The Billionaire From Her Past. Leah AshtonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Eighteen months later
MILA TOOK A step backwards and crossed her arms as she surveyed the sea of figurines before her.
Fresh from the kiln, the small army of dragons and other mythical creatures stood in neat rows, their colourful glazes reflecting the last of the sun filtering through the single window in the back room of Mila’s pottery workshop.
There was a red dragon with only three legs. A beautifully wonky centaur. A winged beast with dramatically disproportionate wings.
Plus many other creations that Mila now knew she must wait for the children in her class to describe.
It had only taken one offended ten-year-old for Mila to learn that it was best not to mention the name of the creation she was complimenting. Now she went with, That is amazing! Rather than: What an amazing tiger! Because, as it turned out, sometimes what appeared to be a tiger was actually a zebra.
Whoops.
But here she was, surveying the results of her beginners’ class for primary school age children—a new venture for Mila’s Nest—and, to her, the table of imperfect sculptures was absolutely beautiful. She couldn’t wait for the kids’ reactions when they saw their creatures dressed in their brilliant glazes—such a change from the muted colours they’d worn prior to being fired in the kiln.
A tinkling bell signalled that someone had entered the shop. Mila’s gaze darted to the oversized clock on the wall—it was well after five, but she’d forgotten to put up her ‘Closed’ sign.
With a sigh, Mila stepped out of her workshop. Mila’s Nest was one of a small group of four double-storey terrace-style shops on a busy Claremont Street, each with living accommodation upstairs. Mila had split the downstairs area into two: a small shop near the street, and a larger workshop behind, where she ran her pottery classes.
The shop displayed Mila’s own work, which tended towards usable objects—vases, platters, bowls, jugs and the like. Mila had always been interested in making the functional beautiful and the mundane unique.
The man who’d entered her shop stood with his back towards her, perusing the display in her shop window. He was tall, and dressed as if he’d just walked off a building site, with steel-capped boots, sturdy-looking knee-length shorts and a plaster-dusted shirt covering his broad shoulders.
He must have come from the shop next door. Vacant for years, it had been on the verge of collapse, and Mila had been seriously relieved when its renovation had begun only a week or so ago. Even teaching above the shriek of power tools, hammering and banging had been preferable to the potential risk of her own little shop being damaged by its derelict neighbour.
The man picked up a small decorative bowl, cradling it carefully in the palm of one large hand.
‘That piece has a lustre glaze,’ Mila said, stepping closer so she could trace a finger across the layered metallic design. ‘If you’re after something larger, I have—’
But by now Mila’s gaze had travelled from the workman’s strong hands to his face. His extremely familiar and completely unexpected face.
‘Seb!’ she said on a gasp, her hands flying to her mouth in surprise.
Unfortunately her fingers momentarily caught on the rim of the tiny bowl and it crashed to the jarrah floor, immediately shattering into a myriad of blue and silver pieces.
* * *
‘Dammit!’ Mila said, dropping to her knees.
Seb swore under his breath, and dropped to his haunches beside her. ‘Sorry,’ he said, inadequately.
This wasn’t the way he’d planned for things to go.
Mila looked up, meeting his gaze through her brunette curls. Her hair was shorter than it had been at the funeral and it suited her, making her big blue eyes appear even larger and highlighting the famous cheekbones she’d inherited from her movie star father.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said. ‘You just surprised me’.
She piled the largest pieces of the bowl into a small heap, then stood and strode over to the shop’s front door, flipping the red and white sign to ‘Closed’. When she turned back to face him she’d crossed her arms in front of the paint-splattered apron she wore.
Her expression had shifted, too. He’d thought, just for a second, that maybe she was glad to see him. But, no, that moment had gone.
‘Yes?’ she prompted.
He had a speech planned, of sorts. An explanation of why he’d hadn’t returned her many phone calls, or her emails, or her social media messages in the months after Steph’s funeral—before she’d clearly given up on ever receiving a response.
It wasn’t a very good speech, or a good explanation.
Explaining something that he didn’t really understand was difficult, he’d discovered.
‘I stuffed up,’ he said, finally. Short and to the point.
Mila raised her eyebrows, but he could see some of the tension leave her shoulders. Not all of it, though.
‘I wasn’t contacting you to make myself feel better, like you said,’ Mila said. ‘Or out of guilt.’ Another pause. ‘I was worried about you.’
Ah. Yes, he had replied to one email. He remembered typing it, with angry, careless keystrokes. He didn’t remember the content—he didn’t want to. It wouldn’t have been nice. It would have been cruel.
‘I wasn’t in a good place,’ he said.
Mila nodded. ‘I know. I wish you’d let me be there for you. Steph was my best friend, but she was your wife. I can’t imagine how difficult this has been for you.’
She stepped towards him now, reaching out a hand before letting it drop away against her hip, not having touched him at all. He realised, belatedly, that she wasn’t angry with him. That he’d misinterpreted the narrowing of her eyes, the tension in her muscles...
She was guarded, not angry. As if she was protecting herself.
He’d known he’d hurt her at the funeral. Not straight away—it had taken months for his brain to function properly again—but eventually. And she was still hurt, now.
That was difficult for Seb to acknowledge. The Mila he knew was always so together. So tough. So assured. She didn’t sweat the small things. Didn’t put up with nonsense.
But he’d hurt her—and he was supposed to be her friend. Once he’d been one of her closest friends—and the last person in the world who would want to cause her pain. And yet he had. He didn’t like that at all.
‘You didn’t stuff up,’ she said after a long silence. ‘I mean, I don’t think there are really rules in this situation. When a man loses his wife. But I think lashing out occasionally is allowed.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m a big girl. I can deal with it.’
She was being too kind, too understanding. ‘I can still apologise,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m here. To say sorry. For what I said at the funeral and for everything afterwards. We both lost Steph. I should’ve been there for you, too. I should’ve been a better friend.’
He could see her ready to argue again, to attempt to absolve him of all guilt—but he didn’t want that. And maybe she understood.
‘Okay.’
But he could see she wasn’t entirely comfortable.
‘I accept your apology. But only if you promise not to send any more mean emails. Deal?’
There it was—the spark in her gaze. The sparkle he remembered from the strong,