The Billionaire from Her Past (11 page)

Seb had walked a few steps when he heard movement behind him. He looked over his shoulder—his father had slid the door shut and, with a nod, left Seb alone.

To his right was the pool house, and it felt natural that Seb went there. The wooden bi-fold doors that made up two of the walls were pushed partly open, so Seb opened one of them the rest of the way, before collapsing onto a large day bed, his legs stretched out before him.

For a long while he just lay there, staring at the raked ceiling. He didn't really understand what he was doing, or what he was thinking. Out here—more so than in the house—snippets of memories whizzed through his brain. Most were almost too quick to grasp—vignettes of a primary school age birthday party, Christmas lunches his parents had hosted, water bomb competitions off the diving board.

But others lingered: Mila suggesting they jump off his mum's exercise trampoline and into the pool. Steph claiming she could hold her breath underwater
‘waaaayyy'
longer than Seb could. The afternoons they'd been supposed to study together but had instead sprawled in the pool house, discussing everything and anything—with the earnestness and intensity of teenagers who thought they knew it all.

In the end calling Mila seemed the only possible thing to do.

She didn't answer his first call, but she picked up after what seemed like infinite rings on his second.

‘I told you, Seb—'

‘I'm at the pool house,' Seb said, interrupting. ‘Can you come over?'

* * *

Saying no hadn't been an option.

In fact it hadn't even been a consideration. Which should've been weird, given Mila had literally been in the process of telling Seb never to contact her again when he'd asked her.

But it was the pool house.
The pool house.

So she'd come straight over. After a quick visit to the bottle shop.

Monique and Kevin had simply ushered her through when she'd arrived.

She wore jeans and a singlet, and her flip flops were loud against the merbau decking, the evening air cool against her skin.

Seb was sprawled across the day bed in almost darkness, the pool house lit only by the light from the main house.

‘I brought your favourite,' Mila called out.

He propped himself up on one elbow as she approached. ‘You drink schnapps?' he asked, incredulous.

‘Only on special occasions,' Mila said, handing him the bottle.

She walked over to the small bar that still occupied the corner of the pool house. In the limited light she grabbed a couple of shot glasses, and noted that the alcohol was no longer locked away in some undisclosed location in Seb's house. Instead the bottles lined a couple of shelves along the wall, no longer vulnerable to curious teenagers. No peach schnapps, though.

Seb pulled himself up, propping his back against the plush cushions that edged the day bed. Mila crawled across the mattress to sit beside him. But not touching.

Seb was staring straight ahead, across the pool. Silently, she handed the glasses to him and then poured them both a drink.

‘Why did you invite me over?' Mila asked, then immediately downed her drink.

Seb followed her lead, then grimaced. ‘How on earth did we drink a bottle of this?'

‘Why did you invite me over?' Mila repeated, ignoring him.

Seb finally held her gaze. She could tell he was, despite the darkness, simply by the intensity of him doing so.

Now that her eyes had adjusted to the mix of moon and ambient light she could make out more details of his face: a few days' worth of stubble on his jaw, lines of tension etched about his eyes and mouth.

‘I need to talk,' he said. ‘About Steph.' He swallowed. ‘I want you to talk about Steph, too.'

The request was not unexpected, Mila knew the significance of the pool house. Knew the hundreds of memories the three of them had shared here. And of course knew the memories that should have been between only Seb and Steph.

She'd been Steph's best friend and they'd been seventeen. She
knew
Steph had lost her virginity here. She knew more details than she'd probably needed to—but then, she'd been seventeen and curious too.

Back then she'd felt occasional flutters of jealousy—she'd carried a little torch for Seb through numerous boyfriends of her own. But she'd simply boxed up her crush, not allowing it to impact on her friendship with Steph or with Seb. It had been simply what it was. Nothing more. She'd been happy for them both.

But now, only days after sleeping naked beside this man...days since he'd been inside her...it was hard. To be here beside this man and beside the memory of Steph.

‘Mila?'

At some point her gaze had dropped to her hands. She'd knotted her fingers together, but now she disentangled them, laying her hands flat against her thighs.

But wasn't
all
of this hard? For both of them? She'd known that when Seb had asked her to come here. She'd known what she was doing, and she'd also known she needed to do it.

For Seb and for herself.

‘When we were thirteen, I dared Steph to steal a bottle of purple glitter nail polish from that chemist near Teli's Deli. Remember it?'

Mila looked up, at Seb watching her. He nodded.

‘I never thought she'd do it, but she did. No one noticed...no one knew. For about five minutes we thought we were the biggest, coolest rebels ever. And then we felt terrible. Steph started crying.'

Mila's lips quirked upwards. She was remembering how they'd sat under the shade of a Moreton Bay Fig at a park nearby, their ill-gotten contraband lying on the grass between them.

‘Then I started crying too, and we ended up going home and telling Ivy. Ivy made us go back to the chemist, tell the manager what we did, and pay for it. She never told our parents, never told anyone. We didn't tell anyone, either.'

‘Not even me?'

Mila shook her head. ‘No.'

Seb smiled. ‘Steph told me that story.'

‘No!' Mila said, genuinely shocked. ‘We had a
pact
!' She said it with all the latent indignation of her thirteen-year-old self.

He shrugged. ‘We'd had too much to drink at a party in London one night. I can't remember why it came up. She made me promise never to tell you I knew, and she was mortified she'd told me.' He smiled. ‘But I always did wonder—why didn't you tell me back then?'

‘There were always some things that were just between Steph and me.'

For a while they sat in silence. Long enough for Mila to tune in to the sounds around them: the regular chirp of crickets, hidden somewhere in the lush gardens, Rustling leaves. And, further away, the muffled sounds of the occasional car travelling down the street.

‘Did she tell you about us?' Seb said, then cleared his throat. ‘That she wasn't happy?'

Automatically Mila went to shake her head—but then she realised that a denial would not be entirely truthful. ‘We didn't speak often over the past few years,' she said. She'd do anything to turn back time and change that. ‘But when we did we used to talk for hours. She'd talk about her business, about where you were living, about all the new people she was meeting. And about you. A lot. She was so proud of your success.'

Mila paused. Although they sat side by side Mila was looking straight ahead, her gaze focused on the perfect glass-like surface of the pool.

‘But our conversations became shorter as they became further apart. And I started to notice that I had to ask about you. You didn't seem to be such a large part of the life that she was sharing with me. I noticed that, but I didn't question it.'

‘Why not?' Seb asked, but with only curiosity, not censure.

‘Because she sounded happy. Maybe I thought she would mention it herself if there was a problem—or a problem she wanted me to know about.' Now Mila turned towards Seb, tucking her legs beneath her. ‘I guess that says a lot about how our relationship changed. I was only sharing the highlights of
my
life, too. Not the messy bits.'

Seb just watched silently as she spoke, his expression unreadable.

‘But mostly,' Mila said, ‘I don't think I really believed it. I mean—you were both so happy. So perfect together.'

‘We were far from perfect.'

‘I should've asked her—'

‘You wouldn't have had anything to ask if I'd been a better husband.'

‘I'm sure it wasn't all your fault,' Mila said gently.

‘Based on all the conversations you had with Steph about our relationship?' His words were flat. Brutal.

‘Ouch.'

Seb ran his hands through his hair. Now he was looking out at the pool. ‘I'm sorry. I'm being unfair.' He sighed. ‘Objective me can quote all sorts of clichés about relationships being a two-way street, or say that it takes two to tango... But I was there and I knew things were breaking—that they were broken. And I did nothing. I just went to work each day, carrying on like normal.'

‘What did Steph do to try and save your relationship?'

Seb didn't like that question. It was apparent in every instantly tense line of his body.

‘She tried harder than me. She tried to talk about it, but I didn't want to know. She organised counselling, but I'd always cancel.'

‘Why?'

‘I've asked myself that a million times,' he said, with a rough facsimile of a laugh. ‘At the time it was basic denial. I just didn't want to deal with it. But obviously it was more than that. Of course I knew that it was over. But I didn't want to think about what that meant. Steph and I had set up a life together. We'd left our families behind. And we'd been more successful than in our wildest dreams. If we broke up, what would happen to the perfect life we had? If the relationship that had been core to our success failed, what did that mean for everything else? I'd been with Steph for half my life. My success seemed intrinsically tied up with hers and with
her
.' He sighed. ‘So that's what it came down to. Fear of failure. Pretty pathetic, huh?'

Mila didn't say a word, just allowed Seb's words to keep on flowing.

‘When I noticed how much she was going out, how many nights she'd get home at crazy hours, I did ask what she was doing, but she assured me all was well. I knew it wasn't, but she was still going to work each day, her business was still doing so well...' He shook his head. ‘What does that say about me? That I'd use capability for work as an indicator she was okay? Part of me knew it was destructive behaviour, knew that we were in the death throes of our marriage. I think she knew, too. But we were both just too busy to get around to ending it, to dealing with the end of Stephanie and Sebastian. It seemed impossible.'

He swallowed.

‘I think she might have been seeing someone, actually. We had a memorial service in London, and there were a group of friends there I didn't recognise. I hated them instantly, because I associated them with what her life had become—the parties, the drugs. But they weren't what I expected—they looked like professionals. Young, financially secure. Which made sense. Steph overdosed in a penthouse in South Kensington, not in a gutter.'

Mila realised she was crying. Silent tears were sliding down her cheeks and dripping from her chin.

‘One guy...I don't know...I just
knew
. He wouldn't look at me. And he was pretty cut up. His friends seemed to be rallying around him.'

Mila had to touch him so she slid closer, holding his hand.

‘Steph's choices were not your responsibility,' Mila said softly.

‘I failed her, Mila—can't you see that?' Seb said, his words firm. ‘It doesn't make any difference who introduced her to her dealer, or what happened next. All that matters is that I was supposed to be there for her—more than anyone else in the world. And I wasn't. I was distant—emotionally, geographically. I was too obsessed with my company and its continued success to make time for our relationship. I even made sure I was too busy to end our relationship—to let her move on with her life. I was selfish and I was scared. I failed her.'

Mila gripped his fingers harder. ‘I failed her too,' she said. ‘I wasn't the best friend I was supposed to be. I let time and time zones transform us into being little more than acquaintances, always with the best of intentions to reignite our friendship “one day”.' She wiped at her eyes ineffectively, leaving her palm damp with tears. ‘One day...' she repeated.

For a long while they both sat in silence, surrounded by their choices, their mistakes, their regrets.

A leaf had marred the perfect surface of the pool, and Mila watched its slow, directionless journey across the water.

‘Do you remember when Steph was going to make her fortune baking Steph's special mint slice?' Seb said, after an eternity. ‘How old were you? Twelve? She even made a website on one of those awful free site-builders with a never-ending web address...'

And just like that, they started talking about Steph.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

S
EB
WOKE
TO
the warmth of the sun against his skin.

It was an effort to open his eyes because his eyelids were heavy. His whole body was heavy, in fact.

It was early—early enough that the sun was still low and able to stretch its rays into the pool house. Beside him, on her side, lay Mila. She was still asleep, with yesterday's make-up slightly smudged beneath her eyes, one arm stretched out towards him. Her singlet top was twisted at her waist, revealing a strip of pale stomach above her jeans. Her feet were bare, her shoes kicked to the ground.

But she no longer touched him. At some point as they'd slept their hands had fallen apart.

Seb couldn't remember a decision to sleep in the pool house. All he remembered was the pair of them talking. Talking and talking—sharing memories of Steph. Memories of the three of them together. Memories of Steph and Seb and also of Steph and Mila.

The bottle of peach schnapps had been abandoned early on, to be replaced with a selection of other spirits from his parents' bar. The small stack of shot glasses lined up along the wooden back of the day bed perfectly explained his lethargy, as well as the fogginess of his brain.

‘Morning,' said Mila, her lovely eyes blinking at Seb sleepily.

He smiled. ‘Good morning,' he replied—and it was. A
really
good morning, he decided. Today, despite the after-effects of alcohol, he felt good. Really good.

‘I guess all those people telling me I needed to talk about Steph were on to something.'

Mila laughed, the sound startling a small honeyeater perched on the glass pool fence. It flew away in a flurry of flapping wings. ‘Talking
is
good,' she agreed. ‘I did a lot of talking early on—to Ivy especially. She's a good listener.'

‘I'm sorry I was so awful to you back then,' he said. ‘You wanted to talk and I wouldn't let you.'

‘Yeah...' Mila said, all matter-of-fact. ‘Desperately. But maybe waiting wasn't so bad. I wasn't ready to talk about the good times straight after Steph died.'

And that was what they'd done. Once they'd laid all their guilt out on the table they'd simply reminisced together. Sharing everything and anything that included Steph, and nearly every story and anecdote had led to laughter.

That
was what had changed in Seb last night. For the first time since Steph's death Seb had smiled as he'd remembered her. Together he and Mila had celebrated Steph, without allowing the shackles of grief and regret to weigh them down.

He
was
moving on. He believed that now.

Together they walked inside to the empty kitchen. His parents were nowhere to be seen, and a scribbled note on the counter indicated they'd headed out for breakfast.

The time on the microwave revealed it was really time to get to work, but they both seemed comfortable in their sluggishness. Without asking, Seb poured them both a long glass of water, and they stood, not so far apart, staring out at the garden as they drank.

Later they headed for their cars. They'd still barely spoken. Mila pressed the button on her key to unlock her car, and it did so with a definite
thunk
.

‘Thank you,' Seb said, stepping closer to Mila.

She smiled. ‘Thank
you
. I needed last night, too.'

She turned and opened the driver's side door, tossing her bag onto the passenger seat.

‘So...' he said.

Mila twisted back to face him, her gaze direct. ‘What happens now?' she asked.

Mila's note hung metaphorically between them:
We can't be friends any more.

But surely that note could now be torn up and thrown away? Surely last night had shown Mila that their friendship was the furthest they could get from the
‘waste of time'
she'd claimed it to be after that first kiss?

‘I won't pretend to understand why you ran away on Wednesday morning.'

‘I
didn't
run away...'A pause. ‘Okay,' she conceded, ‘maybe I did—but I thought it was the right thing to do. Because I knew what you'd say if I'd stayed.'

‘That I wanted us to stay friends?'

He desperately wanted them to. He would say anything and everything to make that happen. Last night had only underlined how important Mila was to him. How irreplaceable she was. How irreplaceable their
friendship
was.

‘I can't do that, Seb.'

‘Pardon me?' Seb blinked, shocked to his core. ‘So last night changed
nothing
?'

He couldn't believe this. How could last night mean so much to him, but nothing to her?

Mila shook her head. ‘No. It changed everything.'

Seb went still.

Mila's gaze did not waver from his. ‘I can't walk away from you. Not now. But I can't just be your friend. I can't pretend any more.'

This was not what he'd expected.

‘I lied,' she continued. ‘When you asked me whether I wanted you to kiss me at the beach. I
did
want you to kiss me. I just hadn't admitted it to myself yet. But I did. Maybe from the moment you stepped back into my life.' Half a smile. ‘I don't want to lie to myself any more.'

Seb didn't know what to think. His brain, his heart, his pulse—everything—was ratcheting every which way.

‘I wanted that kiss, too,' he said. Now was not the time for the subterfuge that Mila had once said she hated. ‘I wanted
you
,' he clarified.

‘Wanted?' she prompted.

‘Want,'
he said, running a hand through his hair, frustrated, because of course that was true. He wanted Mila. ‘But I was hoping to manage that. For the sake of our friendship I thought I could withstand a bit of sexual tension—'

Mila laughed out loud.

He knew it sounded ridiculous. But he didn't know how else to deal with this. Of any other way to cope.

‘I didn't expect this,' he said. ‘I wanted our friendship back. Nothing more.'

Mila laughed again, this time high-pitched. ‘And you think this is what
I
want?'

‘What
do
you want?' Seb asked.

There was the slightest wobble to her gaze. Subtle, but there.

‘I don't want to pretend around you,' she said. ‘That's all I know.'

‘I don't want to hurt you. And I don't want to lose you. And I have no idea how to stop both those things happening if we're anything more than friends.'

Abruptly, Mila climbed into her seat, calmly clicking her seat belt into place. ‘We're
not
just friends, Seb,' she said, her words sharp. ‘How can you say you want me in one breath and try to talk me into remaining your friend in the next?'

‘We did it before—after that kiss,' he said, stubbornly refusing to concede. ‘Why can't we do it again?'

Mila shook her head, breathing an angry, frustrated sigh. She reached for the door, to pull it shut. He could have held the door, forced her to keep it open, but what would that have achieved?

So instead he dropped to his haunches, laying his hand over hers. They'd spent most of the night holding hands. As friends, then, nothing more.

He'd hoped maybe by touching her now that he could prove his point. That they could put Tuesday night behind them. That he could show her how the electricity between them had abated.

As his fingers brushed her skin he realised how very wrong he was.

His gaze shot up, tangling with hers.

‘No, we're not just friends,' he repeated.

He crouched between the partially open door and Mila. Her hand had fallen away from the door handle and he held it in both of his.

Outside of the sanctuary of the pool house—outside of that bubble they'd created for their memories—they were right back where they'd started. Right where they'd been since he'd walked into Mila's shop that very first evening.

Sensation shot between them where they touched. His body's reaction was visceral, needing her, wanting her.

No
. He was too selfish. Too damaged. And Mila was too fragile. Ben, her dad...their appalling behaviour was still so fresh...

But all that made no difference.
Yes
was all his body could say.

Mila was looking away, out through the windscreen. ‘I know you said you weren't ready for a relationship,' she said. ‘And I don't think I'm ready either.'

Seb still held her hand. He ran his thumb along her palm, then loosely traced the shape of her fingers.

‘So where does that leave us?' she continued, her words soft and breathy. ‘Not friends. Not a relationship.'

‘Does it matter?' Seb said. ‘How about we just focus on not being friends for a while.'

‘Not being friends?' She smiled. ‘I like that.' Mila reached out again for the door handle. ‘But I really have to get to work. My shop is supposed to open in—'

Seb silenced her with a kiss.

* * *

Ivy was working at the office today, so she arrived at the small café near April's place in her chauffeur-driven car.

Mila had arrived first, so she watched Ivy approach from her seat in the small booth she'd chosen at the rear of the café. Every person eating there watched her sister approach—people always did. Ivy had such an air of confidence and authority that she just drew people to her.

Today she wore one of her typically sharp work outfits—black cigarette pants with red-soled black pumps, cream sleeveless blouse tucked in neatly, and oversized Hollywood sunglasses. She looked exactly like the billion-odd dollars she was worth.

Ivy smiled as she spotted Mila, and whipped off her sunglasses. Her sister hurried over, completely unaware that she was the centre of attention. Mila smiled—her sister was definitely the most down-to-earth billionaire on the planet. Just one of the several hundred reasons Mila loved her.

She'd invited Ivy and April to lunch on a whim. The past week had been just...
so much
. Too much to process. Really, everything that had happened since she'd had that taxi drop her off at Seb's apartment building had been intense.

She needed her sisters.

Ivy slid into the booth beside Mila and together they perused the menu. April was always late, but she did manage to turn up only a few minutes past twelve. She glided into the café, the total antithesis of efficient, focused Ivy.

Today she was very much Boho, with her long blonde hair in loose curls that cascaded over the thin straps of her pale pink maxi-dress and the collection of fine gold necklaces that decorated the deep V of her bodice. But even dressed casually, April looked as if she'd walked off the pages of a magazine. Not that such a polished, perfect appearance came without effort, despite her sister's natural gorgeousness. Especially now that April traded so heavily on her appearance.

‘Apologies!' April said, by way of a greeting. ‘I have no perception of time. Hey—can I get the annoying selfie request out of the way? Mila, I'll tag your shop—it's sure to drive a few more sales. People went nuts for those concrete vase things the other week.'

‘Molyneux Mining doesn't do social media,' pointed out Ivy. ‘Or have any need to drum up business.'

‘Nope,' April said cheerfully. ‘But everyone loves a photo of Ivy Molyneux acting like a normal human being. I'm sure your marketing people have worked out how much your customer whatsit scores improved after you were papped with Nate at the supermarket.'

‘You know,' Ivy said, ‘reminding me of the time I was photographed without make-up and with baby spew on my shoulder is probably
not
the best way to convince me of anything.'

‘Pfft!'
said April. ‘You always look beautiful. Plus you had a six-foot-four commando pushing your trolley. All anyone was thinking was,
Phwoar!
'

Ivy looked at Mila. ‘I'm really not sure I'm following our sister's argument.'

‘Just let her take the picture,' Mila advised. ‘Then we'll get to eat.'

A few minutes of posing, and judicious application of filters, and April was happily hashtagging away while Mila went to order for them all at the counter.

She watched her sisters chatting as she waited in the queue. They were both so different—from each other and from Mila. Mila had always thought she was more like Ivy—more through process of elimination rather than any obvious similarities. Mila's view of life just seemed to have more of an acerbic edge than April's, and she guessed she identified with Ivy's more serious personality. But she was equally close to them both. April's sunniness and optimism were contagious, while Ivy could always be relied on for her wisdom—even if it was not always requested.

But Mila knew she wasn't going to tell them about Seb today.

It wasn't like her not to tell her sisters about men she was dating. It wasn't like her not to tell them about
anything
. It was just...she wasn't dating Seb.

What they had was too intangible. Heck, if she and Seb couldn't even give it a name what was there to tell anyone, anyway? That she and Seb
weren't
friends any more? But that they also weren't quite anything else?

No. It was definitely better to say nothing.

At the front of the queue, Mila ordered efficiently, then collected a frosty bottle of water and three small tumblers. Back at the table she poured them all a glass of water, then fell into the deep red padded seat of the booth. All her muscles ached—her body was remembering exactly how much she'd drunk last night, and how late she'd been up talking.

Eventually she realised her sisters were talking about their dad.

‘I couldn't believe it,' Ivy was saying, ‘when my assistant told me. It's been
years
.'