Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire

Chapter 572 Gwen's POV The salon was calm for a Saturday morning. Nothing like those crowded, noisy places packed with people waiting their turn. This was the kind of establishment that required appointments booked weeks in advance, though not for a Kensington, of course. I was reclined in a plush chair, a heated cap over my hair while a treatment mask worked its restorative magic after the disaster of the night before. Mia was in the chair beside me, also waiting on her own treatment, scrolling through her feed with the kind of intense focus that meant gossip or serious stalking.

The background music was soft, almost unnoticeable. Just the two of us and two other clients in the entire salon, each in a private station separated by elegant frosted-glass dividers. "So you gave up on going?" Mia asked suddenly, without looking up from her phone, as if we were mid- conversation when in reality we'd been silent for several minutes. "Of course I gave up," I replied, adjusting the soft towel around my shoulders. "I was wrecked, Mia. Covered in mud from head to toe. Soaked. Freezing.

I was not exactly in a state to show up at someone's door at three in the morning." Mia finally looked up from her phone, studying me with an expression that was half amusement, half genuine concern. "Dante is still complaining about how you completely trashed his car," she said with a small smile. "He'll survive," I rolled my eyes. "Anyway," I continued, closing my eyes and trying to relax as the heat sank into my scalp, "I don't even know where I got the insane idea to drive to Montelira in the middle of the night. Alone.

doesn't suit you. It never has." "In my defense," I said, "it wasn't raining when I decided to leave the house." "Maybe. But that doesn't make your decision any less impulsive

I exclaimed, opening my eyes and turning to look at her. "The lack of a call." 1/3 I corrected myself, trying to better explain what I was feeling.

of Bella and me replying with heart emojis." Mia studied me for a long moment, her expression softening into something that almost looked like pity. "But you have to admit, Gwen," she said gently, "you really don't have anything

"Sure," she said, her tone calm but blunt. "Because he knows you're a Kensington, right? He knows you work in the industry professionally. He knows you probably forget more about wine in a day than he learns in a year." She paused, letting that hang between us. "Oh, wait," she added with gentle sarcasm. "He doesn't know any of that. To him, you're just a tourist who happens to like

tourism than for serious production." I could see where this was going, and I didn't like it. "Mia..."