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Surely there were about a hundred things they could talk about. Starting with how he’d climbed up her fire escape for three weeks straight expecting nightly booty calls – and then walked away without a backward glance on Friday afternoon.
‘Is this going to be a long talk?’ she asked, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Should I make coffee to go with the croissants?’ Without waiting for a reply she shot off towards the kitchen. ‘I hope you got almond ones?’
‘Of course, they’re the best ones,’ he said. And I know they’re your favourites.
How many times had he watched her devour the lush treats, then kissed the stray flakes of pastry and frangipani off her lips?
The surge of heat was swift and predictable.
Yeah, not going there.
He shifted on the seat and tugged some plates out from the stack Ruby kept in the sideboard because there was no room for them in her tiny kitchen.
He arranged the pastries on one, placed two other plates in the spots they had become accustomed to using, and waited for her to return.
And ignored the melancholy, at the realisation this would be the last time he’d hear Ruby making coffee in the morning. He’d been prepared for that hit two days ago. How come he was less prepared for it now?
He could hear her puttering around – filling the kettle, switching it on, waiting for it to boil. Then the aroma of coffee filled the small apartment. But unlike every other morning, she wasn’t humming a show tune.
At last she reappeared with a steaming coffee pot and a couple of cups.
Before he had a chance to begin the speech he’d planned, she dashed back to collect a carton of milk. And a teaspoon.
>
He poured himself a cup. Took a sip of the strong brew and waited for her to sit down. At last she compiled.
‘Yum,’ she said as she grabbed a pastry from the stack. He watched her rip into the flaking confectionary, sprinkling crumbs, and lick the powdered sugar off the top.
The hum in his abdomen became a definite buzz.
He forced his gaze off her mouth – and his thoughts away from the memory of how her lips tasted dusted with almond sugar.
Not helping.
‘I’ve arranged a settlement with my finance team for The Royale. To pay the debts and keep you solvent for the next twelve months. Once the year is up, you can plan a budget with them for the following year.’
The pastry dropped on to her plate. ‘What?’
Finally, he’d managed to surprise her. Not just surprise her, astonish her from the look on her face.
The prickle of satisfaction wasn’t putting much of a dent into the strange weight pressing against his ribs.
Why did she look so shocked? Surely, the money was the least he owed her? Something he should have done two days, two weeks, two months ago even. Why had he been so determined not to take this step?
It was only money. And it was money he might even get back in time. He could be a silent partner.
If he were an ocean away, he didn’t need to be involved. He wanted to do this, for Ruby, and for his uncle. This was the best way to give back to the guy – for the harm he’d done to him by being born. And to give back to Ruby for three weeks he was never going to forget.
‘My finance department have set up an investment fund,’ he began again. ‘They’ll pay the debts as soon as they become due, then give you access for day-to-day running costs …’
She lifted her hand. ‘Wait! Stop, you can’t do that. I won’t let you do that.’
‘Why not?’ he asked, confused.
This was not the reaction he’d expected. But then maybe he should have. Nothing Ruby said or did was ever predictable.
‘The Royale’s not your responsibility,’ she said, the finality in her voice starting to concern him. ‘It’s mine.’
