“Umm…” he murmurs, distracted by the moustached man handing him his burger. “There’s an important opportunity that needs to be explored,” he says. “Shall we sit down and eat these?”
We sit on a stone fence (another thing I couldn’t imagine a billionaire doing), biting into our chèvre, truffle oil, and confit duck burgers. Is this seriously the same person who flares his nostrils at me at every opportunity in the office? He’s so high-strung normally. Is this his regular self? Mark out of office? I didn’t know he existed.
“Mmm,” he groans. “That’s delicious.” The words come out muffled, and he takes another bite before finishing his first.
I nod in agreement. “Told you so.”
A man of this size must put away a lot of food in a day. The burger looks like a slider in his large hands.
And then it’s gone.
“What’s next?” he asks, standing up and wiping his hands on his napkin. “What’s to see around here?”
“Are you investing in a building, or what would be useful to check out?”
“Not a building, no. Show me what you think is worth our time.”
“As you wish, boss,” I say and smile. His expression falls before he wipes his face with the napkin and clears his throat.
“If you want to, that is,” he says, sounding almost nervous again. Another very un-Mark-like reaction. “I realise this might be quite the imposition on your plans for the day.”
I contemplate it.
This is my out.
Do I really want to spend my Saturday with the CEO I very much shouldn’t be on the wrong side of? But he seems so normal. Nice, even.
I’m curious about him now. This tentative, playful Mark has me wondering what else he’s hiding.
He turns around, raking a hand through his styled waves that look silky soft, as if he’s giving me a moment to think.
And there’s his arse in chinos.
Holy Mary and Joseph on a cracker, that is one hell of an arse. “Oh my God,” I whisper, and he swivels back.
I shift my gaze, but now I’m stuck in his hazel eyes and my cheeks are burning hot. Did he hear that?
He clears his throat, clearly pretending he didn’t catch me checking him out.
“Umm, I’ll show you around,” I say. What I really want to do is ask why. Why is he here? Why is he asking me of all people to show him around?
“Alright, so what’s next?” he says, putting a stop to my busy thoughts.
I take him to the pub in the park and watch him struggle to put that big frame of his into a narrow booth while balancing a pint of beer. I can’t stop laughing, and I’m lucky (and surprised) he’s got a sense of humour, because he chuckles, although he seems to be holding back. I’ve yet to see him break into a full smile.
Then I show him the walkways along the canals, and his stocky bodyguard lurks behind us, making passers-by stare back and forth between us and him. A group of teenagers whisper ‘is he a spy?’ and ‘is she famous?’, which makes me laugh so hard I almost fall in the canal. But, true to his current status of lovely gentleman, Mark catches me before I do.
Back at the market, he pulls out a bundle of crisp £50 notes to pay for an éclair. The lady at the stall stares at him and shakes her head until I give her a scrunched-up old fiver instead.
“She probably thought you’re a drug dealer,” I tell him when we stroll towards his car, and I lick the caramel off my fingers.
“Why?”
“Only drug dealers and old ladies have cash like that.”
“And billionaires,” he says with a glint in his eye. “Although I don’t normally carry cash anymore, I just thought I’d need it for the market.”
I stare at him. Is this really happening? I should be curled up at home with ice cream, sad that the man I’ve felt the strongest chemistry with has stood me up. Instead I’m here, listening to Mark Becker joke around.
