Page 34 of Mid-Thirties Slightly Hot Mess Female Seeking Billionaire

"You’re late," he says as he steps to the side to let me in. I walk in, and he slams the door closed behind me. My heart races as I stand there. Why did the door slamming sound so final? He is going to let me leave, isn’t he? A part of my brain is hardwired to think that he’s going to lock me up in a dungeon and keep me as a sex slave, but that may be due to all the dark romance TikTok videos I’ve been watching.

"It’s noon."

"It’s twelve oh five," he corrects me with an attitude, like those five minutes are five hours.

"I was here at noon." I think, earlier than that, but I’m not going to tell him that.

"Yet, you’re only now inside of my house at twelve oh five."

"The elevator isn’t a space shuttle, you know. It doesn’t go from zero to one hundred in one second."

"Then you should have accounted for the elevator time when you made your way over here." Ethan is getting on my nerves, and I don’t respond as I follow him into a large, open space. His apartment is gorgeous, with a large kitchen to the left and an even larger living room opposite. He opens the fridge, pulls out a pitcher, and nods toward it. "Would you like some water?"

"Yes, please," I say, even though I don’t want any. But it gives me an excuse to hold on to something and not play with my hair, which I often do when I’m nervous.

"Lemon slice?" he asks as he opens a cupboard door and takes out two tall glasses. He places them on his white marble countertops, then opens his sparkly white fridge again and takes out a lemon. I nod my assent, and he grabs a knife from a butcher block and a small wooden cutting board and cuts the lemon in half. His fingers are deft and fast, and I wonder if he likes cooking and if that’s something he does to show off to his female guests. If I find out he has culinary skills, as well, I will scream. Does the man have everything going for him? "So, you’re seeking a billionaire, are you?" he asks casually as he hands me a glass, and I stifle a groan.

I should have known he was going to bring this up right away. I’m not ready for this conversation. How do I explain everything without sounding like an idiot?

"You really do have a beautiful home," I say to Ethan, trying to be polite while changing the subject. He stares at me for a few seconds and I think he’s going to tell me to just acknowledge the bear in the room, and I brace myself for the response. He can’t really think I wrote it on purpose or with hopes of reeling him in, can he?

"Thank you," he says with a thoughtful nod. He takes another step toward me, and there’s a supercilious smile on his face. He reminds me of a wolf sizing up its prey. I shiver at the thought that I’m his prey. I’m not going to lie; I quite like the feeling of him sizing me up. "I guess you finally get to see it, huh?" Like I’ve been itching for years to get into his home. Pompous jerk.

"What does that mean?" I ask him, frowning. Just because I’m attracted to him doesn’t mean I’m going to allow him to talk to me like some desperado doing anything she can to get into his home. He’s lucky I showed up.

"I mean, it sounds like you’ve wanted to see my place or a billionaire’s place for a while," he states like that’s a fact that can’t be disputed. Like he’s a reporter on CNN shelling out facts that everyone agrees upon.

"How dare you!" My voice is sharp, and I try to calm myself down.You catch more flies with honey, Sarah. "I had and still have no interest in seeing your place. You’re the one who told me to come over. I thought we had a meeting in your office today, which I was prepared for. It’s not my fault you canceled the meeting." I bite down on my lower lip as I realize I’ve walked into his trap. Or maybe I trapped myself. I don’t know. "I guess we should address the elephant in the room before we go any further." I lick my lips nervously and then take a sip of the lemon water. Why does rich people’s water taste better than mine?

"There’s an elephant in the room?" he asks, his eyes wide as he looks around. There’s an alarmed look on his face, and I want to tell him that he’s a pitiful actor. "Shit, where is it? How do we get rid of it? I hope it doesn’t destroy my furniture." He paces around, and I roll my eyes as he opens a drawer and grabs a rolling pin.

"Very funny." I suppress a giggle. He really is a goof.

"What?" he says. "You don’t have a sense of humor?"

"Let’s just say I’m not suggesting you quit your day job anytime soon and go into comedy."

"I’ll have you know that I’m a fine comedian and a fine roaster. Just ask Jackson Pruitt."

"Why, have you roasted him?"

"Yep, when we were back at Harvard." He grins. "Those were the days."

"I didn’t realize you guys have known each other so long," I say, considering what I know about them. It makes sense that they are old friends though. They are always together. Everyone knows that Jackson is Ethan’s right-hand man.

"Yeah. We’ve been best friends for a while." He nods as he puts the rolling pin on the countertop. "So, you said you wanted to address the elephant in the room?"

"Well, I think it’s an African elephant," I say, smiling, and he chuckles.

"So, about that post." His face turns stern, and he crosses his arms. "What was that about, exactly?"

"Is that why I’m here?" I ask, wondering why this conversation couldn’t have taken place in the office. "You want to fire me because I accidentally made a joke post? I thought you had a sense of humor."

"We both know that post wasn’t a joke. Give me some credit, Sarah. I’m a CEO. I went to Harvard. I’ve got brains. There’s no way you decided to write a post at one-something in the morning as a joke. For what? What would be the purpose?"

"I don’t know. Just to test out the intranet system and…" I sigh loudly, knowing it sounds false. "Fine. It wasn’t a joke. I mean, it was a joke, but not posted as a joke. Does that even make sense?" I start playing with my fingernails because I know I’m not making sense. But I’m nervous, and I start to ramble.

"No," he says, shaking his head with his brows furrowed. His blue eyes are keen as they observe my face, and I feel like he can see inside my head. He’s unnerving, and for some reason, butterflies in my stomach are doing somersaults. "Come on, let’s have a seat." He heads toward the living room and takes a seat on a large black leather couch. He sits back and rests his arms across the back. There’s an empty spot next to him, and I debate sitting there. My eyes move to his muscular legs and his gym shorts, and I swallow hard. The man has a body that could be inGQ.

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