Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire

Chapter 329

Chapter 329 The weeks following our move into the Notting Hill house brought a kind of domestic routine I'd never imagined could be so deeply satisfying.

Of course, they also came with the inevitable small irritations of two people learning to share the same space, like discovering that Nate had a profoundly annoying habit of leaving wet towels on the bed after showering, or that he considered "doing the dishes" to mean rinsing the plates and leaving them in the rack to "air-dry naturally." "Nathaniel Carter," I said one February morning, holding up a soaking towel I'd found on top of our duvet.

"If you keep doing this, I'm going to start sleeping in the guest room." He appeared in the bathroom doorway with his face covered in shaving foam, looking at me with an expression of mock innocence that didn't quite hide his mischievous smile. "It was just once," he protested, carefully running the razor along his jaw. "It was the fourth time this week!" I shot back, shaking the wet towel like evidence. "And it's only Thursday!" "Technically, I shower twice a day," he said, attempting to logic his way out of trouble. "So that's two wet towels per day, times five days...

honestly, I'm being very efficient." I couldn't keep a straight face and ended up laughing, which made his eyes light up with that distinctly male satisfaction of having won the argument. But I also discovered there were plenty of endearing things about living with him. Like the way he always made coffee far too strong for himself but absolutely perfect for me. Or how he unconsciously hummed while cooking, always classical melodies that turned our kitchen into an improvised concert hall.

"You need to learn how to make a proper Sunday roast," he announced one Sunday afternoon, finding me in the kitchen trying to decipher a lamb recipe Elizabeth had sent me. "It's practically mandatory if you live in England. "I'm trying," I protested, staring at the ingredients spread across the counter. "But your mother writes recipes like they're poems. Look at this: 'season with love and let time work its magic.' How much salt is that supposed to be?" Nate laughed and stepped up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist as he read the recipe over my shoulder.

least some quantitative references," I said, leaning back into his chest. "I can't just feel when the lamb is ready." "I can teach you," he offered,

have sensed the shift, because his hands stilled, and I felt his breathing change

kissing me, a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened, making me forget all about English cuisine. It was only when the oven timer went off that we pulled apart, both of us slightly breathless and laughing at how easily we got distracted. "We should finish cooking," Nate said, even though his eyes suggested he'd much rather continue where we'd left off. "Later we can finish... other things," I

with Nate had faded to a tolerable level. Gwen and I had grown into an even stronger partnership on our projects, and for

virus that left me stuck in bed with a fever and a pounding headache. "I'm not leaving you sick and alone," Nate said Friday night, finding me wrapped in blankets on the sofa

agreed, but not before filling the

days passed. By Sunday afternoon, I was almost completely recovered and impatient for Nate to be home. It was around six in the evening when I heard the

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