A year with the billionaire

Chapter 7

Donald

Seriously, Donald, you’re—’

‘Sir?’ Parker prompts as we approach a set of traffic lights.

‘Harvey Nicks. And delay our take-off by two hours, please.’

‘Two hours! What on earth are we shopping for that will take two hours?’

‘As you’ve just explained, you have a bag full of Amanda-wear—or am I mistaken?’

‘No, b—’

‘Then we’re going shopping. You can use my card.’

‘I don’t want to use your blasted card, Donald,’ she erupts, her bottom lip jutting out with her displeasure.

It’s so perfectly kissable, I can almost taste it.

‘No...’ Inside, I curse, battling my impossible reaction to her as I go on the attack. ‘You’d rather behave like a petulant child—again.’

Her eyes flash. ‘Say that again and I’ll—I’ll—’

I raise my brows at her. ‘You’ll what?’

She makes a growling sound and slams back into her seat. ‘When did you get so infuriating?’

‘When you left without a goodbye.’

Idiot! Where did that come from?

I race to fill the silence but she’s there first, her voice sickeningly soft, ‘Donald, I’m sorry for what—’

‘Save it, Amanda. I’m not interested in looking back. All I care about right now is ensuring you don’t die of hypothermia.’

‘I don’t need you to sort out my wardrobe.’

‘Because you’ve done such a great job of it yourself?’

She re-wraps her kimono around her, case in point. The flimsy thing in no way up to the task of fending off the Scottish weather...even so, I can’t deny that I love it. The vibrant colours. The way it sets off her eyes, her wild hair, the sun-kissed glow of her skin...

But then I’d love anything on her—that’s the problem.

What the hell is wrong with me?

‘I’ve not had the time to think about something as simple as my wardrobe. My head’s been full of all this since I returned.’

I scan her face, see her sincerity for what it is. ‘Have you read your letter now?’

‘Yes,’ she admits quietly. ‘I’ve read the letter.’

‘And?’

‘And I too disagree with much of it.’

‘Common ground at last.’

She gives a huff-c*m-sigh.

‘In which case, I assume you’ll also agree that we need to find a way around the conditions of the will—specifically those relating to where we live for the next year.’

Her eyes probe mine. ‘Why?’

‘Are you seriously asking me that?’

Her cheeks flush a delectable shade of pink, her lack of make-up offering up no protection from my watchful eye. She used to go in for heavy eyeliner, pale foundation, subtle blusher... Not that she needed it then—or now. Though I’m sure she’d appreciate its concealing benefits if I told her that her skin gives away her every emotion. Anger. Frustration. Sadness... Desire.

‘Do you have somewhere else you need to be for the next year, Donald? Or do you simply want to get away from me?’

My laugh is cold and abrupt as I turn to the window. I don’t want her to see the bitterness in my face. I don’t want her to know how much it stung when she left.

Her shocking departure cut deeper than the emotional neglect I suffered at the hands of my parents and has affected every relationship I’ve attempted since.

No one gets to see me that weak. Not any more.

‘Want to swap letters?’ she murmurs into the quiet, and I flinch.

‘Hell, no.’

‘Spoilsport,’ she mutters under her breath.

Silence descends—heavy, strained—and I count the seconds until I can break out of the car, break free of her...

I’ve never been more relieved to see the front of a department store. The five-storey building a welcome sight of sandstone, granite and gleaming glass. I leap out as soon as the car pulls up and catch the tail-end of Amanda’s hushed laughter as I go.

I wait for her on the pavement and she strides straight past me, her words trailing on the chilling breeze. ‘I never thought I’d see you so eager to shop, Donald.’

I bite my lip. Me neither.

Oh, Gran, if you could see me now you’d be laughing with her...or maybe that was your intention all along.

Amanda

I thought nothing could beat the weird adrenaline rush of shopping with Donald.

At first, I was hesitant. ‘Uncooperative’, to use his word. But I’ve never been a girly-girl. I’ve never had the cash to spare or the friends to shop with. Moving from foster home to foster home, school to school, can do that to you.

But under his undivided attention, hearing his honest opinion on what worked and what didn’t, what colours, what styles... I was lapping it up by the end.

It sure beat the animosity tainting our every other interaction up until now...even the one when he’d apologised. Sort of.

And with every compliment he paid my body warmed, and my ego with it. Not that he was flirting, or anything close. He said it like a statement of fact. Like it should be obvious to me what shades brought out the blue of my eyes, the honey in my hair...

It didn’t mean anything. But it had been so long since anyone had taken charge with my interests at heart. He cared that I didn’t catch my death and it felt...it felt good. Dangerously good to let someone care for me on some level and take the lead.

But now I’m here, in his helicopter, of all things, with the Scottish landscape drifting by beneath us. A patchwork quilt of greens, browns and hints of purple. Landbound lochs and rolling hills. Seeing it all from the air is incredible—an adrenaline-packed ride, quite literally.

‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re enjoying this.’

Donald’s voice crackles through my headset and I can’t help the smile that’s busting my cheeks.

‘It is stunning!’

‘And yet you’ve stayed away for so long.’

His sudden attack steals my breath and I look back to the window, hide my guilt, my confusion, my pain. How could he begin to understand how I felt? He was born into his world, Tessa’s world, and for all his grandmother tried to make me feel at home she couldn’t eradicate the doubt. The doubt that Donald’s own mother had picked up on and used against me.

‘It was better that way.’

I grip my hands together in my lap. Better for who? I feel the dig in my ribs—a sharp, acute pain. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Protecting myself when I should have been...

But I didn’t know she was sick! If I had, I would’ve moved heaven and earth to be here.

‘What? Staying away?’ he presses, his disbelief audible. ‘Even when Gran was diagnosed...?’

I flex my fingers, breathe through the pain. ‘No...’ My voice catches as I risk meeting his penetrative gaze. ‘Not then.’

‘Why, then? Why not come home when you knew she was sick?’

‘Because I didn’t know.’

I look away in my shame, my guilt, and say it so quietly I’m surprised he hears me over the blades beating loudly above our heads and the static through the headphones.

He leans across the lush cabin—swankier than I ever thought possible in such a confined space—and touches my leg, tries to get my attention.

‘What do you mean, you didn’t know, Amanda?’

‘Just what I said...’ I swallow the bulging wedge in my throat, blink back the tears. ‘She didn’t tell me.’

‘But all this time you claimed to be in touch. Hell, Nathan assured me you’d always been in her life, that her love for you was as strong as it ever had been, that you were close.’

Close?I nip my lip and the tears keep on coming. The retort is on the tip of my tongue. So close she didn’t think to tell me something as important as the fact she was dying.

But I can’t say it. It hurts too much.

‘Amanda?’

‘What, Donald?’ I shoot back, my eyes piercing his. I’m angry that he’s pressing me on this. Something I haven’t been able to come to terms with myself. ‘You know what she was like! She didn’t want to be seen as weak, as vulnerable, to have people fussing. She wouldn’t have wanted me to worry on the other side of the world. She wouldn’t have wanted me packing up my life to come back for her. She wouldn’t have wanted me...wanted me...’

I fumble for more reasons—reasons that I’ve told myself a thousand times over. But the only one I truly believe is that she didn’t love me enough to think I needed to know...

Or, worse, she thought I didn’t love her enough to care.

And if that’s the case why the inheritance? Why the letter so heartfelt and full of future promise?

‘No, you’re right.’ He snaps his hand back. The lines bracketing his mouth deepen as he presses his lips together, the rich brown depths of his eyes haunted by his own grief, his own confusion. ‘She wouldn’t have wanted you to worry or change your life for her.’

I ignore the way his words stick the knife in deeper and ask, ‘How long was she sick?’

‘I can’t believe you didn’t know...’

‘I didn’t, Donald. Please, you must believe me on this.’ Desperation makes my voice hoarse. ‘Do you really think I would have stayed away if I’d known?’

He debates it for longer than I like, his stare intense, and then he blinks and I see the shutters lift, the resignation in his sagging posture.