Megha Saran clearly remembered the day she had met Magnus Trammell. Well, officially met him, that is—probably not something anyone could forget, when the billionaire boss you’d seen only in the tabloids went down on one knee before you. Not to ask any question like the average male in that position would ask, but to beg you to reconsider your resignation as a sales girl in his family’s exclusive haute joaillerie shop. To top that, he also wanted to make you the manager of the place, since he’d fired the other one who’d been about to sack you the previous day—if you hadn’t pre-empted this by quitting beforehand.
She’d thought him an utter loon back then, three weeks earlier, and not a day went by when she didn’t ask herself if he wasn’t a few spices short of a full curry.
Today proved no exception.
“Are you bloody insane?” she threw out, eyes boggling and mouth agape.
“Think about it,” he replied. “You would be the ideal candidate for this procedure.”
She shook her head and blinked. Maybe by doing so, she hoped the image would clear, and she’d thus not see a thirty-something bloke in Bermuda shorts, a wrinkled cotton shirt that probably cost more than her whole vintage wardrobe, and worst of all, with a man bun; said bloke now staring back at her as if what he’d just said made perfect sense. Yes, the Puss in Boots eyes—in this case striking slate grey—amid all that chiselled facial beauty rendered him even more Prince Charming-like along with the shaggy dark blond hair. They—he—would melt any woman’s heart, though she supposed Magnus had always settled for making knickers melt and had never progressed his aim farther north. Still, that didn’t work on her, because she knew him the way no other ‘regular’ woman did: as his employee and almost his right-hand woman at the shop by now.
It was official by this point—he was crazy. Then again, he proved this theory right every single day. She shouldn’t be surprised.
So she cut her gaze from one gorgeous Swedish man to another Nordic-like god who sat on the opposite sofa with a soft tinge of crimson on his high cheekbones. Magnus had managed to ruffle the stoic Stellan, his best friend who’d known him and the breadth of his antics forever. That must’ve been quite a feat. Poor man. Dare she pull him into this discussion, and embarrass him further with such intimate talks? Yet, she had no other way, did she, given that they were here in his flat in an exclusive building in Kensington. Magnus lived one floor up, but no one dared poke their nose into his apartment given how it wasn’t fit to sustain human life because of the mess he always left behind him. She pitied the guys’ cleaning crew.
Okay, in for a penny, in for a pound. Stellan Elriksen was a big boy who could take it no matter how she cut it. Focusing on Magnus again, she glared at him from where she sat on a high-backed sofa.
“Seriously, we’re going to discuss my fertility options right now?” she asked.
Magnus threw his hands up as he paced in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an impressive view of the lush green treetops of Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park farther along.
“Think it through, Megha. Oocyte cryopreservation is not guaranteed to be covered by the NHS even for fertility preservation in the wake of a cancer diagnosis. We’d set up a full clinic specialising in this procedure for such cases, also provide financial aid in all instances, and for some, we could cover the costs completely. Think how many women just like you that would help!”
Megha snorted. She couldn’t even think of her own options at the moment—hadn’t really been able to ever since the diagnosis that had come in three weeks, two days, and six hours ago.
It’s cancer.
The dreaded C-word. No one expected to hear that. Like winning the lottery, but from the dark side that totally sucked.
But it’s good news, the doctors in London had also added. She was young and strong. The cancer was in the early stages on top of being a triple negative, which meant it had nothing to do with hormones.
It also implied something was genetically wrong—most probably a BRCA mutation which had caused this cancer in her left breast when she was just twenty-nine. Not even over the big three-o, and they were pushing that kind of news on her. What had she accomplished so far? Nothing, and her love life had just one failed relationship in its tally. Other than that, zilch.
But who the hell expected to be diagnosed with breast cancer at this age? All the guidelines said to get a mammogram every one to two years once past forty, because that’s when the risks really started to appear.
In your twenties? You gotta be facking jokin’! Those had been her exact words to the doctors upon them delivering that bombshell on her.
And then she’d found out she wasn’t alone, or as singular a case as she’d thought herself to be. Breast cancer was on the rise in younger women, but no one spoke about that. No campaigns existed to alert younger women and even teenage girls of the risks they face once puberty strikes. No, cancer was for mums and grans, women beyond forty. What an effing joke!
“Megha, are you hearing what I’m saying?” Magnus asked as he paused in front of the window, blocking the one ray of sunshine falling on her with his wide shoulders.
Stellan cleared his throat. “I’m not sure what you need me here for. This is Megha’s personal matter, and …”
She could see his discomfort. What was that idiot Magnus up to? He’d asked her to come over because he had a proposal to discuss with her, but here they were going over her medical stats.
It dawned on her what he was asking, then. Her eyebrows went up, her mind drawing a blank because even she had run out of expletives and expressions of surprise in response to yet another of Magnus’ schemes.
“So if I got this straight, you want me to be the poster child for a fertility preservation initiative you want to set up for younger cancer patients. Is that right?”
He snapped his fingers and grinned. Goodness, that man bun was doing nothing to help his credibility here as it bobbed with his every movement.
She closed her eyes for a second and sighed. She couldn’t do this. Not anymore. And not with him, or with poor Stellan caught in the cross-fire between them.
“Abso-fucking-lutely not!”
Magnus slapped his thighs with his palms. “Why not? Listen to me here. You’re not yet thirty. Your cancer was a Stage 1 invasive Ductal Carcinoma In Situ, probably the best kind to have if you’re gonna get breast cancer as it can be treated if caught early, like in your case. Beyond adjuvant therapy and a dose of radiation treatments, you’re expected to make a full recovery. However, the chemo might very likely damage your fertility options for the future, so it makes immense sense right now for you to have your eggs harvested and frozen while you’re in your reproductive prime. You won’t have to worry about potential infertility later in your life when you’ll find someone and decide to have a family, then.”
“There’s always adoption,” she quipped.
The words rolled off her tongue almost unbeknownst to her, because she sat there flabbergasted by what Magnus had just said. Not only had he detailed her full diagnosis and prognosis, but he’d also sounded as if he knew what he was talking about.
Her surprise seemed mirrored on Stellan’s face.
Magnus paused in his step and faced her. The serious look on his face stumped her, and she gulped back. For the first time, she wasn’t seeing the glib playboy with the too-easy smile and the carefree attitude who took most things in stride and discarded what didn’t suit him. Right now, she saw a man—a flesh-and-bone, fully realized and mature man. Something she’d never expected to even lurk inside sunny Magnus, and this gave her pause. What was his game here? Did he care?
Could he care, really?
From that first day in the office of Trammell’s in Daimsbury, he’d had her on her toes. She hadn’t realised she’d actually met him the day before, when he’d come to the shop in disguise and the then-manager had tried to package the earrings he’d bought into a little square box. What a disaster that could’ve been when he’d present the gift to his girl and she’d already be hearing wedding bells, to then discover not a diamond ring but Swarovski crystal hoops in there.
She’d wanted to stop a client from making a monumental mistake and had intervened to tell him he needed a flat box and not a cube to prevent the wrong idea forming. The client had seen the wisdom in that, but not the manager who’d felt she’d overstepped her bounds as a lowly sales girl when he’d been the one handling that transaction. She’d quit while she was ahead before he fired her, going back in the next day to pick up her cheque for her pro-rata pay of the month.
Imagine her surprise to be greeted not by Stick-Up-The-Arse-Manager, but one of the actual owners of the shop. Magnus Trammell, despite being from the illustrious family who called Daimsbury—their tiny village in Surrey and one hour’s drive west of London—home, had set foot there maybe once or twice in his thirty-four years on this Earth. He’d be glimpsed haphazardly by the locals, usually at the wheel of his red Ferrari 360Spider, before he left for yet another party capital of Europe, doing his mighty best to uphold his reputation as a gallivanting playboy.
So up close and personal in that small space, she’d had to admit the photos in the tabloids and the gossip rags had never done him justice. Nor had seeing him from afar one Christmas when he’d come to light up the green’s tree with his family. In front of her then, he’d been a vision of scrumptious male physical perfection in his champagne-coloured suit that matched almost exactly the hue of his messy blond hair. Then those eyes—they’d captivated her when little lines had fanned at their corners as he’d smiled at her.
She could so easily have lost her wits right then, but something had kept her from making a fool of herself, for example by openly drooling on her jumper. Something inside her—call it instincts—had told her to peek beyond this façade, because that’s what it was: a façade.
And today, he proved that initial assumption right. Could it be he actually had a working brain inside that vapid head of his?
Stellan stopped her from pondering that idea further when he spoke.
“Wait a second, Magnus. What exactly are you getting at? And what am I doing in the middle of all this?”
Magnus went to lean against a wall, the ray of sunshine falling back again on her and blinding her for a few seconds. He pressed his back to the moiré wallpaper, one knee bent so the bare sole touched the wood panelling on the bottom half of the surface.
She risked a glance at Stellan—bare feet there, too. What was that with them? And suddenly, she grew self-conscious of the delicate ballerina flats on her feet. Should she have left them at the door? This notion, more than the understated but obvious luxury of the setting, ruffled her. She didn’t belong here, to be honest …
She slaked her gaze to Magnus again, who was staring at his best mate.
“It’s Nammy,” he said.
Stellan groaned. “What has she done now?”
Magnus sighed aloud. “The cottage in Daimsbury. She wants me to have it.”
“But?” Stellan probed.
“But it comes in a trust, along with thirty-five million pounds. Her gift for my thirty-fifth birthday.”
Had her eyes boggled out of her head already? Which part of his words had stumped her more? The ‘cottage’, which was actually a ten-bedroom, three-storey Victorian edifice set out amid one acre of its own private gardens on the Trammell property in the village … or that this Nammy, whoever she happened to be, was gifting him one million pounds for each year he’d lived? The most she’d ever received for a birthday had been a hundred pounds once.
“What are the conditions of the trust?” Stellan continued.
Magnus shrugged. “It has to be something ‘responsible’ for the trustee to unblock the funds.”
“And the trustee is?”
Another sigh. “My father.”
Stellan shook his head. “That’s where I come in?”
Magnus nodded. Stellan returned the nod, his face going pensive. She hadn’t thought the staid man who’d seemed carved from pale marble could look even more still. This had to be something momentous, right?
She shook her head and pulled herself to the front of her seat. “Wait, you lost me here. Who is this Nammy, and what is this all about? And more important, how do I fit in here?”
Magnus turned to her, and the full force of those grey eyes which suddenly weren’t smiling but looking as serious as a heart attack made her gulp all while her mouth went dry. Goodness gracious, this man had charisma, and this look, as opposed to the cheerful smile, could make her wet her knickers.
Was making her wet her knickers already, actually …
Something must be utterly wrong with her, because this was Magnus. Her boss. Ultimate playboy who dated only airheads, and she considered herself a total bluestocking.
Guess hormones didn’t agree to that brief, after all …
But she’d asked a question, and she needed answers. So, she waited.
Magnus peeled himself from the wall to come squat in front of her.
That serious expression didn’t leave his face, and from up close like this, she unwittingly lost her breath at the different face staring at her from below the golden lashes fanning hooded eyes. A layer of darkness, and she didn’t mean that literally as he now had the sun at his back, sat on his well-cut features. With him not smiling, she could clearly see the defined outline of those beautiful lips.
He looked like … well, anything but a playboy right now.
And this rattled her. Magnus, the clown—she could deal with.
Magnus any other way …?
She blinked and shook her head. Best not to pursue that line of thought.
And best to strike, get the upper hand before she lost it for good.
“So?” she prompted. “Nammy?”
“Nammy is my grandmother, Amelia Trammell.”
Oh, she knew that dragon, though she’d never have suspected her to have a sweet nickname. Well, knew of her—everyone in Daimsbury recognized the dowager-type lady who looked like baking queen Mary Berry, minus any softness in her attitude.
“Nana Amelia. When we were little, we couldn’t handle that mouthful, so it got crunched into Nammy,” Stellan said, a smile and affection obvious in his tone.
Right, these two had grown up together, along with another bloke, Lars—their mothers were fast friends so they’d always gravitated in the same circles.
“What of the cottage?” she then asked, almost choking on that last word because a cottage, it surely was not!
Magnus remained silent for long seconds, his gaze, intense and solemn, fixed on her. If he kept this up, she would start to squirm under such scrutiny. Where was the fool when everyone needed him … and by that, she meant when she needed him. She’d always had a thing for stern men who wore the mantle of responsibility like the righteous cape of a superhero. Magnus had been light years from any potential of that … or so she’d thought.
She didn’t like this one bit.
“The cottage is mine to do with as I please,” he stated. “Provided it is a responsible endeavour, and that I use the money she has bequeathed in that direction.”
It all became a jumble in her mind. He’d brought her here. Talks of her cancer and that other thing her treatment would wreck in her life. Now discussions about responsibility …
“I am planning to set up a non-profit organization that will turn the cottage into a fertility clinic catering to the needs of younger people faced with cancer diagnoses.”
He paused then, and placed his hands on her skinny jeans-covered knees.
Not the first time Magnus had touched her. He’d often held her elbow when he’d opened doors for her at work. Or their hands would brush when they exchanged documents in the office. He’d even kissed her on both cheeks once. In all those instances, she’d felt nothing. Because she’d been dealing with Magnus, the player.
Whereas today … This man—not at all the usual man-child—he was different. Someone else inside the same shell. A soul she could now see, and what she saw worked her up in ways she didn’t want to fathom. All this wasn’t even about the money on his part, because Magnus had a personal fortune that would make a UAE oil prince jealous. Plus, he’d mentioned a trust fund from Nammy—trust money could only be used for a goal, not for personal enjoyment.
Before coming here today, she’d have bet her life with eyes closed if someone had stated she’d ever feel anything beyond affectionate amusement for Magnus Trammell.
“This is going to happen, Megha, whether my family agrees to it or not,” he continued, the pressure of his fingers on her thighs deepening. “If my father won’t see the sense in that, Nammy can still intervene, though I hope it won’t come to that. I already know I have her backing. As for you … We don’t have time to wait in your case, so here’s what we’ll do. The trust will pay for your egg harvesting procedure and then the subsequent annual storage fees. In return, you become the face of this venture and help us with raising awareness as part of an outreach initiative sponsored by Trammell’s.”
She gulped. What he said … She hadn’t even considered anything beyond the fact that she needed to fight to survive, to win over this facking parasite that had laid siege to her left breast. This, before she’d undergone a bilateral mastectomy because her too-small breasts didn’t allow any margin for conservation in a lumpectomy procedure. It had been prophylactic on the right side, as the triple negative result had implied a genetic origin so she was at risk of breast cancer on the other side, too.
To be honest, she didn’t know what she wanted beyond getting a chance to live, to see past her thirtieth birthday. What he asked—it was just too much. Coupled with the fact that she was seeing a different man here … No, she couldn’t do this. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
On a strangled moan, she pushed his hands off and stood, then grabbed her handbag and ran out of the flat.
*
“That went well.”
Not. Stellan, always the one for sarcasm.
Magnus Trammell shook his head and plopped down on the sofa Megha had vacated after he’d stared at the closed front door for long seconds.
What had he done wrong? He’d been meaning to help her, for God’s sake. Did she have to up and leave like that, after swearing the place down? Trust that sharp tongue of hers to never cut any hairs—you got what you deserved from that mouth.
Everything he’d said had made sense, right? She would benefit from fertility preservation. He couldn’t imagine someone this young being deprived of the possibility of having kids in the future through no actual fault of hers. She hadn’t invited breast cancer into her body, the way smoking a pack or more a day could most definitely lead to lung cancer. Nobody knew how or why other cancers just happened, like with her.
More than needing her for his clinic project, he wished to ease her plight. Yes, having her as the ambassador for this venture would be a win—she was a Trammell’s employee benefiting from an initiative launched by that very company, plus she ticked all the boxes for being the ideal subject for such an endeavour.
Seemed she didn’t see it that way, though.
He sighed. “What do I do now?”
Stellan settled more comfortably in his seat. “Give her time.”
He shook his head. “She’s stubborn. She won’t reconsider this.”
In the past three weeks, he’d come to know her. She weighed her options before she made any decision—sound business sense, in fact—and he’d seen her applying this approach to her personal life, as well. For example, many women in her shoes would’ve balked at the idea of losing both their breasts, probably fighting tooth and nail to retain them while removing the cancer. Playing with fire, she’d called it; everything had to go, because she wanted to be rid of the disease.
An all-or-nothing woman. Everything told him he had ended up with her nothing here.
“Then you need a new angle,” Stellan added.
“And how do you propose I do that? I need to have all the bases covered before I bring this to my father. She is perfect for this; I’m not going to find someone better suited. I’m willing to pay for her procedure out of pocket until the money clears once he agrees to the plan.”
“Which you need me to back.”
He peeked at his best mate. “He’ll take me seriously once he knows you’re backing this idea. Like I said, I don’t want to bring Nammy in yet. She can’t fight this battle for me. I have to do it myself.”
Stellan stared at him for long seconds. “Why don’t you trust that he’ll see the sense in there when you bring him the proposal all by yourself?”
Another sigh escaped him. His family thought him a joker. True, he’d never done anything to rectify this state of affairs—that’s what they would think irrespective of what he did. Because his elder brother had cornered that avenue to his parents’ love, that’s why.
His fists curled onto themselves when he thought of Carl, the paragon of all virtues, the ideal son any parent would kill to have. Carl, happily married to his childhood sweetheart who came from a good, proper family; the one with the two adorable kids who always reminded Magnus of mechanic dolls—or zombies, depending on the day; and the one who brought pride to the Trammell name through his career as a diplomatic attaché with the Foreign Office.
No matter what Magnus did or even attempted to do, he’d never touch such lofty heights as Carl already had. For most of his life, it had been a case of ‘why bother?’ so he’d let himself fall into the persona of the playboy and the philandering party animal.
And then, it all came down to now. He wanted to change that opinion his family had formed of him, but he didn’t stand a chance. At least not yet. Once past the hurdle of getting his father to unblock the trust money with Stellan’s backing, then he’d try to prove he was made of less vapid stuff.
And the reason why he wished to go to all those lengths? Well, Nammy didn’t suffer fools gladly. Why hadn’t the Grande Dame entrusted any of his other siblings with this money and the cottage? Delicate, caring Elin, his youngest sister, would’ve fitted the bill perfectly to do the ‘responsible’ thing. Even Agneta and Tindra, his other two sisters, would’ve made something of this opportunity. But Nammy had chosen him, and for once in his life, he knew he couldn’t let her down.
Then there was the fact that he wanted another woman to see him not as the fool to be suffered, but as someone she could respect. Witnessing her battle her cancer diagnosis had won his tremendous admiration, and he wished for even a fraction of that to be reciprocated. This would be possible only if she stopped seeing the party boy when she looked at him. There couldn’t be much worse than having someone you looked up to peer down on you with pity or contempt in their long-suffering gaze.
Stellan’s phone rang then, and the bloke broke into a small smile as he stared at the screen. Seconds later, he’d swiped the device, and the massive SmartScreen TV on the wall above the fireplace mantel came to life with a Skype call.
A blond, bearded man with golden tanned skin stared back at them. Lars Rutherford, their other mate. The third Musketeer who now lived on the island of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean where he handled a base of operations for Stellan’s family’s shipping empire.
“Hey, man!” both he and Stellan greeted.
Lars waved, then his girlfriend, Simmi, leaned over his shoulder and said hello.
“So, we got news,” Simmi said with a bright smile.
Magnus and Stellan looked at each other. Could it be …?
Simmi and Lars both grinned, and she waved the back of her left hand in front of the web cam. No mistaking the glittering rock on her ring finger.
“I asked Simmi to marry me.” Lars now grinned like a loon.
“And we can see she said yes,” Stellan stated. “Congratulations, guys!”
“Yeah, guys. Congratulations! Cannot think of two people better suited for each other,” Magnus added with genuine warmth in his smile and in his heart.
“Mark your calendars. We’re gonna be in London sometime in June. You’ll get to meet my wonderful fiancée for real, then,” Lars said as he wrapped an arm around Simmi’s waist and tumbled her onto his lap before soundly kissing her.
“Get a bloody room,” Stellan groaned.
The lovebirds laughed, and Simmi got up.
“I’m off now. Hitting the gym with Annabelle. She says hi, Magnus. Will leave you guys alone, and please behave while I’m gone.”
“Of course, älskling,” Lars stated as he watched her go with googly eyes. He then turned to the camera. “Man, Magnus. If you die today, know there’s at least one good thing you’ve done in your life.”
He’d been the one to arrange the blind date that had brought Lars and Simmi together, with the help of Annabelle, one of his ex-girlfriends and also Simmi’s cousin.
“Mate, you are so totally whipped.” He shook his head, then grew serious. “You’re happy?”
Lars turned solemn. “Yeah. I am.”
“Good.”
A long pause settled on the room, all three men remaining silent.
Magnus could see it on Lars’ face. The bloke had always looked stormy, like he’d rip you a new one if you crossed him the wrong way. But none of that restless energy seemed to bristle anymore on him. As for Simmi, her pale skin had positively glowed, and her eyes had sparkled. They looked in love, like they’d found their other half.
Would he have that one day?
For a second, he didn’t want to contemplate where that had come from. He knew where it originated, for sure, but facing it? He was still too chicken for that. Seeing his best friend happy … Well, a tiny part of him yearned for that, too. Being the party animal could grow old very quickly, and he usually fought to not reach that stage when the bottom of a bottle looked like it would be the best place to lose himself in. He had also never been in love.
“So, guys, we’ve finally managed to coincide our schedules to be in London together,” Lars said.
Simmi worked as the EVP, Legal Affairs, of a huge Mauritian conglomerate. Her diary often proved more hectic than Lars’.
“Where do you want us to meet?” Stellan asked.
“I was hoping the Mayfair house, Magnus. I want your parents to meet Simmi. My mum came down here a few months ago, and Stellan, your parents’ cruise ship was passing by Mauritius the other day so we arranged to have lunch, all four of us, while they were in transit.”
Meeting the family—the other boys’ mothers proved as much Mummy material to each one as his own birth mother. No wonder, given how those three women had been friends all their lives. Stellan’s mother had kept her family between London and Göteborg when her other two besties married English men. Through a stroke of luck, all three got pregnant with boys around the same time, though his mother joined that bandwagon late. However, all three of their sons were born within five weeks of each other, Magnus even coming into the world almost two months earlier just so they could achieve that feat.
“Mum will love to hear that. She’ll start planning a garden party already,” he joked.
Lars chuckled. “So, what have you bums been up to?”
Stellan turned to Magnus, one eyebrow cocked, silently asking if he should divulge the latest happenings.
He nodded softly, and Stellan brought Lars up to speed.
Lars whistled. “Nammy, of course. One thing I don’t get, though. Why this venture?”
Stellan cleared his throat. “It involves a girl.”
“Of course,” their friend replied with a big smile as he settled back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head.
Magnus shook his head. “Cut it out!”
“What does this girl look like?” Lars asked.
“Bollywood bombshell,” Stellan quipped.
“Ooh, now you’re talking.”
“But,” his friend interjected. “This one actually has a brain in working order.”
Magnus rolled his eyes. “Come on. I don’t date just airheads.”
“Name one girl you dated who had active brain cells,” came from the screen.
“So you’re dating her? Weird, because she actually has hips,” Stellan said.
“What? A normal woman and not an anorexic waif?” Lars exclaimed.
He ignored the man across from him and faced the one thousands of miles away. “Piss off. And Annabelle was intelligent.”
“Debatable. I’m really fond of Simmi’s cousin, but I wouldn’t go as far as saying she has a brain in actual working order.”
“The most important question is, are you dating Megha?” Stellan pushed through.
“No!”
“So you’re sleeping with her, then. Change of style for you, I must say.”
“Bloody hell! Of course not!”
“So you mean you are going so much out of your way just to help her? Even paying thousands of pounds for her procedure?”
“As a friend, yes.”
“Magnus, pardon me, mate, but you become friends with a girl only after you’ve had sex with her,” Lars supplied.
He stood, frustration now brimming through him. “It’s not like that with her.”
“Why not?”
Stellan should’ve become a lawyer—he never let up with his interrogations.
How did he explain what he felt for Megha? That he had such an incredible yearning to help her, to make her life lighter.
He remembered the day he had met her. She’d caught his eye in the shop, where he’d gone incognito as a mystery shopper to find out why their flagship store, started in the seventeenth century by his ancestor, was doing so badly in its sales numbers. The family would never close that first shop, and his father had mentioned wishing to know what was going on there.
He couldn’t say why he’d thought of going. Maybe to impress his dad and show that he could actually do anything besides party. Nammy had also mentioned something along those lines, and this had come just a day after her lawyers had summoned him to their chambers to tell him about the trust. Try as he could, he did his best to never let his grandma who’d always been his champion down, and this time, it had felt more important because she’d trusted him with her treasured cottage.
He’d thus found himself drifting there, and now, he’d say it was fate because he’d met her. He’d been impressed by how she’d handled the potential bomb of the square box—a commitment-averse man like himself knew how to sidestep any potholes, and a square box not containing a wedding ring would warrant a nuclear reaction in any relationship. But the manager had just been eager for a sale, pushing him to buy more expensive jewels when he’d clearly altered his appearance to show that he was a man with limited means. Definitely not the kind of customer service he wanted Trammell’s to be known for.
He’d found the name of the sales girl. Megha Saran. Her earthy beauty, dusky skin, and wide brown eyes had already told him she must be of Indian origin. He’d read all he could about her in her employee file, and had gone the next day as himself this time to ask her to take the reins after he fired that incompetent bastard who’d had to be behind the dismal figures.
He’d begged her to stay on—she was the main human asset of that shop. And that’s when she’d dropped the bombshell.
She couldn’t take a more taxing position, because she’d just been diagnosed with breast cancer.
“She has cancer, guys,” he said softly, his tone sounding pained.
The others stopped taking the mickey out of him and grew serious. They must know something had to be up with him as he wasn’t joking, for once.
“And that hit home,” Lars said. “Because it was happening to someone you know.”
He gulped and nodded, his throat suddenly too clogged to let words out.
“I mean, look at her,” he continued. “She’s twenty-nine. At her age, she should still be having fun, on the lookout for a bloke to settle down with, start hearing her biological clock ticking and be fawning over tiny baby shoes in Mothercare while she imagines how she’ll decorate the nursery when her baby comes.”
That’s what it had been like with any girl he’d dated or known nearing thirty. Why should Megha be any different? As far as he could tell, she wasn’t a career woman, having been in the same position of sales girl for close to a decade now at Trammell’s.
“True,” Lars said.
“But look what’s happening. She could’ve died, and she’ll go through hell with all the treatments they have lined up. Just so she can live, she might have to cross out the possibility of ever bearing her own children.”
“That sucks, man,” Lars said.
“I just …” He paused and ran a hand in his hair, which undid his bun in the process.
What did he mean to add here? That it pained him to imagine her going through all this? That he worried about her?
Why did he care?
Why her?
If he dared to look this in the face, he’d see the truth. But he didn’t want to acknowledge that just yet. His altruism would remain for altruism’s sake for the time being.
Because Magnus Trammell’s heart had never beaten for anything beyond the purpose of pumping his blood inside his body. It had never felt a pang or a gnawing other than the genuine affectionate love he held for his parents, three younger sisters, and two brothers here. And it had hated Carl with a vengeance for all his life.
But for anyone else? No, it had never stirred.
How, then, to reconcile with the idea that his heart had decided to enact upon a will of its own all of a sudden, right from the second he’d met the gaze of a stunning, strikingly beautiful Indo-British woman who’d never give the idiot he portrayed himself to be the time of day?
Could this be what everyone else called love?
If yes, then he was screwed. Because he’d never expected that to happen to him, thinking he’d barricaded his heart by bypassing it and going straight south every single time. Yet, the one woman he didn’t get a chance to bed or flirt with had wormed her way in. It had taken one look. How ridiculous. Love at first sight—an absolutely absurd thing he totally did not believe in … until it had hit him right in the solar plexus.
He didn’t do relationships, and neither did Megha, it appeared, since her only serious story had ended years ago and she hadn’t dated anyone since then. Yes, he’d asked, knowing he was sinking further into quicksand every second he spent with her, the woman who never looked at him except with patience in her eyes, the kind a teacher would have for a toddler who didn’t know any better than to be a spoilt brat.
He’d never rise up in her eyes, would he? And even if he did, was he ready for ‘more’? Not sure, because he’d never done this before.
Best stick to being friends, no?
Still, either way, he would never let her down, come hell or high water. His every cell told him this wasn’t up for discussion.
So, he lifted his gaze to his friends.
“Help me, guys. I’m on to something here.”
Both men nodded.
“You didn’t even need to ask,” Lars said, his words echoed by Stellan’s nod.
He could do this. It would ask for a lot, but he’d make Megha’s world right even if it cost him his last penny.