by Leah Ashton
And that had been such an understatement—and his lips against her skin such a distraction—that worries about money or her name had just drifted away.
Until she’d been hit by the bracing cold outside.
She turned to Hugh. He was already looking down at her. Was he about to say something?
She could guess what it would be: something to reiterate the insubstantiality of their non-relationship, to re-establish this supposedly uncomplicated thing or fling they were doing or having.
Then later—maybe in a few days—he’d end it. He’d finally wake up to the fact that he was, in fact, doing what he’d so clearly told her he didn’t want: he was sharing his life with April.
She mentally braced herself for it, simultaneously telling herself it would be for the best anyway. No point imagining their incredible evening had been anything but sex. Even though it had felt like so much more.
But what would she know, anyway? She hadn’t even realised that her husband didn’t love her any more. She hadn’t even realised that he hadn’t loved her enough ever.
Hugh didn’t say anything. He was just looking at her with a gaze that seemed to search her very soul.
‘So what happens now?’ she blurted out, unable to stand not knowing for a moment longer.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I thought we might go past your flat so you can pick up a change of clothes. Then, if it’s all right with you, we could go and grab some groceries for dinner. At my place.’
That was about the last thing April had expected Hugh to say, and it took her a minute to comprehend it.
Another gust of wind made her shiver. She saw Hugh reach towards her—as if to somehow protect her from the cold—but then he stopped and his hand fell back against his side.
Her gaze went to his. He was studying her carefully. Waiting.
It hadn’t, she realised, been a throwaway casual invitation.
While she might not know, or want to know, exactly how his rule-defined dating worked with other women, she knew absolutely that what he was doing now was outside that scope.
How far, she couldn’t be sure. But it was far enough that April glimpsed just a hint of vulnerability in his gaze.
He didn’t even know her real name.
She needed to tell him.
But as swiftly as she’d considered it Mila’s words thrust their way into her brain to override it: You don’t owe him anything.
‘April?’ Hugh asked.
She was taking far too long to answer a simple question.
‘That sounds great,’ she said eventually. She managed a smile. ‘So does that mean you’re cooking me dinner?’
Hugh’s lips quirked as he waved down a cab, but he didn’t answer her question. He probably was. Why else would he need groceries for their meal?
You don’t owe him anything.
But of course she did.
She owed him her honesty.
But if she told him, this would be over.
They climbed into the back seat of the London cab and immediately Hugh reached for her hand. He drew little circles and shapes on it again, like he had during afternoon tea. And again his touch made her shiver and her blood run hot.
It also made her heart ache.
She needed to tell him.
Just not now.
She wasn’t ready to give him up, or to give up how he made her feel.
Not just yet.
* * *
He did make her dinner.
It was nothing fancy—just a stir fry with vegetables, cashews and strips of chicken. But April seemed to like it, which was good, given he hadn’t cooked for anyone other than himself since he’d moved out of home. He didn’t mind cooking, actually—it was a skill he’d learnt by necessity when his mother had been at particularly low points, and had been cultivated when his curiosity for varied cuisine had been hampered by his reluctance to socialise much or to have takeaway delivered to his home.
But, anyway, it hadn’t really been about cooking the meal, had it? It had been about inviting April into his home. To sleep over, no less.
Not that April was aware of the significance.
After dinner, she asked for a tour of his flat.
As he opened each bedroom door he felt that familiar tension—as if he was worried that behind the door would be a hoard he’d somehow forgotten about.
Of course each room was spotlessly tidy.
April didn’t comment on his severe minimalism: there was nothing on the walls, there were no photo frames or shelves...no trinkets. Had she guessed why?
Probably. It wasn’t too difficult to work out why the child of a compulsive hoarder might loathe anything hinting at clutter.
The last room he showed her was his bedroom.
Right at the rear of his flat, it had French doors that led into a small garden courtyard, although currently pale grey curtains covered them. The room wasn’t large, but there was ample space around his bed, and a narrow door led to the ensuite bathroom.
It was as unexciting as every other room he’d shown her, with nothing personal or special about it. But still...bringing April into this room felt different. More than the anxiety he’d felt at each door. Those moments had passed. This sensation persisted.
This room—generic as it might be—was unquestionably his private space. He wanted April here—he knew that. But it was still difficult for him. He’d been so intensely private for so long that to be showing April his house and his room—it was a big deal. He felt exposed. He felt vulnerable.
Again he wondered if April realised how he was feeling. She’d walked a few steps into the room and now turned to face him. She’d changed at her place, and now wore jeans, a T-shirt and an oversized cardigan. Her hair was still loose, though, all tumbling and wild. He could see something like concern in her gaze.
‘Hugh—’ she began.
But he crossed the space between them, and silenced her with a kiss. He didn’t want questions or concern or worry right now: hers or his. April was here, in his bedroom. And he was kissing her.
That was all that mattered.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
APRIL WOKE UP before Hugh on Monday morning.
He lay flat on his back, one arm on his pillow, hooked above his head. The other rested on his chest, occasionally shifting against his lovely pectoral muscles as he slept.
She should have told him.
On Piccadilly...outside The Ritz. Or probably the first time he’d kissed her, actually. Definitely last night, when he’d walked her into this room and she’d suddenly realised what a massive deal it was to Hugh. It had been written all over his face: a mix of determination and alarm and hope that had made it clear that this was most definitely not in the scope of his non-relationship rules.
But he’d wanted her enough to break his own rules. He’d trusted her enough to allow her into the sanctuary of his home. She’d realised, too late, that the young boy who’d never invited his friends over to play had grown up into a man who never had overnight guests. Who never let people into his house or into his life.
It seemed obvious now—from the eccentricity of the confidentiality agreement she’d signed to the way he’d insisted on only email communication when she’d started work—even though he lived only metres away. And his aggravation when she’d turned up at his doorstep in her aborted attempt to resign.
Somehow he’d let her beyond all his barriers—both tangible and otherwise.
Yet she’d been lying to him the whole time.
Hugh was smiling now. He’d woken, caught her staring at him. He captured her hand to tug her towards him, but she didn’t move.
Belatedly he seemed to realise she was dressed. His gaze scanned her jeans and shirt, her hair tied up in a loose, l
ong ponytail.
He sat up abruptly. ‘What’s going on, April?’ he asked.
‘Do you want to get dressed?’ she asked.
It felt wrong that she was clothed while he was naked.
His eyes narrowed. ‘No,’ he said.
Where did she begin?
‘Can I ask you a question?’ she asked.
‘What’s going on, April?’ he said again, this time with steel in his tone.
‘I just need to know something. Just one thing and then I promise I’ll tell you.’ She didn’t wait for any acknowledgment from Hugh, certain she wouldn’t receive it anyway. ‘I just want to know the last time you had a woman sleep over.’
He blinked, and his expression was momentarily raw: she’d hit a nerve. That, in itself, was all the answer she needed. But she could practically see him thinking, determining how he would answer her or if he would answer her at all.
Then—heartbreakingly—she realised he’d decided to be honest.
‘Never,’ he said. ‘I’ve never wanted a woman to sleep over before.’
Hugh wasn’t trying to be unreadable now. He’d clearly made a decision to cut through the pretence that had overlaid their relationship. And why wouldn’t he? For Hugh, inviting her into his home—and therefore into his life—was the point of no return. He probably felt he now no longer had anything to hide.
And yet she’d been hiding all this time.
‘Okay,’ she said, struggling to force any words out and hating herself more with every passing second.
‘Is that what this is about?’ he asked. ‘About what we’re doing?’ His mouth curved upwards. ‘I know I’ve talked about rules and no relationships, but you, April...with you, maybe—’
‘Stop, Hugh,’ she said. She couldn’t bear to hear him say anything like that: words that would tell her she was special and words that she wanted so desperately to be true.
She’d been so caught up in her lies that she hadn’t allowed herself to think how she’d feel if Hugh actually wanted to be with her. If he had feelings for her. Like she had feelings for him.
What feelings?
She shook her head—at Hugh and at herself. None of this mattered because none of it would be an option once she’d told him the truth.
April took a deep breath. ‘Hugh,’ she said finally, ‘I need to tell you something. Something I should’ve told you at the beginning but thought it was okay not to, I thought it was okay to keep it secret because we weren’t actually in a relationship, you know? It was just kissing, or sex, or just dinner, or the museum, or afternoon tea... Which, I suppose, when you say them all together, sounds pretty much like a relationship, right?’
Her smile was humourless. But she needed to say this now, because she knew instinctively she wouldn’t get to explain later.
Hugh just watched her. He sat there motionless, tension in his jaw and shoulders, but otherwise perfect and glorious in his nonchalant nakedness—the sheets puddled around his waist, the light from the bedside lamp making his skin glow golden.
He said nothing. Just waited.
She swallowed. ‘The name on my passport is April Spencer, but for as long as I can remember I’ve gone by April Molyneux. I’m the second eldest daughter of Irene Molyneux, and I’m an heiress to the Molyneux Mining fortune.’
Hugh recognised her mother’s name—she could see it on his face. Most people did...she was one of the richest people in the world.
‘When Evan left me I realised that I’ve never been truly independent. That I’ve never been single, never had a real job and that I’ve never lived off anything but Molyneux money. So I got on a plane with practically nothing and came to London to—’
‘To play a patronising, offensive, poor-little-rich-girl game.’ He finished the sentence for her.
‘Hugh—’
But he ignored her, ticking his words off on his fingers as he spoke. ‘Live in a shared house, work on minimum wage and pretend to live in the real world. I get it. Then, once you’re tired of living like an actual real person, walk away. Feel fleetingly sorry for all those genuine poor people who don’t get that choice as you fly home in your private jet. I’m sure you have one, right?’
‘That’s not what I’m going to do at all—’ she began.
But he wasn’t prepared to listen. ‘So I was just part of the fantasy? A story to share with all your friends when you got home, along with humorous anecdotes about life in the real world. That was what that selfie was for, right?’
April shook her head vehemently. ‘No. I didn’t plan any of this,’ she said. ‘How could I? I never expected to kiss my boss. I certainly never expected this week...then this weekend. Hugh, these past two nights with you—they are like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Please understand that. There was nothing false about that—’
‘Except the person I thought you were doesn’t exist,’ he said.
‘Of course she does, Hugh. The woman you’ve been with is me, regardless of my surname or my family’s money. These past few months I think I’ve been more me than I ever have in my life. Especially with you.’
Now Hugh shook his head. ‘I’m so pleased I was such a helpful, if unwitting assistant in your journey of self-discovery, April.’ His tone was pancake-flat.
He turned from her as he slid out of bed. She watched as he retrieved his boxer shorts and pulled them on, and then his jeans. She probably shouldn’t have been watching him, but she couldn’t stop herself.
Maybe she’d been secretly desperately hoping that this would somehow all be okay—that he’d brush off the specifics of her past and accept her for the woman she’d been with him.
Yeah, right.
Now she knew for certain. Knew that this was it—this was her last few minutes with Hugh...at least like this. He wasn’t going to invite her into his room, and more importantly into his life, ever again.
So she looked. She admired the breadth of his back, the curve of his backside, the muscular thighs and calves honed from thousands of cycled kilometres. When he pulled his T-shirt over his head she admired the way his muscles flexed beneath his skin. And then she closed her eyes as if to capture the memory of a naked Hugh she would never see again.
‘Who are you, April? What do you actually do if you’re not a backpacking traveller?’
Her gaze dropped to her fingers. They were tangled in the hem of her untucked shirt, twisting the fabric between them. She still sat on his bed, reluctant to move and take that first physical step towards walking away.
‘I...ah—’ she began, then stopped her repentant tone. No. She was not going to apologise for who she was—or who she had been. She didn’t know which just yet. ‘I have a heavy social media presence,’ she said.
Hugh rolled his eyes, but she ignored him.
‘I use my public persona as a wealthy jet-setting socialite to gather followers—currently I have just a little over one point two million, although that has dipped a little since I’ve been here.’
She met his gaze steadily.
‘I use my platform to attract suppliers and companies that I respect and admire to offer product placement opportunities in exchange for donations to the Molyneux Foundation, which is a charitable organisation that I founded. Last year the foundation made significant contributions to domestic violence and mental health organisations, and while since I’ve left Perth I’ve realised that there is far more that I could be doing, I’m still incredibly proud of what I’ve achieved so far.’
If Hugh was in any way moved by what she’d said he didn’t reveal it.
‘I’m not some vacuous socialite. At one stage I was—and I own that. And until recently I had no comprehension of the value of a dollar, or pound, or whatever. But I’ve learnt a lot and I’ve changed. I’m never going to take my good fortune or my privileged
existence for granted ever again.’
Hugh’s hands were shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. If she didn’t know him she’d think his pose casual, or indifferent. But she did know him, and she knew that he was anything but calm.
‘I’ve been poor, April,’ Hugh said, his voice low and harsh. ‘After my father left we were on benefits, on and off, for most of my childhood. We were okay...we always had heat and food...but it wasn’t easy for my mum. She struggled—you’ve seen her house. She struggled. It wasn’t a game.’
‘It was never my intention to trivialise another’s experiences, Hugh.’
‘But you did, April. Can’t you see that?’
April was getting frustrated now. ‘What would you have preferred? That I continued to live off my mother’s money for the rest of my life?’
‘No,’ he said, and his tone was different now. Flat and resigned, as if he’d lost all interest in arguing. ‘But I also would’ve preferred you’d told me your name.’
It was a fair comment, but even so April couldn’t bite her tongue. ‘But why would I? You were offering me absolutely nothing, Hugh. A kiss, sex, but absolutely not a relationship. You may scoff at my so-called journey of self-discovery, but I needed it. Desperately. For me. Why would I jeopardise that for a man who couldn’t even stomach the idea of officially dating me? I’m so sorry I lied, Hugh, but this wasn’t just about you.’
‘So I’m just collateral damage?’
April slid off the bed, unable to be still any longer. ‘No, of course not, Hugh. You are so much more.’
‘More?’ Hugh prompted. ‘What does that mean?’
April blinked. She hadn’t answered her own question what felt like hours earlier: What feelings?
‘What would I know, Hugh?’ she said honestly. ‘I’ve been with one other man before you and I totally got that one wrong. All I know is that for you to invite me into your home, and for me to be telling you my real name, there must be more. More than either of us expected.’
She was standing right in front of him now. If they both reached out their hands would touch. But that wouldn’t be happening.
