knew she’d get lots of questions about what she was working so hard on—which was the point. And she’d be vague, and everyone would assume it was something super-exotic—like a fundraising gala event or a photo shoot.
Not unpacking boxes in a grand old dusty house in London.
April smiled.
Part of her wanted to tell her followers exactly what she was doing. To tell them that she actually hadn’t been doing totally fine after Evan had left her, that she’d run away from everyone who loved her and for the first time in her life had realised how privileged she actually was.
But the rest of her knew she had commitments. Knew that the Molyneux Foundation’s sponsors hadn’t signed up for her to have an early midlife crisis.
And mostly she knew that she wasn’t ready to make any big decisions just yet.
She still hadn’t really got her head around the fact that she was single.
Of course she’d looked at other men since she’d starting going out with Evan. She’d even had men flirt with her—quite often, really. Possibly because of her sparkling personality—more likely because of all the dollar signs she represented.
But, regardless whether she’d thought some guy was hot, or if some guy had thought she was hot—or just rich—it hadn’t mattered. She’d been with Evan. So she’d been able to acknowledge a handsome man objectively and then efficiently deflect any flirting that veered beyond harmless.
Because she’d always had Evan.
She’d always loved Evan.
And now that she didn’t have Evan, meeting another man wasn’t on April’s radar. It hadn’t even been on her radar as something not to do—she hadn’t even thought about it. It had been too impossible.
Until she’d met Hugh. And then it hadn’t. It hadn’t felt impossible at all.
But it still was, of course.
Totally impossible. As she’d reminded herself in Hugh’s flat, she wasn’t going to walk from a fifteen-year relationship into another. And—and this scenario felt far more likely—she definitely wasn’t going to walk from one rejection straight into another one.
There were lots of things she had learnt she could cope with: having no money, working two jobs—two labour intensive jobs, no less—living in a shared house at age thirty-two and having her family on the other side of the world.
But she knew utterly and completely that she couldn’t cope with another man rejecting her.
I don’t love you.
How could those words still hurt so much?
She didn’t miss Evan. She understood that their relationship had reached its inevitable conclusion. She definitely didn’t want to be with him any more.
But... I don’t love you.
And he never had.
That pain didn’t just go away.
Hugh was already boiling the kettle in his mother’s kitchen when April arrived the next morning.
Her gaze flicked over him as she walked into the room, her bag slung over her long coat, her scarf in shades of green today.
‘Good morning,’ she said, in that polished, friendly tone he was becoming familiar with. She was good at sounding comfortable even when she wasn’t.
He could see the questions in her gaze and the instant tension in her stride as she walked towards the bar stools tucked beneath the marble counter.
‘Morning,’ Hugh said as she dumped her bag on a chair and then shrugged out of her coat. ‘I thought I’d help move those heavy boxes.’
Her email last night had explained that she’d found some boxes that would need two people to lift them. He’d considered contacting the temp agency to recruit someone, and then had realised that to do so would be preposterous. He was thirty-six, fit and he lived ten metres away. He could move the damn boxes. They were, no matter how much he seemed needlessly to over-complicate them, just boxes. He didn’t have to deal with any of the stuff inside them.
She nodded. ‘Great!’ she said, although he couldn’t tell if she meant it. ‘I thought you’d just organise someone to come and help me.’
‘I did,’ he said, then pointed towards his chest. ‘Me.’
Her smile now was genuine. And lovely. He’d thought that every time he’d seen her smile. It was another reason he’d considered calling the temp office. But similarly—just as the boxes were only boxes—a smile was only a smile. It, and his admiration of it, meant nothing more.
‘It shouldn’t take long. I could probably do it myself, but I’d hate to drop one of the boxes and break something.’
The kettle clicked as it finished boiling.
‘Doesn’t matter if you do,’ Hugh said. ‘But still—ask me to help move anything heavy, regardless. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’
April blinked as if he’d said something unexpected. ‘Okay,’ she said.
They took their coffee into the second reception room.
As always, the cluttered space made Hugh feel stiff and antsy—as if he could run a marathon on the adrenalin that shot through his veins.
So far April had cleared only a small section of this room. Once it had been his mum and Len’s TV room. They’d sat on the large, plush couch, their legs propped on matching ottomans, dinner balanced on their laps.
The couch was still there—one arm visible amongst the bevy of boxes.
The heavy boxes were near the window. They were much bigger than the boxes that had filled the first room—probably five or more times their size—and stacked only two high.
It was the top boxes that April wanted to be lifted down.
Coffee placed carefully on the floor, it was easy for the pair of them to lift the boxes: one, two...
For the third, they both had to reach awkwardly around it, tucked away as it was between the heavy curtains and another wall of boxes.
In doing so their fingers brushed against each other, along the far side of the box.
Only for a second—or not even that long.
Barely long enough to be noticed—but Hugh did.
Her hand felt cool and soft. Her nails glossy and smooth beneath his palm.
His gaze darted to April’s, but she was too busy lifting the box to pay any attention at all.
Or too busy deliberately looking busy.
He suspected the latter. He’d noticed her reaction in his flat when she’d so briefly brushed against him. Her cheeks had blushed pink in an instant.
He’d reacted, too.
It was strange, really, for his blood to heat like that from such an innocent touch.
He hadn’t expected it.
Not that he hadn’t continued to notice April’s attractiveness. It would be impossible not to. She was beautiful in a classic, non-negotiable way—but beauty was not something Hugh should be paying much attention to when it came to a woman working for him.
So he’d made sure he hadn’t.
Except for when she’d stood beside him at the sink a few nights ago, when his thoughts had been jumbled and unfocused. Then the shape of her neck, of her jaw, the profile of her nose and chin...
Yes, he’d noticed.
But, more, he’d noticed her