Trust (London Love #5)

“Son, want to explain what The Dieter was doing in our baggage store?” my dad asked right behind me, sneaking up on me like the dad he was.

“Nope.” I grinned.

Then I went to lunch. Did I feel better? Not really. But I shoved grub in my mouth, scrolled on my phone. A text came through. Just a heart. Fuck him and his bloody poetic romantic blackmail bullshit.

But I smiled. It felt…kind of. Good.

A place where we can breathe

GRAHAM

I was a grown-up. A professional, working man who could do things all on his own.

I’d bought my first house on a whim. I’d seen the estate agent leaflet, signed some paperwork for Lauren and been driven to this big empty shell of a house with a garden I’d never set foot in.

Then I’d gone on tour and left it to someone else to sort out all the interior—furniture and soft furnishings and so on.

I hated that house. I truly did.

I’d sent the bed back. It was too big and creaky. But I’d kept the mattress. I mean, I needed somewhere to sleep. Or try to.

Was it any wonder I didn’t sleep?

I’d been broken into a few times. Had the gates smashed open. Then that stalker thing… I shuddered, remembering. Not fun.

God, I hated that house. I truly did.

It was a massive relief signing the papers this morning. The official Blitz solicitor had handled the sale. My people were arranging the movers to come in and put everything into storage. I just had to come organise my personal effects.

I was officially homeless, and my security guards were temporarily at a loose end. People kept asking me where I would be staying, reminding me of my contract. The insurance company insisted on twenty-four seven security. Blah, blah, blah. Ha! I shouldn’t have felt good about that, but I did. No more. End of.

My personal effects would fit into a bag or two, so I was going to do that tonight. Sleep on that bare mattress. Feel like shit.

Again.

“Right here,” my driver said—another new guy from another agency that employed soulless humans who drove from A to B with zero conversation.

He slowed the car to stop, and I glanced out the window at the cardboard cutout estate agent standing with paperwork in hand. I got out of the car, and she greeted me with a warm, excited smile.

I grunted a greeting back at her and shifted my gaze to the building. Big gates. A row of townhouse-like structures. Entrances to apartments. New builds. Very little space.

Safety my brain mocked.

I wasn’t sure about anything, but knowing me, I’d sign on the dotted line just to get this over and done with, like I’d done last time, with no real idea of what I was doing or why I was doing it.

“We have a great apartment here, fantastic potential,” the woman gushed, leading the way through the gates. “Private parking, twenty-four-hour security, concierge, and the grounds are outstanding for central London.”

I was sure they were. Fishing my sunglasses out of my rucksack, I put them on as we entered the building and took the lift up to the top floor. Sunglasses inside looked stupid but were incredibly helpful. They hid my eyes. Hid a lot of emotion.

“Great views.” The lift doors opened, and the woman strode off across the marble floor, waving her arm at the various features. “Gorgeous bespoke kitchen, neutral colours, and the bedroom has a very attractive walk-in wardrobe.”

I took off my sunglasses, twirled around the open-plan space.

It looked like every hotel room I had ever stayed in. Cold. Inoffensive. Bleak.

“Not quite what I am looking for. This is like…a hotel. I want a home.”

“A home?” She gave me an odd kind of look, but I couldn’t have described what I meant if she’d put a gun to my head. “Your brief said high security location, within your max budget.”