Page 28 of Mid-Thirties Slightly Hot Mess Female Seeking Billionaire

"I just want to make sure you’re really ready for this."

"Jackson, you’re getting on my nerves. Tell me what it says."

"Hold on, Ethan. Don’t get your panties in a twist."

"Jackson, I will fire you if you do not tell me what it says right now."

"We both know that you’re never going to fire me. We both know that you couldn’t live without me. We both know that…"

"Jackson, you sound like a dick right now."

"Maybe that’s because I am a dick," he says. "Or wait, maybe it’s because I have a dick. You know what that supermodel asked me tonight?"

"What?" I groan as I jump up and head toward my computer. "If you don’t tell me what it says, I will just pull it up and read it."

"She said to me she wanted to see if the rumors were true."

"Huh? What rumors?"

"About my twelve-inch cock," Jackson says, and I roll my eyes.

"Dude, you’re like a brother. I love you. You do not have a twelve-inch cock."

"You don’t know how big it is unless you’ve been peeking."

"Jackson."

"Yeah?"

"Read the rest of that post now," I say, "or I’ll just find it myself and…"

"Fine," he says. "Okay, should I say it in my voice or in her voice?"

"What?" I’m exasperated now. I am about to go off on him.

"I could say it in a really high-pitched voice," he says, squeaking. "Mid-thirties, slightly hot mess female seeking billionaire. Maybe Ethan Rosser." He starts chortling. "Oh, my gosh. Was that too far? Tell me it was too far. No, it wasn’t. It was…"

"Jackson. You know what, dude? I’m going to read it myself. Thank you for letting me know. I am done with you and your bullshit."

"My bullshit? Why are you so upset? I thought you would be happy that I was letting you know that one of your top employees is soliciting for a billionaire on our company intranet."

"It was your idea to do the intranet."

"I know, and I thought it was a great idea."

"Are you going to tell me what it says or not?"

"Fine. Okay, are you listening to me?"

"I’ve been listening, Jackson." I’m infuriated now.

"To whom it may concern," he starts, "this is a long shot. I’m seeking a billionaire. I will also settle for a millionaire. Sorry, I’m not interested in any salesmen looking to sell me a time-share or part of their animal balloon company (been there, done that). I’m not a gold digger, though you may not believe that. I have references. Ask all my broke exes and my best friends.

"To be fair, I’m not a glamorous model, actress, or professional dancer. I do, however, take pole dancing lessons (for fun, of course, not dollar bills). I am an educated, (I still have the student loans to prove it), open-minded, (toy stores are fun and not for games), fairly cute (when I try), only a little curvy, (those last thirty pounds don’t want to leave), single female. I want to be swept off my feet, wined, dined, and bedded in ways that make me forget my name. I have a job (that I hate) with a boss that makes me want to jump off a cliff. However, my friends make up for the day job. I’m ready for an adventure, and possibly a penthouse with a maid and a design budget. If interested, please respond before Monday morning so I don’t have to go in to work. Love, Sultry Sassy Sarah." Jackson stops, and I’m dumbfounded and struggling to comprehend what I just heard. My heart is racing, and I almost want to laugh.

"You are not serious," I say finally. "This cannot be real."

"I’m one hundred percent serious," he says, chuckling like he’s just left a Dave Chappelle show.

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