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“Emir interested you,” he reminded me. Stroking his thumb along mine, he gave my hand a squeeze. “It doesn’t matter to me who gets you off, be it you or me or Emir, or even someone else who catches your eye. But I want someone to do it.”
I considered. “How about you contact him, then. And in the meantime, maybe I’ll get reacquainted with myself.”
He grinned. “Perhaps I can be of assistance in that endeavor.”
A rush of heat spread down my belly, and I stood up to keep from squirming where I sat. There was that desire I’d thought I didn’t feel anymore. “Come on. Your smoothie is getting all ruined.”
“There is one other thing I wanted to discuss with you,” he said as we walked back to the kitchen.
“If it can be discussed in front of the staff, shoot.” I pushed the door open and made an “after you” gesture before following him in.
“When we came to London, you said you were planning to do a bit of freelance writing. Have you had a chance to explore that yet?”
My stomach dropped. The very last thing I wanted was for Neil to think I wasn’t pulling my weight. I’d made such a big deal about not needing his money and wanting to work, and all of that was true, I really did want to work and not spend his money. But it seemed like I’d been so focused on Neil, either caring for him or sitting around and waiting to care for him, that I hadn’t even thought about what I would do next.
“I haven’t,” I admitted guiltily. “I’m sorry.”
“What on earth should you be sorry for?” he asked, grabbing a tumbler from one of the cupboards. He went to the blender. “It isn’t as though I’ve been a workaholic these days.”
“But it’s different. You’re sick. I’m just... in a holding pattern.”
“Do you think that’s healthy for you?” he asked, and I almost snapped at him not to analyze me before he even saw his damn shrink.
Okay, if I was that defensive about it, obviously I wasn’t in a healthy place.
But god forbid I admit I was wrong. “Everything has been kind of go, go, go since we came here. So there hasn’t been a lot of time.”
“And your concerns about me take up a lot of mental energy, I know.” He carefully poured the contents of the blender into his cup. “I’m not trying to push you, but I am worried that if you lose your focus in your career, you won’t be happy. And I do want you to be happy.”
He made a pained face as he sipped his shake.
“Do you need me to get you a refill on the magic mouthwash?” I asked, lapsing directly back into my caregiver role. One of the nasty side effects of the chemo was that Neil got painful sores in his mouth and on his gums that made it difficult to eat or drink most things.
He nodded. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you.”
I looked around, opening and closing my hands. “Pen... I need a pen.”
“No.” He set his shake down and put his arms around my waist. “Stop driving yourself crazy. I have a very competent, very expensive nurse to care for me. From now on, just be my girlfriend.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.” His treatment and getting him through it as comfortably as possible had become the extremely narrow focus of my entire world. “You’re kind of my project right now.”
“I don’t want to be your project. I want to be your boyfriend. Get another project. Or...” He stopped, his gaze drifting off into that dead-eyed stare of deep thought. “You know, you could make me your project. Just not in the way you have been.”
“Yeah? How’s that?” I grabbed the pitcher from the blender and moved to take it to the sink, but he stopped me with a hand on my arm.
“You’ve been keeping notes on me. I know you try to hide it, but I’ve seen you doing it. Why not take all of the things you’ve journaled and start writing about them?”
It was a nice thought, but I couldn’t see how it would work. “I’m journaling stuff like your symptoms and your blood cell counts. Not that you aren’t absolutely fascinating, but I can’t see anyone wanting to read about that.”
“You’d be surprised. Remember the Daily Mail?” he reminded me dryly. They had made a disgusting offer for an “exclusive” story about Neil’s condition already. “But I don’t think you should write about me, per se; you should write about living as a partner with someone who has cancer.”
I considered. “It would probably be difficult to write about our situation without people figuring out who you are. I mean, are any other British billionaires with twenty-four year old girlfriends going through chemotherapy for leukemia right now?”
