Behind The Billionaire's Guarded Heart. Leah Ashton

she’d surprised him.

      He hadn’t been able to imagine her unpacking boxes—but she looked just as comfortable today as she had in her sharp suit. And her gaze was just as strong, just as direct.

      He realised he liked that, too.

      It should have been an uncomfortable and unwanted realisation. Maybe it was—or it would be later. When his brain wasn’t cluttered with boxes and forgotten bookmarks and had room for logic and common sense...and remembering who he was. Who she was.

      Boss. Employee...

      For now, he simply looked at the surprising woman beside him.

      ‘I know this is your mum’s house,’ she said. ‘I get that this must be difficult for you.’

      Her words were soft and gentle. They still cut deep.

      But they shouldn’t—and his instinct was to disagree. They’re just boxes. It’s just stuff. It’s not difficult in any way at all.

      He said nothing.

      ‘Do you want me to come back tomorrow?’

      Had she thought he might fire her over the bookmark?

      He nodded sharply, without hesitation. Despite how uncomfortable her kind words had made him. Despite how unlike himself she made him. How aware he was of her presence in this room and in this house. How aware he was of how close she stood to him.

      ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave my mug, then.’

      He didn’t look at her as she stepped around him and put the coffee mug into an overhead cupboard.

      By the time she’d shrugged back into her coat, and arranged her letterbox-red knitted scarf he’d pulled himself together.

      ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, with a smile that was bright.

      And then she was gone, leaving Hugh alone with a sink full of disappearing bubbles.

      * * *

      April’s roommate was asleep when she got home from stacking shelves at the supermarket, so she went into the communal living room to call her mum.

      For once the room was empty—usually the Shoreditch shared house tended to have random people dotted all over the place.

      Evidence of the crowd of backpackers who lived here—three from Australia and two from South Africa—was scattered everywhere, though. Empty beer bottles on the cheap glass coffee table, along with a bowl of now stale chips—crisps, they were called here—and a variety of dirty plastic plates and cups. One of the other Aussie girls had had a friend dossing on the couch, and his sheets and blankets still lay tangled and shoved into a corner, waiting for someone magically to wash them and put them away.

      Which would happen—eventually. April had learnt that someone would get sick of the mess, and then do a mad tidy-up—loudly and passive-aggressively.

      On a couple of occasions in the two weeks she’d been here it had been her—a lifetime of a weekly house-cleaning service meant she definitely preferred things clean, even though she’d had to look up how to clean a shower on the internet. She’d then realised that her relatively advanced age—she was the oldest of the group by six years—meant that everyone expected her to be the responsible, tidy one who’d clean up after everyone else.

      And that wasn’t going to happen.

      She was too busy working her two jobs and trying to stay on top of her April Molyneux social media world to add unpaid cleaner to the mix. So she’d coordinated the group, they’d all agreed on a roster...and sometimes it was followed.

      So April ignored the mess, cleared a spot on the couch and scrolled to her mum’s number on her phone.

      ‘Darling!’

      It was eight a.m. in Perth, but her mum was always up early. She’d finally retired only recently, with April’s eldest sister Ivy taking over the reins at Molyneux Mining. But so far her mother’s retirement had seemed to involve several new roles on company boards and a more hands-on role in the investments of the Molyneux Trust.

      So basically not a whole lot of retirement was going on for Irene Molyneux. Which did not come as a surprise to anyone.

      ‘Hi, Mum,’ April said. ‘How’s things?’

      ‘Nate is speaking so well!’ Irene said. ‘Yesterday he said “Can I have a biscuit, please?” Isn’t that amazing?’

      Irene was also embracing the chance to spend more time with her two-year-old grandson. After five minutes of Nate stories, her mum asked April how she was doing.

      ‘Good,’ she said automatically. And then, ‘Okay, I guess...’

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      And so April told her about the bookmark, and her new boss’s crystal-clear directive. She didn’t mention the details, though—like the sadness she’d seen in Hugh’s eyes in the kitchen. His obvious pain.

      Her mother was typically no-nonsense. ‘If he isn’t sentimental, it isn’t your role to be.’

      But that was the thing—she wasn’t convinced he didn’t care. Not even close.

      ‘I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right.’

      ‘Mmm...’ her mother said. ‘You can always quit.’

      But... ‘It pays almost double what I was earning at my last placement.’

      ‘I know,’ Irene said.

      Her mum didn’t say anything further—but April knew what she was thinking. She was torn between supporting April in her goal to pay off her credit card and live independently—a goal she’d supported once she’d been reassured April wasn’t going to end up homeless—and solving all her problems. With money.

      Which was understandable, really. Her mother had, after all, financially supported April her entire life. And April honestly had never questioned it. She was rich—it was just who she was. Her bottomless credit cards had just come with the territory.

      But, really, the only thing she’d ever done that really deserved any payment was her work for the Molyneux Foundation. And besides a few meetings she’d probably spent maybe an hour or two a day working for the foundation—with a big chunk of that time focused on making sure she looked as picture-perfect as possible in photos.

      It had been a cringe-worthy, shamefully spoiled existence.

      ‘You understand why I need to do this, right? All of this: living here, living on my money, living without the Molyneux name?’

      ‘Yes,’ Irene said. ‘And you know I admire what you’re doing. And I’m a little ashamed of myself for being so worried about you.’

      This was cringe-worthy too—how little her family expected of her. Her fault as well, of course.

      ‘But that’s my job,’ Irene continued. ‘I’m your mum. I’m supposed to worry. And I’m supposed to want to fix things. But, if I put that aside, here’s my non-mum advice—keep the job. Keep working hard, pay off your debt and move out of that awful shared house. It’ll make me feel better once you’re living in your own place.’

      ‘Yes, Mum,’ April said, smiling. ‘I’ll do my best.’

      And then she remembered something she’d been thinking about earlier.

      ‘Hey, Mum, did you keep that type of stuff? Stuff that we all made at school—you know, gifts for Mother’s Day? Finger paintings? That sort of stuff?’

      Irene laughed. ‘No! I’m probably a terrible person, but I remember smuggling all that stuff out to the bin under cover of darkness.’

      They talked for a while longer, but later, when April had ended the call and gone to bed, her thoughts wandered back to that faded little bookmark Hugh