CHAPTER THREE
Summer
MYFINGERSHOVERover the keyboard. I’ve typed and deleted his name several times over, with my tap-tap-tapping getting more and more aggressive if the looks from nearby café-goers are any indication.
Or maybe I’m just more sensitive to their presence because I feel like what I’m doing is wrong.
Nosy. Gossip Girl-esque. Wrong.
I’d have done it in the privacy of my hotel room, but it turns out their services don’t include free Wi-Fi. So now I’m here, propping up a café bar, with my intent stare on my laptop, my search going nowhere.
I haven’t looked him up in a decade. I knew enough from Katherine to understand he was doing well; I didn’t need to taunt myself with more. Especially not the gazillion visual hits bound to ensue.
The media appeal of the Fitzroys knows no bounds. Good-looking to a fault, his father’s English aristocratic roots and his mother’s high society breeding make them regular fodder for the press. Edward is no exception.
But the twenty-two-year-old man I left behind and the man he is now, all suited and booted and so very severe, couldn’t appear more different.
And it has nothing to do with age or his impressive frame that suggests he works out—a lot! There’s something else. Something dark and dangerous and deeply unsettling.
That’ll be his hatred for you.
I throw off the barb. I don’t want to believe it. I want to believe it’s part and parcel of the man he is now.
He always had an edge, a way of standing out among his peers. Quiet, reserved...his sharp intellect and wit demanding a certain level of respect. But respect and fear aren’t one and the same and McAllister had acted like he feared him.
Or was it all about me? His reaction? The lawyer’s discomfort? Were they all because of me? Is he all fluffy bunnies and nicey-nice when I’m not around?
No, I don’t want to believe it.
But neither do I truly want to believe he’s as cold and ruthless as he appeared. Even his accent was clipped, his Scottish lilt indistinct.
And what of the way he touched my hand, held my eye, singed me to my very toes with blatant desire seconds before he delivered his parting remark and cut me to the core.
I shudder and shake it off. I should’ve known he would be there. I should have prepared myself better, scoured the internet for all the info I could find...
So get it done.
His name glares back at me, the cursor blinking next to it, and I strike ‘enter’ far harder than necessary. My eyes narrow—part-wince, part-studying—as the results appear.
Billionaire... Billionaire... Billionaire.
The word is on repeat. With every mention of his name it’s there, alongside a whole list of accolades, and I’m scrolling and scrolling...
British media magnate...tech and finance entrepreneur...philanthropist...cryptocurrency...social entrepreneur...company founder...net worth...
I swallow... He really is worth billions. Actual billions. I shouldn’t be surprised...not really...but that kind of wealth...?
Just how ruthless did one have to be to achieve such heights?
How hungry for money?
For me, the stuff’s a necessary evil. I live each day to the next, never knowing where my next adventure will take me, let alone the source of my next paycheque. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not irresponsible. I always put enough aside to ensure I’m a burden to no one—
A burden?
I choke on a laugh. There’s no one I could be a burden to. The only person I ever let myself care about is gone... Well, not quite the only one. The other is staring back at me on the screen, his static image enough to make my body warm. Doesn’t matter that I know he hates me, wants rid of me...
Not that I can blame him.