Falling For My Husband (British Billionaires) (35 page)

“And I’m sure that has nothing at all to do with the fact that
you
like Ashley?” I teased.

He sighed, “It is that obvious?”

I nodded. “To me, but I don’t think to her.”

“I am usually so good around women, but she … she is different.”

I patted his arm sympathetically. “I think she’ll come around.”

“Really?” He asked, brightening a little.

Eventually Ashley found us. Surprisingly, she was alone.

“What happened to Josh?” Tony asked.

Ashley rolled her eyes. “I am so over him. He’s kind of boring. He just kept talking about anime and cartoons for his art class. I mean, even that Greek god mystique of his can’t make that interesting. And when I asked if he was seeing anyone, he said there’s a girl in his class he’s interested in.” She made a face and gulped down the last of her drink.

“Did he say what class?” I asked casually.

Ashley gave me a strange look, “No. Why?”

“No reason,” I answered. It probably wasn’t the same guy anyway.

“O-kay …” she drew out the word even more than usually, obviously not totally convinced but deciding to let it go anyway. She held up her empty glass. “Let’s go get refills.” And she grabbed my arm and dragged me off toward the bar without waiting for a response. I never did end up meeting the mysterious Josh that night.

“Gina, are you sure you don’t want to come to this Burberry event at Aqua in Oxford Circus with me?” Ashley asked for the millionth time as she flitted about the house getting ready. I was reading in the living room.

“I can’t, Ash. I have a ton of coursework to do.”

She sighed dramatically, “Oh, fine. Well, if you get hungry, there’s food in the fridge. Help yourself to anything.” She glanced at her watch. “Sorry, I have to dash. My cab is waiting downstairs.”

“Have fun!” I called after her, waving goodbye. Ashley was always on the go, attending every event and party—and she knew absolutely everyone. It was exhausting just watching her sometimes. I had no idea how she found the time to do her coursework. Part of me would have liked to go with her, but I really did have a lot of reading to do.

Hours later, I was bored still and half falling asleep. I swear it was like reading Beowulf in the original Old English. I wandered into the kitchen and poked through the cabinets and refrigerator. Feeling too lazy to cook, I finally deciding to just warm up some milk and head to bed. I pulled out a small pot and turned the burner to medium-low heat. I must have closed my eyes, because the next thing I knew, the smoke alarm was going off.

“Oh no!” I exclaimed, suddenly
wide awake. The milk was burning. In a panic, I switched off the burner and grabbed one of my textbooks to start fanning the alarm. It just kept going on and on. I fanned harder, and it got louder. It was after 10 p.m. on a weeknight; my neighbors were going to kill me.

Over the wailing of the alarm, I heard a knock on the door. I ran to open
it, worried it was an angry neighbor. I flung open the door and my eyes widened. It was
him
—the guy from beginning acting class. Joshua. He
was
Antony’s flatmate. He must be. He was wearing a thin t-shirt and sweatpants, and he looked like a Calvin Klein underwear model. I swallowed hard and tried not to blush.

“Is everything alright?” He asked.

“I, uh, the alarm … uh, the milk burned and the alarm …” I stammered.

He walked past me into the apartment and reached up to fiddle with the alarm. After a moment, it stopped shrieking. The sudden silence was a tremendous relief.

“Thank you.”

Joshua was opening a window. “That should be alright, but the smoke smell might be hard to get rid of. Do you have air freshener?”

I nodded and walked past him into the kitchen. He followed me. We both looked up at the ceiling, where there was now an ugly black spot.

“You’re probably going to have to notify the concierge downstairs about that.” Joshua noted as I reached under the sink for the air freshener. He took it and sprayed into the living room, then turned back to me. He looked at me intently,
then took me gently by the shoulders. “Hey, are you ok? Just breathe. One, two, three. You’re fine now,” he said soothingly.

I let out a big sigh, and he let his hands drop from my shoulders back to his sides. “Thank you. I am so sorry for the bother. I guess I was way more tired than I thought. I’ve been studying for hours, you see, and … I’m sorry.” To my intense mortification, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I was starving, I suddenly realized, and exhausted, and miserable. And
PMSing. I blinked furiously and turned away from him.

“Have you had dinner?” He asked suddenly.

I shook my head, not quite trusting my voice not to tremble if I spoke.

“Well, you’re in luck because I just happen to make a very nice stir fry. May I poke around in your cupboards? Or should I just run down to Waitrose?”

“There’s chicken and vegetables in the fridge; rice in the pantry,” I answered, then added quickly, “You really don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” he insisted. “It just so happens that I haven’t had dinner either, and
I’m starving. And it’s no fun cooking for one. So,” he said, as if that settled the matter.

“Well, then at least let me help.”

He set me to chopping the vegetables as he told me how he’d been an Eagle Scout and learned to cook at fourteen. It felt strangely familiar and comfortable to be making dinner and chatting casually with this virtual stranger in my kitchen. And I had a great view of his cute little butt. Ashley wasn’t kidding about the Greek god physique.

“So how did you end up in cinematic arts?” I asked.

He shot me a look over his shoulder, “Paying attention in class, are we?”

I shrugged, “Maybe. So?”

“Well, I love art and colors. Before I started my course, I spent a summer in Italy just painting and drawing and learning Italian. That’s how I met my flatmate Antony. But I love movies even more, and I want to create films. I guess it’s my way of expressing myself. I want to be a director of a TV series or an indie film.”

“That’s awesome. I’m doing my postgraduate in scriptwriting. I don’t know all or even most of what I want out of life, but I do know that I want to be a writer.” I paused,
then asked, “Can I see some of your work sometime?”

“Sure,” he answered easily. “Will you let me read some of yours?”

I hesitated. “Maybe.”

“C’mon,
Georgie, a guy cooks you dinner, the least you could do is let him read your work.” He turned to me and held out a hand for the onions and garlic. I handed him the cutting board and he dumped them into the pan on the stove, then gave the cutting board back and stared at me expectantly.

I gave in reluctantly. “Okay, fine, I promise to show you some of my work sometime. Not tonight, though.”

“Fair enough.”

“So where did you get your degree?” I asked after a moment, continuing to chop up the other vegetables.

“USC,” he answered proudly.

I stopped what I was doing and stared at him until he turned around to look at me, then said with a straight face, “Get out. Trojans aren’t welcome here.”

He gave me an exaggeratedly wounded look, “Ah, so you’re a Bruin, then? Pity.” Then he flashed a cheerful grin and winked at me, “Well, fortunately we’re cheering for the same team now, Georgie.”