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‘What is it?’
‘Want me to read it?’
‘Give me the gist,’ I murmur urgently, dipping my head forward.
‘“Renowned billionaire philanthropist and widower Jack Grant may be ready to get back into the swing of things. Spotted out and about with Lady Gemma Picton at The Ritz last night, blah-blah-blah...”’ Carrie says under her breath, and then resumes reading. ‘“The pair have worked together for some years, but it appears their relationship has moved to the next level. Is it possible Britain’s favourite billionaire is about to be taken off the market?”’ She pauses, letting the words sink in. ‘There’s some photos, too.’
‘I’ll bet there is.’
I stand, reaching for Jack’s robe, which hangs on the back of his door. It’s dark blue towelling and falls all the way to the floor on me. It smells like him; my senses respond predictably.
‘Which paper?’ I cinch the robe tightly around my waist, my hand on the doorknob.
‘The Daily Gazette.’
‘Oh, well,’ I say with relief. ‘That’s okay. What the hell are you doing reading that?’
‘My cousin emailed it to me. She knows we’re friends.’
‘Great. But no one else I know will read it.’
‘Sorry, mate. It’s in the Telegraph, too.’
My eyes sweep shut. ‘Shit.’
‘Is it true?’
There’s earnest concern in Carrie’s voice.
My denial is as swift as it is untrue. ‘No.’
‘You guys look pretty cosy in the picture...’ she says softly.
‘Pictures lie. Look, I’ll... Let me get back to you, okay?’
I disconnect the call before she answers, wrenching the door open.
Jack is fully dressed, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands, his attention focussed on the view of London revealed by the windows of his apartment.
Several newspapers sit on the table. I move towards them, instead of him, and cringe when I see that one of them has given us a whole page spread. Photos of us separately and photos of us working together make it look as though this has been going on for a long time.
And, yes, there’s the obligatory photo of Jack and Lucy, taken on their wedding day. I’m drawn to her eyes, her smile, her kindness that shines through the picture.
There we all are—the three of us, together in print media for posterity, for anyone who cares to look us up in the future.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly, though I don’t know what I’m apologising for, exactly.
‘Why?’ He turns around, a muscle throbbing in his jaw.
He looks both incredibly handsome and utterly awful at the same time. His skin is ashen beneath his tan.
‘This—’ he jerks his head towards the papers ‘—isn’t your fault.’
‘I know...?
? I shake my head slowly from side to side. ‘But still...it’s not ideal.’
His nod is curt agreement. ‘I’ve left a message for Amber,’ he murmurs, dragging the palm of his hand over his stubble. ‘To explain.’
