Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire

Chapter 273 The soft lighting in the living room created a cozy atmosphere that contrasted perfectly with London's restless energy outside. I'd put on a quiet playlist of classic rock while making tea for the two of us, still trying to prolong the peaceful feeling our day in the countryside had brought me. "That mug is... interesting," Nate laughed, holding up the cup I'd handed him. I glanced at the design and couldn't help but laugh too. It was one of my favorites. It was an illustration of a lazy cat with the phrase "Don't talk to me before my third coffee" printed in giant letters.

"A gift from Zoey," I explained, settling onto the sofa beside him and tucking my legs under me. "She said it matched me perfectly." "Your sister knows you well," he said, taking a sip of the earl grey tea I'd made. "Three cups of coffee, really?" "On bad days? Could be four," I admitted with a laugh. "Sometimes five, if it's Monday and raining." "And here I was thinking my morning caffeine dependency was intense," he teased, pulling me a little closer on the couch. "So what made the poor thing get replaced by tea tonight?" "I figured serving coffee to a Brit after five p.m.

was a crime against the Crown. I don't want to get deported." "Definitely don't want that," he laughed. Nate glanced around the room with a renewed curiosity, as if he were really seeing the space for the first time. His gaze lingered on the photos scattered across the shelf: Zoey and me posing dramatically on Ipanema beach; a Verdanian Christmas family picture with all of us crowded around the tree; Matthew striking some ridiculously dramatic pose on a trip to Buenos Aires.

"You all look really close," he observed, gently picking up a photo of the three of us at a June Festival, dressed in full traditional outfits. "We are. Sometimes I think that's what I missed the most after moving here," I admitted, watching him take in every detail of the picture. "That feeling of having people around who've known you forever-who know all your embarrassing secrets and love you anyway." "And now?" he asked, wrapping an arm around me as he carefully set the photo back on the shelf.

"Now I'm building new connections," I said, leaning into his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. "Some very unexpected ones." "Unexpected how?" he teased, kissing the top of my head. "Like finding out my boss is actually a man who collects vintage vinyls, plays piano like an angel, and takes me to secret little towns in the English countryside." We stayed there talking about small things we'd never shared-discovering layers of each other that went far beyond the professional tension that had always dominated our interactions.

he answered without missing a beat. "It reminds me of the school uniform I wore from eight to eighteen. I was happiest there during my teenage years." "Mine changes with

my hair in a slow, absentminded rhythm. "Lawrence of Arabia," he replied, and I could hear the nostalgia in his voice. "My father took me to a special showing when I was twelve. It

an expression that carried something nostalgic and deeply personal. "My family lives in Bath," he said, almost like a special confession. "Her city. I grew up visiting the house she lived in, walking the streets that inspired her novels." "Seriously?" I perked up, leaning back a little so I could look at him with genuine enthusiasm. "That's amazing! It must've felt like growing up inside a book." "Maybe one day I'll take you there," he said, kissing the tip of

all the secret spots, the hidden bookstores, the bench where I like to sit and read." "I'd love that," I replied, already picturing the two of us walking through those historic streets. We kept trading little details about our lives, building a map of intimacy out of silly confessions and surprising discoveries. He admitted he had

confessed my morbid obsession with true crime documentaries, the ones I always watched late at night and then ended up paranoid for weeks. We laughed as we realized we both had the annoying habit of leaving drawers slightly open, that we both talked to ourselves when we were focused, and that we each had a complicated relationship with plants-we wanted to own them, but inevitably killed them with too much care. "Childhood food you miss the most?" I asked, tracing small

mother tries, she's never managed to recreate the exact taste. There was something about the spices she used... a secret she took with her." "Hot dogs from weekend street parties," I replied without hesitation. "My mom made them every Saturday morning, without fail. The whole house smelled

like sadness and homesickness." 2/3 Every new detail became an excuse to get closer-soft kisses that punctuated our conversations like emotional punctuation marks. It felt like we were assembling a puzzle of each other, collecting little treasures of intimacy that helped us understand not only who we were individually, but who we might