy ran off to his friend and Mila walked the few steps back to her preferred location at the base of the tree trunk.

The sun had lowered further in the sky, illuminating different parts of the tree and its roots as light dodged through the branches. The package—with its plain brown cardboard wrapping and its small stash of colourful stamps—lay in a narrow strip of sunlight, waiting for her.

Mila felt somewhat as she did at the end of a fabulous book—desperate to know the ending, but also hating how few pages remained. Because this package, she knew, had no sequel.

It was from Steph.

How many times had she wished to see Steph just one more time? To talk to her? To hug her? This package—whatever it might be—was as close to granting her wish as she was ever going to get.

Finally she picked the package up and settled back into her seat against the tree. Then quickly—as fast as she could in the end—she tore off the packing tape and prised the box open with trembling fingers.

Inside lay a letter, on top of some fabric wrapped in purple tissue paper.

Dear Mila,

I'm not sure if you knew, but Steph was working on a new collection before she died. With the help of some of her old colleagues we're releasing one final Violet collection, with all profits to go to charity.

Most of her designs were still at an early design stage—including this dress. But this was the only piece she'd named, so I thought it was important I sent it to you. After all, it's named after you.

I've enclosed the sketches, as I thought you might like to read Steph's notes...

Mila barely read the rest of the letter, her vision blurry with unshed tears. Instead she carefully unwrapped the dress and held it up before her. It was simple—made of a structured, slightly heavy fabric that would reach to mid-knee. It had a boat neck and a flared skirt that would move and swish as she walked. And it was red—lipstick-red, fire-engine-red. Her favourite colour.

It was beautiful.

Carefully, she laid it back in the box and retrieved the small, thin pile of fashion sketches. Drawn in skinny black ink, the willowy model in the sketches bore no resemblance to Mila. But beside the posing, pouting figure were Steph's notes under a simple heading:
Mila.

And there Steph had listed all manner of words.

Funny
.

Determined.

Talented.

Wise.

Mila blinked.

Good listener.

Reliable.

Creative.

Gorgeous.

Loyal.

My best friend.

Underneath, in capital letters, Steph had written:
HOW DO I PUT ALL THAT IN A DRESS?

Mila squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn't make any difference. Tears fell down her cheeks, splashing onto her jeans.

She'd spent a lot of time over the past eighteen months berating and hating herself for the way her friendship with Steph had changed. For the first time she wondered if she'd been wrong.

Steph van Berlo and Mila Molyneux had been best friends from the age of four—through playgroup, school, university and beyond. Almost all their lives they'd been there for each other. Side by side.

So maybe—
maybe
—it was unavoidable that their lives had diverged. Maybe they'd needed space to grow up without each other—to stand on their own two feet. To be their own people, to be their own women.

And that had been okay, because Mila had known that one day they would come back together. In Perth, or London, or Paris, or San Francisco. Who cared? It hadn't mattered.

But that day had been supposed to come. The day when they would be Mila and Steph again. Just like the inscriptions on those cheap gold-plated pendants they'd bought each other in Year Five:
Friends For Ever
.

It wasn't fair.

Steph's whole life had been ahead of her.

As had a lifetime of friendship.

Mila missed her.

So much.

She stood up, turning her back to the tree, the sketches hugged carefully against her heart.

Mila still harboured a small mountain of regret. She wished she'd never fallen out of the habit of telling Steph about every vaguely exciting event in her life. She wished, desperately, that she'd sent those emails she'd kept forgetting to write. Made those phone calls planned with the best of intentions.