Page 56 of Arrogant Heir

Damian

I’ve been in a state of nervous excitement since I invited Jamie over and slept even less than usual last night. Rising early, in more ways than one, I knock the shit out of my punchbag as the watery sun nudges its way over Chelsea Bridge.

After my shower, I pour a cup of coffee and take a few bites of a fresh croissant the housekeeper has laid out for me on the terrace. I’ve no appetite—I’m too jittery to eat. I try to focus on reading the papers. It’s a bright morning and the gentle glow of the spring sun on my face is comforting. It’s been a long winter and I’m happy it’s over.

Flicking through the papers, I’m relieved to note I’ve finally dropped out of the headlines. They’ve been covering the playboy story angle since it hit last week. Hopefully that’ll be the last of it, although there’ll no doubt be coverage of the ball tonight, but it should be positive. Mymystery girlfriendsticking by me and attending the ball on my arm should see to that.

The way they went on, you’d think it was a crime for a single guy to hook-up at a club, just because the girl painted me as a cold-hearted villain. The story had no legs, and they know it. Jamie’s press release she wrote on the day of our hot almost-fuck on the table did the trick and drained the life out of the rumours.

I asked my driver to pick Jamie up as scheduled and she’s due here shortly. She’s all I’ve been able to think about and I’m nervy as hell.

Was it a mistake inviting her here before the ball? I’m not usually indecisive, but where she’s concerned, I can’t seem to function normally. My feelings are all over the place. I like her. I like hera lot. More than I’m comfortable with, if I’m honest.

I drain my coffee and finish scanning the papers. I try to take a bit of a break on Saturdays from my relentless work schedule, but this afternoon seemed the obvious time for me and Jamie to make the final edits on the manuscript. I’ve got more in-person meetings at the office this coming week, so I can’t work from Greystone, not that I want to without her there.

This is it. Probably our last meeting to discuss the book. I’m not kidding myself it can go anywhere beyond friendship. She’s engaged and I regret making a move on her last week.

So why am I putting myself in this position again when I know I have these out-of-control feelings for her?

The logical answer is it makes perfect sense, business-wise, and we need to complete the manuscript.

The truth is, I want to be with her, and I couldn’t resist. There’s no point lying to myself. I’ll see her one last time this weekend. She’s become my secret addiction and I’m not ready to cut off my supply just yet.

I look at my watch and estimate she’ll be here soon, so I get dressed. The intercom buzzes and I see on the security system she’s arrived and is on her way up.

The doors slide open, and she stands before me, her fiery-red waves flowing over her dainty collarbone and shoulders. She’s a knockout in a fitted red skirt and black top, and my blood’s racing as she enters the penthouse.

I feel like a fifteen-year-old kid, not the jaded billionaire playboy I’m painted as in the media.

I move towards her, presenting what I hope is a professional approach, but as we get closer, her smile punches the breath out of me, and it feels like the bottom drops out of my stomach. My hand reaches to greet her before I can stop myself. Her touch is like an electric sizzle through my arm. Does she feel the spark too?

Her caramel eyes are pools of emotion, and in an instant, I know she does. We fall into each other’s arms like we’re drunk. I couldn’t say who kissed the other first, but we’re kissing like I’ve never kissed anyone before. We’ve barely moved from the lift doors, so after a while I pull her gently into the lounge.

‘That was some hello,’ she murmurs.

I rub my hand across my Saturday morning stubble and meet her eyes.

‘Looks like I missed you,’ I say, giving her a half-smile.

‘I missed you too,’ she replies, and her eyes are clear and honest, and I believe her, but I can’t let myself make the same mistake again. Missing me is not the same as wanting to sleep with me.

I pull away. My chest is hammering and desperate longing floods through me as we separate. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve done it again. I didn’t mean to kiss you—I didn’t invite you here for that. What an idiot I am.’ I run my fingers through my hair and feel awkward as hell.

That was not what I had intended, but something just took over and I don’t even know how we ended up in each other’s arms. But she’s engaged, and it’s clearly not on, missing me or not. I’ve fallen for the wrong woman.Again.I curse silently.

I feel her warm hand on my arm.

She says, ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

Her face is flushed, and I think I see a desperate desire that matches my own in her eyes.

I clear my throat. My voice sounds even more gravelly than usual, and all my senses are on high alert. I don’t want to hear about her great love for her fiancé, but after what I’ve done—twice, now—it’s not fair to just shut her down, so I let her talk. ‘Okay. I’m listening.’ I can feel a muscle moving in my jaw, and I’m doing a terrible job of playing it cool.

But I’ll do my best for her. She makes me want to be a better man, even if I can’t have her. Even if she can never be mine.

She’s wearing stilettos but barely reaches my shoulder. I brace myself and meet her eyes, ready to hear what she has to say about this absent fucking fiancé of hers, who clearly doesn’t appreciate what he’s got.

Three months and he’s not been near her.