The Billionaire from Her Past

by Leah Ashton

  Last night, in the pool house, had been important. She was glad she’d followed her instincts when he’d called—glad she’d been there with him. Both for Seb and for herself. For the first time since Stephanie’s death she’d laughed as she’d thought about her. Smiled as she’d remembered the girl, and the woman, who had been such a significant part of her life.

  So that had been good. Great. But after...? Outside Seb’s parents’ house...?

  She’d followed her gut once again—followed an almost primeval need to be authentic, to refuse to accept Seb’s faux friendship, but this time also to refuse to deny the pull she felt to Seb.

  When he touched her she could think of nothing else but him—the sensation of his hands against her skin was electric, compelling, addictive.

  With Seb, whenever she was with him, it had just always felt right. And that, in itself, made her uncomfortable.

  Because even rightness seemed an unlikely concept—too similar to her habit of manufacturing pretty delusions, like her fanciful hopes with her dad, rather than facing reality. It certainly wasn’t something she could trust or rely upon as a gauge of anything real or substantial.

  Mila’s fork scraped against the bottom of her plate. She’d eaten most of her lunch, and now simply pushed the remaining little balls of gnocchi around in circles.

  ‘You okay, hon?’ Ivy bumped her shoulder against Mila’s. ‘You’ve been very quiet.’

  It was tempting. It would be so very easy to tell them all that had happened in the past few days. She trusted them both. Completely. But she couldn’t.

  They’d disapproved of her persistence with their dad. They’d worried for her, and been there for her, but they’d never approved. They’d never really understood why she kept putting herself through something where the final destination was always going to be hurt and tears.

  Would they think she was on the same journey now, with Seb?

  He’d told her he didn’t want a relationship, which Mila knew really meant that he didn’t want a relationship with her. His words that night at the beach had made that clear: ‘This is wrong...’

  It didn’t get much clearer than that, despite all the supposed rightness she thought she felt.

  She’d told herself that she’d keep an emotional distance from Seb. That this was just about a physical attraction. This was about them both each needing each other—right now—and nothing more. She wasn’t ready for a relationship. She didn’t even want a relationship with Seb...

  And most importantly she kept telling herself that she’d learnt from what had happened with Ben, from what had happened with her dad. She was still in control. She wasn’t going to get hurt.

  But would Ivy and April believe that? Did she?

  She didn’t think she could face it—her sisters’ concern for the naïve little sister they had to look out for.

  No. She was an adult. She’d made her choice. She had to live with it—without her big sisters holding her hand.

  ‘I’m fine!’ she said with a smile. ‘Really. Okay—now, who wants to share a slice of carrot cake with me?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SEB KNOCKED ON the back door of Mila’s Nest after work. They hadn’t organised for him to come over, but Mila had known he would.

  Mila had been wiping down the tables in the workshop and collecting stray pieces of clay left over from her students’ endeavours. Sheri had already gone home, and the ‘Closed’ sign was hung on the shop’s front door. She had the radio playing, and an enthusiastic voice was currently describing the peak hour traffic conditions in significant detail.

  Mila took her time walking to the door. She might have known that Seb would come over, but now that he was here she wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about it.

  She was acutely aware of her own heartbeat, madly accelerating away within her chest. Her cheeks felt warm too, as if she could feel Seb’s gaze already—irrespective of the solid wooden door separating them.

  Seb knocked again just as Mila’s hand grasped the door handle, making her jump.

  It seemed impossible that this time yesterday she’d been convinced she’d never see Sebastian Fyfe again.

  Finally she swung open the door, and then the security screen. Seb waited impatiently, his gaze distracting, exactly as intense as she’d imagined.

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  Mila stepped back, gesturing with her arm that he should come inside. As she closed the door behind them, her back to Seb as she deadbolted the door and slid the security chain into place, she wondered what to do now.

  Did she invite him to stay for dinner? Did they go out somewhere for a drink? She had no idea what the protocols were for not being friends.

  She pivoted to face him. ‘So,’ she said. ‘How do you want to do this?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, reaching for her, then tugging her close. ‘How about we start with a kiss?’

  And just like that his mouth was on hers, and Mila was incapable of thinking about anything but how good that felt.

  She kissed him back as she drew him closer, twining her hands around his neck and her fingers in his hair. His hands were firm against her: at the small of her back and at her waist. Her T-shirt had ridden up, just a little, and when his hand touched her skin her belly flooded with warmth. But it wasn’t nearly enough—she needed more. She was greedy for it.

  There was a thunking sound as Seb’s back hit the closed door behind him, and he smiled against Mila’s mouth. She smiled right back as he moved her, and then she was the one against the door. Seb’s shoulders—his height—boxed her in, but it was a delicious sensation...the sense of Seb’s power, his passion—he wanted her. And of course she was an equal in this. She wanted him just as desperately—with her own touch: her mouth, her hands, she was just as powerful.

  There was a freedom to this kiss. This was a kiss where there would be another. This wasn’t a one-time chance. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision.

  Because Mila didn’t just have Seb for tonight. She had him until...

  Until when?

  Beyond tomorrow, yes—but how long after that? Days, weeks, months? Until she wanted to end it? Or until Seb did?

  Seb went still, his lips against Mila’s neck. ‘You’re thinking too much,’ he said, his breath hot against her skin. ‘Is something wrong?’

  She shook her head, then slid her hands beneath his shirt. His stomach was firm, his belt a hard edge beneath her palm.

  ‘No,’ she said. Firmly. Because nothing was wrong—and nothing would be wrong. Unwanted thoughts of the future just fed into her old habits and unreliable hopes and dreams.

  All she needed to worry about was right now. Not tomorrow, next week or next month. And right now only one thing was important to her.

  ‘Kiss me again,’ she said.

  And he did—many more times than once—then followed Mila up the stairs to her apartment, holding her hand.

  * * *

  On Tuesday, Seb brought Mila lunch. She was busy with customers and classes, and he had a meeting to get to—but still he brought her lunch. He’d said he would, and he did—and that made Mila smile as she watched him stride from her shop, her gaze admiring the broadness of his shoulders.

  Later, they ate fish and chips on Cottesloe Beach. Stealthy seagulls hovered just beyond the unravelled butcher’s paper packaging, and the sea breeze blew Mila’s hair in every direction.

  They ate in the next evening, out on the balcony at Seb’s place. The views across to the river were spectacular as they cradled crusty bread rolls filled with chevups, barbecued onions and tomato sauce.

  The next night was Mila’s monthly dinner with her mum and her sisters. Again, she didn’t mention Seb—but this time, she did so with confidence.

  At lunch at that café, she’
d second guessed her decision, unused to keeping secrets from her sisters. But now, it just made sense.

  She’d told Seb weeks ago that she hadn’t yet worked out how to protect herself from getting hurt, but keeping their not-a-relationship secret felt like part of it. It was all part of keeping an emotional distance—of not imagining more than there actually was.

  As soon as they told people expectations would be created. By others. By herself.

  And without expectations, Mila was simply enjoying herself.

  Really—if she thought about it—wasn’t it better that she didn’t leap back into a relationship after what had happened with Ben? Wasn’t just relaxing and having a bit of fun a good thing?

  And this thing with Seb was definitely good. She couldn’t remember feeling this way before—all fluttery and displaced whenever she was around him. Or even when she thought of him. It hadn’t been like that with Ben. Mila didn’t know what it was. Maybe the remnants of her heart-pounding, hormone-infused teenage crush?

  It must be, she decided.

  And so—once again—she didn’t breathe a word about Seb.

  * * *

  On Sunday, Seb and Mila sat side by side at one of the benches in Mila’s workshop.

  It wasn’t too early—they’d both slept in, waking up tangled in Mila’s sheets.

  Seb had headed out in search of coffee and croissants, and now he tore off pieces of pastry from within a brown paper bag as he listened to Mila’s instructions.

  He’d asked, last night, about her classes, curious to know how her business had evolved. It hadn’t surprised him at all to learn it had begun with a challenge: Ivy had proclaimed herself lacking any artistic ability, and the challenge had been on.

  ‘To be honest,’ Mila had said, ‘she made a pretty awful little pot. But we had fun, and the idea just went from there. Most of my students haven’t done anything arty since high school.’ Somehow she’d convinced him to have a go himself. ‘Don’t stress,’ she’d assured him, ‘you’re exactly my demographic.’

  So here they were: a pair of Lazy Susans sitting before them, a small circle of clay placed in the centre of each.

  ‘Right,’ Mila said. ‘Now we’ve got the bases done, we’ve got to start rolling out our coils.’ She handed Seb a lump of clay. ‘Roll away.’

  Seb dutifully followed Mila’s instructions as she explained the technique they were using. ‘You probably remember this from school—and maybe pinch pots, as well?’

  Seb nodded as Mila showed him how to score the top of the long sausage he’d rolled out with a pen-shaped wooden tool she called a needle.

  ‘In my adult classes we always start with these hand-building techniques before we move on to the wheel. Anyone can master them, and it gives everyone a bit of confidence as they’re getting started. The kids love it too, and I love the wonkiness of their coils, the gaps they often leave between layers.’

  Seb watched as Mila quickly rolled out her own coil, and then scored both the sausage and the circle of clay on her Lazy Susan. She then handed the needle to Seb, so he could score his own base.

  ‘Now, we need just a little bit of water,’ she said, dipping her fingers in the small bowl between them. She rubbed her fingers over the scored surfaces, returning for more water as needed. ‘Then we join the coil to the base, using our thumbs to blend the clay.’

  Seb followed Mila’s instructions and soon they were both busily building their own pots, quietly rolling, scoring and stacking.

  ‘You’re very patient,’ Seb said.

  Mila smiled. ‘That’s a learned skill. Particularly with the kids. It used to be so tempting to take over and fix their mistakes. Now I know just to sit back and let them form their own creations.’

  She was smoothing the outside of her pot with a rubber paddle, merging each coil into its neighbour.

  Seb had finished his pot, too. It had ended up squatter than Mila’s, with a wide mouth and a lopsidedness that he hadn’t intended.

  Mila transported both their pots to the kiln, Seb’s little odd pot in stark contrast to Mila’s pot of sleek perfection.

  ‘It seems a waste of clay,’ Seb said, looking at them both on the kiln shelves. ‘You could make a much nicer pot out of it.’

  ‘No!’ Mila said, appalled. ‘Don’t say that. It’s perfect.’

  It really wasn’t. Impulsively, he kissed her. Hard.

  ‘What was that for?’

  He met her gaze as they broke apart. ‘For teaching me pottery.’

  Mila eyes sparkled. ‘Coil pots were on your bucket list?’

  “Not quite,” he said, and shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to explain. ‘It’s just—I’ve never seen you work before, or teach. This all happened while I’ve been away.’ It was weird, really. Rather than highlighting how far they’d drifted apart in the past six years, Mila’s pottery lesson instead seemed to fill in gaps—and draw them closer. ‘You’re really good at this.’

  Mila’s smile was wide. ‘Thank you. So—you’ll be signing up for my 8 week adult beginner’s class, then?’

  ‘No,’Seb said. Firmly.

  And Mila burst into laughter.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THEY’D FALLEN ASLEEP in front of the TV. Seb was stretched across Mila’s sofa, with Mila sprawled over him. His arm beneath her was numb, and his neck ached from the odd angle it was resting in against the arm of the sofa.

  The series they’d been watching had stopped streaming, and the screen was politely asking if they were still there. But Seb couldn’t quite reach his phone or the TV remote, so the question remained unanswered. He considered waking Mila. Her head was nestled against his shoulder, her dark hair tickling his jaw.

  Her bed would be much more comfortable.

  But Mila slept so peacefully, her breathing slow and regular, her long eyelashes fanning her cheeks.

  It had been more than two weeks now, since they’d been ‘not just friends’. They’d spent nearly every night together, and all day at the weekends.

  It should have felt intense. Overwhelming, even. But it didn’t.

  Instead it felt completely natural. The obvious thing to do.

  It also felt like a lot more than their admittedly silly construct of ‘not just friends’. It felt like a relationship.

  During the day he didn’t let his thoughts drift in that direction. During the day, the concept was unwelcome. During the day he knew all the reasons why he couldn’t commit to something more with Mila.

  But at times like this—in the silence, while he lay beside a sleeping Mila—he questioned why that was. Because in the silence their being together felt easy. It felt right. It didn’t feel complicated, or rife with difficult emotions and unavoidable hurt and disappointment.

  At these times Seb had to remind himself who he was, and who Mila was. Remind himself that Mila deserved more than a man incapable of truly engaging in a relationship. Of being there for his partner. Of giving her the love that she deserved.

  But lying here, in the silence, with Mila in his arms...

  So, no, he didn’t wake her.

  Instead he ignored his aches and discomfort and held her closer—listening to the rhythm of her breathing, of her sleep, and of her dreams.

  * * *

  He must have carried her to bed, Mila realised.

  She stretched luxuriously across the mattress, her outstretched fingertips brushing the vintage cast-iron bedhead. She was still dressed in the T-shirt she’d worn last night; her jeans were in a puddle on the carpet.

  Or maybe she’d been so tired she didn’t remember Seb waking her. She rolled onto her side, tugging the sheets with her. Seb slept soundly beside her, flat on his back, wearing only a pair of navy blue boxer shorts, just visible above the sheet. One arm rested by his
head, the other by his side, his hand flat on his belly.

  With her gaze she explored all the muscles she still wasn’t quite used to. The hardness of his body—he was all angles and solid surfaces. No softness. He looked incredibly strong.

  His eyes slid open. ‘Hey,’ he said, all sleepily. ‘I could feel you looking at me.’

  ‘I was,’ Mila said, with a smile.

  ‘And what were you thinking?’

  ‘Whether you carried me to bed.’

  Seb had turned onto his side now, to face her, the sheet falling way past his hips as he did so. ‘It would be more romantic if I had, right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mila said.

  ‘Then,’ he said, leaning closer, ‘I did.’

  He kissed her, and for long, long minutes Mila was lost in the miracle of his kiss.

  When they finally broke apart he grinned. ‘Just for full disclosure, you also did not drool on my shoulder during episode seven.’

  Mila shoved him in the shoulder. ‘I do not drool!’

  ‘Who said you did?’ said Seb, eyes twinkling, and then somehow Mila had rolled on top of him, and they were kissing each other hard, and soft, and thoroughly, until the remainder of their clothing also hit the floor.

  Later, Mila rested her head on his chest, Seb’s arm snug beneath her breasts.

  ‘If you want,’ Seb said very softly, his breath tickling her ear, ‘I’ll carry you to bed tonight. Every night, actually, if you like.’

  And for some reason those words made Mila smile, and also made her eyes sting with tears.

  Suddenly this all just felt too good. Too perfect.

  She lifted his arm off her and wriggled away and out of bed. He looked at her, confused.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Breakfast!’ she said, with probably too much enthusiasm. ‘What would you like?’

  * * *

  Usually on a Tuesday afternoon Mila worked alone in her workshop. Sheri manned the shop, and Mila sat at her pottery wheel and created.

  Today she once again sat beside Seb at a workbench, their now fired coil pots before them, both currently the unadulterated off-white of the clay. Seb had called earlier—he’d had an afternoon meeting cancelled. She’d invited him over without hesitation, and had kissed him the moment she’d opened the workshop door, equally so.