My Lonely Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 4)

by Serenity Woods

  To be frank, I’m worried I’m scrounging off him. That I’ve mistaken relief and gratefulness for real affection. How do you know you haven’t mistaken fool’s gold for real gold when you’ve never seen precious metal before?

  But relief and gratefulness don’t explain this warm feeling I have inside at the thought that he really likes me. Or the tingle I get when he looks at me with heat in his eyes.

  The dogs start barking, and we look up as the door opens and the guys come in.

  “Honey, he’s home,” Albie calls, making them all laugh and earning him a nudge in his ribs from Leon.

  The girls get up, smiling as their men come forward, boisterous and argumentative as a group of teenagers. They put a few bags and boxes in the hallway, presumably containing my stuff they’ve managed to collect. My heart’s in my mouth. Was Tom there?

  “Have you been drinking?” Izzy scolds Hal as he nuzzles her neck and squeezes her butt.

  “I’m driving,” he reminds her. “Don’t need alcohol to get me in the mood, sweetheart.” He whispers something in her ear, and she gasps and smacks his arm, then laughs.

  “We managed to get Noah in a bar,” Albie tells us. “We had to get a couple of whiskies down him to stop him hyperventilating.”

  I glance across at Noah, who’s giving his cousin a wry smile. I’ve seen men drunk enough to know Noah’s far from incoherent, but his hair is ruffled and he looks… different. He turns to look at me, and it’s only then I see the red mark on his cheekbone.

  My eyes widen. “Oh my God. How did you get that?”

  He lifts a hand to touch it gingerly and gives me a somewhat bashful look. “You should see the other guy.”

  Hal barks a laugh, and Leon snorts.

  “Tom did that?” I’m horrified. Noah meets my eyes, then glances around the group. He doesn’t want to talk about it while everyone’s there.

  “Come on,” Summer says briskly, taking the empty wine glasses into the kitchen. “Time for everyone to go.”

  There’s a few minutes of chaos as everyone says goodbye, kissing and giving manly bear hugs and cuddles to the dogs, and the four couples make their way to the door.

  I stand in the living room, in the midst of all the bags and boxes and paraphernalia as silence descends. Noah tosses his jacket onto a chair and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I stare at his bruised cheek. “What happened?”

  He shrugs. “We had a difference of opinion.”

  “He hit you?”

  “Only once.”

  “You hit him?”

  He shrugs again. But his eyes are hard.

  “What did he say?” I whisper. He shakes his head. But he doesn’t have to tell me. I know what happened. Tom insulted me, probably accused me of sleeping with Noah, because he wouldn’t believe a man would help me out of the goodness of his heart. And Noah decked him for it.

  I look around at all the gifts I’ve been given by the friends of this generous man. Then I look up at him again.

  I walk forward, slide my arms around his waist, and rest my cheek on his shoulder.

  He takes his arms out of his pockets and puts them around me, and we stand there like that for a long, long time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Noah

  Over the next week, Abby and I settle into a comfortable routine.

  The day after the incident with Tom, she asks if she can come on my morning walk with me. I agree, because it feels rude to say no, although part of me wonders whether I’ll resent the invasion on my early morning peace. I’m surprised to find it’s not a problem at all. Abby wraps up in one of my old jackets, and she doesn’t chatter constantly, but seems content to enjoy the cool quietness, lost in her own thoughts.

  On the third morning, I offer her a hand to help her step down onto the beach. She accepts it, and I don’t know why, but I don’t release it, and she doesn’t take hers away, and after that we walk hand in hand every morning, as if we’re the last two people alive in the world, the dogs the only witnesses to our secret, shared affection.

  As we walk, I wonder—as I often have—whether Lisa is watching me. I’ve asked, prayed, begged, for a sign from her over the years, for her to tell me she’s with me. I’ve never received anything. Absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence, I know that, but I’m also not convinced she’s sitting on a cloud somewhere, raising an eyebrow because I’m holding hands with another woman.

  And if she is watching me, I hope she understands. I miss her. I love her. I always will. But it’s been ten years. I think that’s enough time for any man to mourn.

  In the mornings, I work in my office or occasionally have meetings, and Abby potters around the house. She still insists on cleaning, and I don’t argue with her, recognizing the nesting feelings she’s getting, even if she doesn’t. She takes all the items Summer and the girls brought her into her room, and when I stick my head in there later, I discover she’s hung the mobile above the cot, has put the nightlight on the bedside table, and has stacked all the other items neatly on a table by the window so they’re at hand if she needs them.

  Brock calls with the names of a couple of midwives he likes, I pass them to Abby, and she rings one and organizes for her to come to the house for a chat. After she’s been, I sit Abby at the computer in the library, pull up the BabyKiwiNZ website Summer suggested, enter my credit card details, and tell Abby to order anything she needs that she doesn’t have already.

  She just stares at me.

  “I’m serious,” I tell her. “The midwife must have mentioned some things you might need.”

  She continues to stare at me.

  I sigh. “I know it was ten years ago, but I have been there. I can vaguely remember it all. Maternity bras, breast pads, cream for cracked nipples…” I stop. She’s gone completely scarlet.

  “Shit,” I say. “Too soon?”

  We both start laughing, and she puts her hands to her face. “Oh God, Noah.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I forgot we weren’t married for a minute. Is this the most bizarre situation in the world or what?”

  “Definitely.” She shakes her head and shoots me a shy glance. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I forget how old you are sometimes.”

  “Oh, I am old. Positively ancient. I’ll be drawing my pension soon.”

  She nudges me. “What I mean is, you seem like you’re my age, but then I remember you’re actually quite worldly wise.”

  “Well, sort of, for someone who doesn’t go out of the house.” My brow furrows. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not usually easily embarrassed. It’s just…” She meets my eyes, then drops her gaze again and laughs.

  “What?” I say, amused.

  She shakes her head and finally looks up at me again. She takes a deep breath. “It’s really hard when you like a guy,” she says slowly, “and you’re the size of an elephant, and you feel ugly with stretch marks and leaky breasts, and you’re peeing all the time and have permanent backache, and you’re about to give birth to a baby who’s likely to scream the place down. It doesn’t exactly make you feel like a sex goddess.”

  It’s the first time since the night I went to see Tom and she came up and put her arms around me that either of us has come close to mentioning we’re attracted to one another. I’ve spoken to Summer privately, and she told me a little of the conversation they had—that Abby says she likes me, but she’s worried everyone will think she’s taking advantage of my good nature.

  “She’s totally fallen for you,” Summer said. “But you’re going to have to take it slowly, you know?”

  I reach out and tuck a strand of Abby’s hair behind her ear. “There’s nothing ugly about pregnancy. You look amazing. Pregnancy is a beautiful thing.”

  Her big brown eyes stare into mine. She gives a short laugh. “Yeah, right. Because cracked nipples are soooo sexy.”

  “Depends on who’s rubbing the cream in.” />
  Her eyes widen. I leave it a second, then say, “Sorry, did I say that out loud?” Her lips curve up, and I laugh and get to my feet.

  Summer also told me there are a few other items Abby could do with—a baby bath, wipes, a change pad or table, ointment for diaper rash, bibs, hooded towels… I wrote it all down. “You don’t have to have these things,” Summer advised. “But they’re really helpful.”

  I don’t just want to order them for Abby, though—I want her to have the joy of shopping for them.

  “Put in an order,” I tell her.

  She sighs. “Noah…”

  “Would it help if I showed you my bank balance?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I know. But it’s just money. Paper and coins, sitting in a bank account. I help wounded animals, and I do my best to help wounded people, too. Please, Abby. It’ll make me happy to see you getting everything you want. Do it for me.”

  She looks up into my eyes. “All right,” she says softly.

  Relieved, I leave her to it for a while. When I go back, I check the shopping cart. She’s chosen twenty-nine-dollars’ worth of items.

  I sigh. “You’re a hopeless shopper.”

  “I don’t need anything else, Noah. I can manage.”

  “It’s not about managing,” I say, with some frustration. “Wouldn’t you like to treat yourself to something pretty for the baby? Some clothes for yourself? I know Summer brought a stroller, but I’m sure you’d rather have a new one, something fancy, in bright colors?”

  Abby looks up at me. Her eyes are gentle. “Noah, I honestly don’t want anything else. The girls brought me lots of lovely stuff, and that was hard enough to accept. I don’t feel comfortable with this. It makes me feel awkward.”

  That makes me sit back. I look out of the window to the Ark, although I’m not seeing the fields. I think back to when Lisa was pregnant. We were so excited, we bought everything under the sun. We spent hours in the shops, choosing strollers, cots, clothes. She loved all the little outfits and bought far too many, because they were all so beautiful.

  But Abby isn’t Lisa. And she’s not my wife. She’s not mine. Not yet, anyway. And the last thing I want to do is make her feel awkward.

  I bring my gaze back to her. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything—”

  “I know.” I clear my throat. “You’re sure there’s nothing else you absolutely need?”

  “I don’t think so. I got some cream for diaper rash, some wipes, and some bibs. A few other bits.”

  “What about for yourself?”

  She hesitates. “Um, well, the only thing I saw were some nursing bras. I don’t have any of those, and they do look useful.”

  “Sounds great. Please, add whatever you need to the cart and put the order through. Then come into the kitchen. I have a task for you.”

  Her lips curve up. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I leave her to it and go back through to the living room.

  Willow and Spike come up to me, and I lower myself onto the floor and give them both a bit of fuss. I feel ashamed of myself. Summer told me I need to go slow. It’s only been three weeks since I first met Abby, and a huge amount has happened since then. I can’t expect either of us to adjust to the situation in that short space of time.

  Matt once told me, “You can’t fix everyone’s troubles with a wave of your wallet, Noah. All you can do is provide people with the opportunity to fix their lives themselves.” They are very wise words. I gave Abby the opportunity to leave a destructive relationship, and she took it. What happens now is in her hands.

  She comes out, smiling as she sees me with the dogs. “I put the order through,” she says. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.” I rise and walk through to the kitchen and beckon her to follow me.

  “Noah…” She comes to stand beside me. “Did I upset you back there?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I really didn’t mean to be ungrateful.”

  “You weren’t at all. I’m fine. More than fine. And hungry. I want you to show me how to make those apple crumble muffins that are my favorite.”

  She laughs. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. They’re moist and crumbly, and I think you should tell someone your secret, because it would be terrible if something happened to you and the recipe was lost.” I stop, realizing how that must sound, as if I’m reminding her that awful things can happen during pregnancy, and I didn’t mean that at all.

  But she just laughs, and nudges me with her elbow. “You must promise not to tell a soul.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Good. Come on, then.”

  We then spend a wonderful half an hour making the muffins together. Abby’s happy when she’s cooking, and I lean on the worktop and listen as she explains what she’s doing, following her instructions when she asks me to weigh ingredients or stir the bowl.

  “Peanut’s so lucky,” I tell her as she spoons the finished mixture into the prepared cases. “He’s going to be such a fat baby with all your cooking.”

  She giggles. “I can think of worse things.”

  “Me, too.” I place them in the oven for her, and she sets the timer.

  “What would you like for dinner?” she asks.

  I can’t decide, so we peruse one of her recipe books. We both like the look of a chicken dish in a honey and mustard sauce, so we start preparing that, Abby slicing up a couple of chicken breasts, and me frying some onions and mushrooms.

  “I like that you cook,” she says, bringing the chicken over to the hob. “Tom never set foot in the kitchen, not unless it was to search for a packet of chips.”

  “I enjoy it.” I take the chicken from her and add it to the pan. “Sometimes I can’t be bothered, especially if I’ve been busy during the day, and I’ll have something from the freezer, but if it’s been a quiet day it’s nice to spend some time on a meal.”

  She watches me brown the chicken, resting her hip against the worktop. “I really didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I frown at her. “I told you, I’m not upset.”

  “I just want you to know… All I was saying was that I feel a bit awkward accepting money from you. You’re already doing so much for me.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I don’t want you to think…” She bites her lip. “That I’m not… that I don’t… like you.”

  I look up from the pan at her. She sucks her bottom lip. It makes me want to kiss it. I want to pull her into my arms, tilt up her face, and kiss her senseless.

  I don’t. I do lift up the arm not holding the wooden spoon. She looks at it, her lips curve up, and she moves closer to me, sliding her arms around my waist. I place my arm around her shoulders and hug her as I stir the chicken, then kiss the top of her head.

  “You make me feel better,” she says, resting her cheek on my shoulder. “Just by doing this. Is that weird?”

  “When you’ve been starved for affection, I would imagine any tender gesture is welcome,” I reply.

  “That’s not the only reason,” she whispers. “I don’t want you to think that, either. I don’t just like you because you’re nice to me. It’s much more than that.”

  I rest my lips on her hair. I hadn’t realized until that moment how that had indeed played on my mind. Her words fill me with a rising sense of hope that it’s possible there is a future for the two of us. After Peanut’s born, when things return to normal.

  And until then? She’s close to giving birth, and I’m sure it would be weird if she wasn’t somewhat scared by the prospect. If holding her like this, showing her affection, makes her feel better, well who am I to argue?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Abigail

  The next morning, I do something I’ve been putting off for a while. I go into my bedroom, and I ring Tom.

  Part of me doesn’t want to be the one who calls. He hasn’t bo
thered to call, text, or email since I left. But I can’t escape the fact that the baby is his, and even if he’s treated me badly, at the moment he has a legal right to be involved with the child.

  I half hope I’ll have to leave a message, but he answers, “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” I say, heart racing. “Abby, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I haven’t forgotten.”

  There’s a long silence. “How are you?” I ask eventually, when it appears he’s not going to say anything.

  “Surviving,” he says. “The black eye your boyfriend gave me still fucking hurts.”

  Noah gave him a black eye? My lips curve up, and I have to stifle a slightly hysterical laugh.

  I wait for a bit, then say, somewhat irritably, “Are you going to ask me how I am?”

  “How are you, Abby?”

  “I’m okay. Thanks for asking. And the baby’s okay, too.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you care?”

  “What do you want me to say?” he asks tiredly. “You’ve made your choice. I suppose we both have. You deserve better than me. I hope he gives you everything you want.”

  It’s the first time he’s ever said anything like that, and my throat tightens. “You’re still the baby’s father,” I whisper. “I’m ringing to see whether you want to be involved.”

  “You mean you want money?”

  I bite my lip. “Legally—and morally, most people would say—you should pay child support. But that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about whether you want to be a part of his life. Do you want us to see a lawyer to discuss sharing custody?”

  He’s quiet for a while. I’m just about to prompt him when he says, “I’m moving back to Hamilton.”

  I look out of the window of the bedroom, across the fields. “When?”

  “End of the week.”

  I’m filled with conflicting emotions. “Why?”

  “Richard’s offered to put me up for a while until I get back on my feet.” Richard is his brother. I never liked him very much, but the two of them always got on fairly well. “I have to leave here,” Tom says. “I paid the rent for two weeks, but I need to get a proper job.”