Page 32 of The Stranger

She makes a noise of disbelief. “Thinking about it, the folder is more about their schedules. It probably won’t be useful given the kids aren’t at school. But, you know, for the kids of a billionaire, they’re pretty normal. I mean, Felix can be a handful, but he’s not spoiled.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Because he totally seemed like a spoiled brat to me.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that money doesn’t solve all problems. And I’d guess there’s some generational trauma along with all that generational wealth.”

“Suffering is part of the human experience,” I retort with a fake brightness.

“Well, that family has suffered. He lost his wife, and those poor kiddies no longer have a mum.”

“Poor children,” I murmur, slightly chastened.

“I think that’s why Mr. du Beaumont is the way he is. He⁠—”

“Em, don’t make any more excuses for him!” I keep my tone light, but I’m not interested in hearing any tragic tales. I don’t want to feel sympathy for him. I can’t be expected to be nice to the man. “And he can be as grumpy as he wants because I am an expert at dealing with the male ego.”

“Since when?”

“I have four brothers,” I retort.

“Yeah, and you totally pander to their egos,” she deadpans.

“And I regularly get talked down by mansplaining patients who think their age trumps my experience. And I’m pretty sure that, when a doctor reaches the lofty heights of consultant, arsehole behavior gets added to their DNA. Which means I deal daily with people who have much bigger god complexes than your boss.”

Never while wearing just a bikini, though.

10

LUC

Five minutes late, Doctor Primrose Elizabeth Whittington steps onto the terrace, almost stumbling as she registers my presence.

“I thought… I thought I was eating with the children.”

“Sit down.” I give no confirmation nor correction. No please. No thanks. Just a whole lot of poker face.

She straightens her shirt, quickly regaining her equilibrium. Pulling out the heavy chair at the far end of the table, she sits, though not without some attitude. Sunlight and shadow dapple her golden hair thanks to grapevines twining the arbor overhead. She looks… different. No sinfully red bikini. No siren red lipstick. No short dress. No heels.

Instead, her hair is pulled into an untidy bun. I find myself wondering if she’s ever able to tame those locks. She’s dressed like the quintessential girl next door; pale jeans, a striped blue shirt, and navy espadrilles. Fresh-faced and innocent, she also looks young—far too young.

And strikingly lovely.

She adjusts herself in her chair, and I watch her take in the table, which is perhaps a little too well-dressed for a casual alfresco dinner. A snowy-white tablecloth, silverware, wine glasses, a small but elegant flower arrangement in the center. Then I notice she’s looking anywhere but at me, which could be related to her parting words.

Haven’t had sex in a year.

I’m not often caught off guard, though I’ll admit, that took me by surprise. What I won’t admit, even to myself, is the places my mind went with that information.

I’ve had a chance to reconsider my position since we last spoke, and the opportunity to examine her background check, and to think over the things she said. Some of them, at least.

And I’ve reached a conclusion. A plan. One she should reject outright. I know I would, but then my only loyalties are to my children and my business. Primrose, however, seems made of different stuff.

She tries not to fidget and mostly achieves her aims. Just the slight adjustment of a fork on the table and the righting of a flyaway hair.

“Okay, you win,” she says quite suddenly.

I press my elbow to the tabletop and rub my forefinger across my lip, mainly to mask my amusement. “I didn’t realize we were competing.”

“Something tells me a man like you is always competing. I’ve taken part in enough meetings to know the code. First to speak loses. In this instance, I’m happy to do so if it means we can get on with this.” She motions a finger back and forth between us. “Whatever this is.”