Page 37 of Filthy Rich

I don’t know what to say to that. He’s so serious about it. So clearly disgruntled. “If that’s true, then why not be happy to see me?”

“I was a little too happy to see you.”

“So, you don’t like being happy,” I say, reaching the only logical conclusion.

The sudden starkness of his expression agrees with me. “Let’s just say I’m not used to feeling happy and leave it at that,” he says quietly.

“Good thing you’re on vacation, then,” I say.

But this is actually my runner-up comment. My winning comment—the one I really wanted to say—is that I feel sorry for him if he’s not used to being happy. Maybe I’m delusional at worst or ridiculous at best, but I’m the one whose father just died, and I manage to be happy about little things all day long. The sunshine. The quiet moments when Juniper and I peacefully coexist. My new job starting in the fall. The scarves Mrs. Hooper gave me. There’s always something to make me smile. And the thing that would really make me smile would be seeing much more of his smile. At least for our little bit of time together.

“Indeed,” he says.

“Well, don’t just stand there looking glum,” I say, sidestepping him and setting off again. “Let’s get the fun started. Where’s this Mercedes— Oh my God.” I spot her at the curb, where she’s flanked by a uniformed car rental guy holding a clipboard, and she’s a beauty. Sleek and white with her top down and her fine leather interior—a lovely tan—gleaming in the sunlight. “Oh my God. That is a gorgeous car.”

Indulgent smile from Lucien. “You like it?”

“I love it.” I hurry toward it, waving at the car rental guy and working hard to keep my feet walking rather than, say, skipping or dancing. “Is it the E-Class?”

He looks impressed. “C-Class. I wanted something a bit smaller and more agile for the switchbacks.”

“Good thinking. I don’t want to careen off one of these cliffs. So where exactly are we going?”

“Everywhere. We can drive around the Grand Corniche. Visit the Japanese Garden. Hit the shopping. Perfume stores. We’ll want to see the casino. Maybe drive down to Monaco. We’ll see how much time we have.”

My jaw drops. “I have to be back by four. That’s when Mrs. Hooper is due back from her tour.”

He scowls. “Mrs. Hooper is ruining our day. But we’ll make it work.” He pauses and takes a closer look at me. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing,” I say, cursing his uncanny ability to read my expressions and notice the exact millisecond when a troubled thought of any kind crosses my mind. I fiddle with my hair, working hard to find a non-humiliating way of conveying the same old tired information. Namely that I’m poor and don’t have money for all that. Given the sorry state of my bank account, the only thing I have money for is flower sniffing and window shopping. I doubt I can even afford a bottle of water here on the Côte d’Azur. “It’s just that I need to watch my budget. So maybe we can stick to things that aren’t so expensive?—”

His expression clears. “Don’t worry about it.”

That’s the kind of thing a rich person says. It’s supremely unhelpful. Like telling someone without health insurance not to worry about the nagging pain in their side. These things matter. Money matters, especially when you don’t have it.

“I have to worry about it,” I say. “Unless I want to be embarrassed, which I don’t.”

“Tamsyn. It doesn’t matter if you have no money. I’ve got more than enough for both of us.”

“I don’t have no money,” I say, wounded pride making me snappish. He has no idea about the struggles I’ve been through. I’ve worked for everything since I turned eighteen and left for college. I had scholarships and loans, yeah, but I had several part-time jobs while a I was a full-time student to pay my own way. Dad wanted to help, of course, but he had his own struggles and loans as a small business owner. And when he died, I was the one who settled his estate and paid his debts. None of it was easy, but I did it because I became a master of budgeting and saving. I’m proud of myself. I don’t need some billionaire pitying me. That’s the last thing I want. “I have limited money. And I can’t just let you?—”

He bursts into laughter, the most exuberant I’ve seen from him yet. Once again at my expense. My cheeks begin to flame, although I’m not quite sure whether it’s from embarrassment or rising annoyance at being such an unwitting source of amusement for him all the time.

“You’re a broken record,” he says, laughter trailing off and leaving only a lingering imprint on his dimples. “Why don’t I invoice you at the end of the day? Would that make you feel better?”

I cross my arms and try to wither him to death with my wrath. “Screw you,” I say, the most impotent phrase to ever pass my lips.

“You’re not letting me do anything. I’m a grown man. I do what I want. And I want us to have fun together without your getting surly every time the topic of money comes up. Got it? I know you’re strong and proud, but don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”

“But—”

“If I hear anything else from you, you’re not driving the Benz. Nonnegotiable.”

That shuts me up while a stalemate ensues. Actually, it’s not so much of a stalemate as it is him watching me, lips twitching back his laughter, while I continue trying to incinerate him. But resistance is futile. And what am I really arguing over, anyway? I’m entitled to have a little fun now and then, aren’t I? If he’s got the money and the desire to spend some on me, why not let him? Not that his money matters to me.

It’s more that Lucien sees me. Gets me.

And the gleam in his eyes as he watches me suggests that he also admires me.

---