My Lonely Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 4)

by Serenity Woods

  She looks in the doors and moves on. “So what happened after your mom met Matt King? Did you live with them?”

  “Yes. I was… a bit of a troublemaker back then. I know it’s hard to believe.” I give her a grin. “But Matt was a great father. When he realized I was interested in art, he encouraged me to go to art school. I ended up painting murals.”

  “You painted the one on the front of the Ark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow, that was terrific—you really have talent.”

  “I’ve won awards,” I say as modestly as I can, conscious that I want to impress this woman. I don’t want her to think of me as a weak guy, overshadowed by my affliction. I’m more than that. It doesn’t define me. “I painted other murals inside the buildings, too.”

  “That’s amazing,” she says, and warmth spreads through me at her genuine admiration. “Matt must be so proud of you.”

  “Yeah, they both are.”

  “What about your real dad?” She moves further along the corridor. “Where does he live?”

  “He died.”

  She stops and turns to me. “Oh, I’m so sorry, putting my foot in it as usual.”

  “Not at all. He…” I clear my throat. “He took his own life.”

  Her brows draw together. “Oh, Noah, you’ve had some terrible losses. I’m not surprised you feel as if it’s you against the world.”

  That’s exactly how I feel, and it’s the first time anyone’s ever expressed it like that. My surprise must show in my face, because she gives a small smile before she stops and stares at the next room. “Oh!” She walks into it. “Oh my God, what an amazing room.”

  It’s a big room with three walls lined with shelves of books. The fourth wall looks out across the fields, with the Ark in the distance. There’s a sofa and armchairs, a desk against the wall with a computer, a table with a coffee machine, and a mini fridge with cans of soda and bottles of beer. “I spend a lot of time here,” I tell her.

  “I didn’t think anyone had libraries anymore.” She walks around the room, looking at the books, occasionally taking one out to leaf through it before returning it to the shelf.

  I lean against the doorjamb and watch her. It’s nice to see someone else enjoying the room. I love it in here. I’d say it’s my favorite room in the house, but I do adore the conservatory that looks over the sea, and the kitchen when I’m cooking with music playing in the background, and the gym when I’m in the mood to work out.

  Her hand strays subconsciously to her bump as she tips her head to the side to look at the titles of the books. She strokes it lightly, her fingers brushing across the surface of the tunic. I wonder whether she touches her partner like that—tender, affectionate. I haven’t been touched like that for ten years, unless you count the occasional hug I’ve had from my mother, Izzy, or the other girls at the Ark.

  I’ve missed it. The thought surprises me. I’ve trained myself not to think about it. Not to dwell on the way Lisa would lie beside me in bed, trailing her fingers across my chest and belly while we watched the TV. How her hand would slip into mine while we walked, partly because she liked to be close to me, partly as a show of possession to other women: Watch out girls, he’s mine. I haven’t belonged to someone for a long, long time. There’s freedom in that, but also a sense of deep loss. It’s nice, to feel loved and wanted.

  “I’m not surprised you never leave the house,” Abby says. “I wouldn’t either, if I lived somewhere like this.”

  Her compliment makes me smile. I’m glad she likes it.

  She leaves the books reluctantly and walks back to me. “Did you build the house yourself?”

  “Well, not with my own hands. I don’t know one end of a plank of wood from the other. But yes, I had it designed. If I was going to be housebound, it had to be somewhere I felt comfortable in.”

  I show her my conference room, where I hold meetings with people from the Ark as well as visitors. Then, together, we walk back through the house to the living room.

  “That’s the conservatory,” I tell her, gesturing to where the dogs are watching us, their noses pressed against the glass. “And that’s Spike and Willow.”

  “Can I meet them?”

  “Of course, if you’re sure.” German Shepherds are big dogs, and a lot of people are wary of them.

  “You’re surprised,” she says with amusement.

  “Kinda. Paula preferred them to stay in the conservatory while she cleaned.”

  “Really? Wow. Well, you don’t have to lock them up on my account. I love dogs. I’d have one myself but…” Her voice trailed off, but I knew what she was going to say. But Tom doesn’t like them.

  I’ve never met the guy, and I already dislike him intensely.

  “Come on.” I lead her over to the conservatory. “They’re reasonably well trained and shouldn’t jump up.” When she nods, I open the door and say to them firmly, “Come and say hello to Abby. Gently, now, you two. Gently.” I hold out a hand, palm down, indicating they mustn’t jump up. If they show any signs of being overexcited, I’ll lock them back in the room.

  But they behave impeccably, coming up to Abby with wagging tails, thrilled when she drops to her knees and holds out her hands for them to sniff before scratching behind their ears. Within minutes, Spike’s looking at her as if she’s a rare steak, and Willow’s on her back with her feet in the air.

  I kinda know how they feel.

  Chapter Four

  Abigail

  After fussing the dogs, I try to get to my feet, but it’s a struggle, and in the end Noah holds out a hand and helps me up. “Sorry,” I tell him, brushing my tunic down, a little breathless from being in such close contact with him. “My center of gravity is a bit off. I feel like an upturned turtle half the time.”

  “If it’s any consolation, you don’t look it.” He smiles as we head back into the living room. He’s probably just being polite, but his compliment warms me through.

  “So… I’ve not exactly done anything like housekeeping before,” I admit. “Are you certain you’re happy to take me on?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be extremely capable,” he replies.

  “Okay… um, thanks. To be honest, the place is pretty spotless. What do you want me to do, exactly?” His house is tidier and cleaner than mine.

  “Anything that I don’t have to do is a bonus,” he admits. “A brief dust, a quick vacuum, a tidy up.”

  “Washing?”

  “I do my own laundry. How are you at ironing shirts, though? ’Cause that’s one of my pet hates.”

  I chuckle. “I’m happy to do that.”

  “Cool. And cooking. If you can rustle up the occasional meal, that would be great. You’re welcome to use anything in the pantry, fridge, or freezer.”

  “Okay.” That makes me happy. “Do you like muffins?”

  “I adore muffins. Paula said you know a hundred different types. I’m happy for you to work your way through your recipe list.”

  I laugh. “Noted.”

  “How do you know Paula?” he asks me curiously. “Are you related?”

  “No. We met at a self-help group.” I walk away, into the kitchen, and open the cupboard under the sink. “Well, I’d better get started. I’ve already wasted half an hour looking around.”

  “All right. I’ll be in my office if you need anything—don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “I will. Thanks.” I glance at him as he walks away, Spike at his side. Noah fascinates me. His eyes are watchful but kind. His house is amazing. He obviously has enough money to buy anything he wants. And yet he has this really strange affliction. I can’t imagine not being able to leave the house. It would make me claustrophobic. And yet, would I feel the same if I lived here? With all this space, this beautiful view?

  He also smells really nice. I like guys who smell nice. Tom’s allergic to something in most men’s fragrances so he wouldn’t use them even if we could afford them. It’s not his fault, but there’s something
wonderful about a man who uses aftershave.

  Noah disappears down the corridor, and I drop my gaze to Willow, who’s more interested in staying to see what I get up to. After giving her a quick fuss, I have a look at the cleaning stuff under the sink, select a cloth and some polish, and get to work.

  As I suspected, there’s not a lot of dust around, so I take time to orient myself as I move through the rooms, checking dust traps, running my finger over the top of doorways, and looking beneath furniture. Paula is a thorough cleaner, thank goodness, so all I have to do is flick the duster around, and then I get out the vacuum and pick up the few bits on the carpet that the dogs have brought in.

  I pass Noah working in his study, pull his door to so I don’t disturb him too much, and vacuum the rest of the house, tidying as I go, putting away magazines and books, emptying trash cans, straightening picture frames. I’m done in an hour. There’s no ironing in the laundry room, so I go into the kitchen.

  I spend a pleasant ten minutes looking in the cupboards, the fridge and freezer, and the pantry. He’s obviously a cook himself, as there’s every herb and spice a chef could ever want, and expensive cuts of meat in the freezer. I decide to make something simple to begin with, so I find some minced lamb in the fridge and settle on a shepherd’s pie.

  I chop and fry an onion and some carrots with the mince, add some garlic and fresh thyme, some stock, tomato puree, and Worcestershire sauce, and let it cook for a while before spreading it across the bottom of six individual white dishes. I boil and mash some potatoes with butter and milk, and spoon those over the top. Then I place them in the oven.

  I wash up, and then I get out the ingredients for some banana muffins.

  As I sift the flour with the baking powder and baking soda, I realize I feel happy for the first time in weeks, if not months. The sunlight is streaming through the windows, falling across the living room in squares like pats of butter. It must cost a fortune to heat the place with the high ceilings, but the heat from the huge gas fire set into the wall fills the room with warmth.

  I muse on how lovely it must be not to have to worry about turning off a fire when you leave a room as I mash the bananas and combine them with sugar, egg, and melted butter. Money has become my whole life. I guess it’s the same with most people, I think, as I stir in the sifted flour. In fact I’m luckier than most—I have a roof over my head, a partner, I’m pregnant, and I live in the Bay of Islands, which features on many people’s bucket lists.

  My hand slows, the spoon gliding through the mixture, and my gaze drifts up and away to the Pacific Ocean. I have been blessed with a child, which is more than many women have, but apart from that, I don’t feel lucky.

  Still, there’s not much I can do about it now. I bring my gaze back to the muffin tins I found in one of the cupboards, fit some paper cases in, and pour in the mixture. Then I take out the shepherd’s pies, place the muffins in, and set the timer.

  I’m tempted to lick the wooden spoon, but it contains raw egg, so I know I mustn’t.

  While they cook, I clean up, washing up all the bowls and measuring devices and placing them where I found them. By the time I’ve finished, the room is filled with the smell of baking, and it’s obviously strong enough to draw Noah out of his office, because he comes wandering in with a smile, sniffing the air.

  “Wow, something smells amazing.”

  “They’re just about to come out.” I open the oven and pull out the tray, pleased to see them all lightly browned, and place it on the heat-resistant pad on the worktop. “Banana muffins today.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “And shepherd’s pie for tonight.” I gesture at the dishes sitting to one side. “I’ll freeze the rest when they’re cool.”

  “They look amazing. Thank you, Abby.”

  “You’re welcome.” I turn away to hide a blush. “I’ll give the muffins a couple of minutes and then take them out the pans, and you can have one if you like.”

  “Will you join me? We could have a cup of coffee in the conservatory. Or tea, if you’d rather. I’ve plenty of herbal varieties.”

  I hesitate, knowing I shouldn’t. But the muffins smell amazing, and I’ve been on my feet for a couple of hours now, and I don’t want my ankles to swell.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “Aren’t you busy?”

  “I’ve got thirty minutes before I have to take a conference call. Plenty of time for a cuppa.”

  The thought of a muffin is too tempting. “Okay, then.”

  “I’ll make the drinks,” he says. “What would you like?”

  I choose green tea, and he makes himself a coffee while I ease the muffins out of the pan onto a cooling rack and put two on a plate. When we’re ready, we take everything through to the conservatory.

  There are four wicker chairs here filled with comfortable cushions. I lower myself carefully into one, and Noah sits beside me. The dogs, obviously well trained, don’t ask for food, and instead Spike lies by Noah’s feet, while Willow flops onto her side in the sunshine.

  I sip my tea, then break apart the muffin, releasing a wisp of steam into the air. Oh God, it smells amazing. I place a piece in my mouth and chew it slowly, my eyes closed. Peanut does a sudden flip in my stomach, clearly excited at the thought of food.

  I open my eyes to find Noah watching me over the rim of his coffee cup. I wonder if he’s going to comment on my obvious pleasure, but he just smiles and says, “These are excellent,” as he takes a bite of the muffin.

  “I’m glad you like them.”

  “Your own recipe?”

  “Oh, it’s just a basic one, as I wanted to test out the oven. Some ovens cook quicker than others. Yours was just right, though.”

  “Paula said I have to get you to bake me one of your cakes. She said they’re amazing.”

  I laugh. “I made one for our group and put fondant flowers all over it. It only took me half an hour, but they talked about it for weeks.”

  I wonder whether he’s going to ask me what kind of help I need, but he doesn’t. His gray eyes are watchful, but all he says is, “So tell me, how did you get into cake decorating?”

  I could talk about baking until the cows come home, so I explain how I used to cook with my grandmother back in England, making all kinds of cakes and cookies in her big kitchen in Devon.

  “How long have you been in New Zealand?” he asks. “You still have a British accent.”

  “Fourteen years,” I tell him. “My partner, Tom, is a Kiwi. We met in London, and he persuaded me to come back with him. My mom was very upset. We never got on at the best of times, but when I announced I was leaving, she practically disowned me.”

  Noah’s brow furrows. “That must have been difficult for you.”

  “It was. Still is.”

  “She didn’t want you to move so far away?”

  “That’s part of the reason. It is a long way. I didn’t care at the time, but of course I didn’t factor in how much it was going to cost to fly back to see her. I haven’t been able to afford to go back, and she doesn’t want to come here, so…” My voice trails off.

  “What was the other part of the reason?”

  I sip my tea. “She disapproved of Tom. She thought he would be a bad influence on me.”

  I wait for him to ask if she was right, or why she thought that, but he doesn’t. He takes another bite of muffin, then looks out of the window for a while, obviously thinking.

  “Is your dad still alive?” he asks eventually, bringing his gaze back to me.

  “Yes.” I don’t want to talk about my father. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t push the point. “One brother, Leon, and one sister, Clio. They’re my half-brother and half-sister, technically. Same mother. I’m not related by blood to the Kings—the family who help me run the Ark, but we all call ourselves cousins. Nobody really cares. We all look out for each other here. The Ark is a sanctuary, after all.” He smiles.

  I wonder
what it must be like to be surrounded by people who care about you. I feel so alone at the moment. I think of how friendly Izzy and Hal were, and how it would be to work somewhere like the Ark all the time. To have someone to celebrate with when things go right. To have support if things go wrong.

  Noah finishes off his coffee. “Anyway, I’d better get ready for my call.”

  “Of course.” I have the last mouthful of tea, and we take our plates and mugs back into the kitchen.

  “I’ll put these in the freezer,” I tell him, gesturing at the shepherd’s pies. “Do you want me to leave one out for you for tonight?”

  “Yes, please. But actually, I was thinking, I doubt I’ll get through six of those.” He slides his hands into his pockets. “Would you like to take a couple home? And some of those muffins?” He’s smiling, but his eyes are astute. He’s seen through me.

  How? What did I say that made him suspect? I’m not sure, but I’m embarrassed. “I couldn’t,” I stutter.

  “They’ll only go to waste,” he says easily. “Unless it’s too difficult for you.” Again, his tone is gentle but his eyes are sharp. He suspects Tom is going to have a problem with it.

  I look at the dishes. Tom will hate the charity, but I might be able to spin it as having made too much. They’re going to taste amazing, and I’m sick of eating noodles and rice.

  I swallow hard. “Well, if you’re sure. I wouldn’t want to make you fat.”

  He laughs. “I’ll have to run an extra few hundred miles if I eat all those muffins.” He goes over to a drawer and takes out a reusable supermarket bag, then covers two of the white dishes with lids before placing them inside. Then he finds a plastic box with a lid and puts four of the muffins in there before placing those in the bag, too.

  “Let’s get your coat,” he says eventually. I follow him over to the front door, and he takes my jacket down and holds it up for me to slide my arms into. Finally, he hands me the bag.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, too full of emotion to say anything else.

  “Thank you. I’m looking forward to dinner tonight. Oh, and of course, payment. Do you have your bank details? I’ll transfer the money over.”